[81] See the romance of Amadis of Gaul.

“I have already told you, friend,” replied Tomas, “that you may do as you please—­either go on your pilgrimage, or buy an ass and turn water-carrier as you proposed.”

“I stick to the water-carrying business,” said Lope.  “My mind is made up not to quit you at present.”

They then went to sleep till daylight, when they rose; Tomas Pedro went to give out oats, and Lope set off to the cattle-market to buy an ass.  Now it happened that Tomas had spent his leisure on holidays in composing some amorous verses, and had jotted them down in the book in which he kept the account of the oats, intending to copy them out fairly, and then blot them out of the book, or tear out the page.  But, before he had done so, he happened to go out one day and leave the book on the top of the oat-bin.  His master found it there, and looking into it to see how the account of the oats stood, he lighted upon the verses.  Surprised and annoyed, he went off with them to his wife, but before he read them to her, he called Costanza into the room, and peremptorily commanded her to declare whether Tomas Pedro, the hostler, had over made love to her, or addressed any improper language to her, or any that gave token of his being partial to her.  Costanza vowed that Tomas had never yet spoken to her in any such way, nor ever given her reason to suppose that he had any bad thoughts towards her.

Her master and mistress believed her, because they had always found her to speak the truth.  Having dismissed her, the host turned to his wife and said, “I know not what to say of the matter.  You must know, senora, that Tomas has written in this book, in which he keeps the account of the oats, verses that give me an ugly suspicion that he is in love with Costanza.”

“Let me see the verses,” said the wife, “and I’ll tell you what we are to conclude.”

“Oh, of course; as you are a poet you will at once see into his thoughts.”

“I am not a poet, but you well know that I am a woman of understanding, and that I can say the four prayers in Latin.”

“You would do better to say them in plain Spanish; you know your uncle the priest has told you that you make no end of blunders when you patter your Latin, and that what you say is good for nothing.”

“That was an arrow from his niece’s quiver.  She is jealous of seeing me take the Latin hours in hand, and make my way through them as easily as through a vineyard after the vintage.”

“Well, have it your own way.  Listen now, here are the verses;” and he read some impassioned lines addressed to Costanza.

“Is there any more?” said the landlady.

“No.  But what do you think of these verses?”

“In the first place, we must make sure that they are by Tomas.”

“Of that there can be no manner of doubt, for the handwriting is most unquestionably the same as that in which the account of the oats is kept.”