“Look ye, husband, it appears to me that although Costanza is named in the verses, whence it may be supposed that they were made for her, we ought not for that reason to set the fact down for certain, just as if we had seen them written, for there are other Costanzas in the world besides ours.  But even supposing they were meant for her, there is not a word in them that could do her discredit.  Let us be on the watch, and look sharply after the girl; for if he is in love with her, we may be sure he will make more verses, and try to give them to her.”

“Would it not be better to get rid of all this bother by turning him out of doors?”

“That is for you to do if you think proper.  But really, by your own account, the lad does his work so well that it would go against one’s conscience to turn him off upon such slight grounds.”

“Very well; let us be on the watch as you say, and time will tell us what we have to do.”  Here the conversation ended, and the landlord carried the book back to the place where he had found it.

Tomas returned in great anxiety to look for his book, found it, and that it might not occasion him another fright, he immediately copied out the verses, effaced the original, and made up his mind to hazard a declaration to Costanza upon the first opportunity that should present itself.  Her extreme reserve, however, was such that there seemed little likelihood of his finding such an opportunity; besides, the great concourse of people in the house made it almost impossible that he should have any private conversation with her,—­to the despair of her unfortunate lover.  That day, however, it chanced that Costanza appeared with one cheek muffled, and told some one who asked her the reason, that she was suffering from a violent face ache.  Tomas, whose wits were sharpened by his passion, instantly saw how he might avail himself of that circumstance.  “Senora Costanza,” he said, “I will give you a prayer in writing, which you have only to recite once or twice, and it will take away your pain forthwith.”

“Give it me, if you please,” said Costanza, “and I will recite it; for I know how to read.”

“It must be on condition, however,” said Tomas, “that you do not show it to anybody; for I value it highly, and I should not wish it to lose its charm by being made known to many.”

“I promise you that no person shall see it; but let me have it at once, for I can hardly bear this pain.”

“I will write it out from memory, and bring it you immediately.”

This was the very first conversation that had ever taken place between Tomas and Costanza during all the time he had been in the house, which was nearly a month.  Tomas withdrew, wrote out the prayer, and found means to deliver it, unseen by any one else, into Costanza’s hand; and she, with great eagerness, and no less devotion, went with it into a room, where she shut herself up alone.  Then, opening the paper, she read as follows:—­