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Tocho. [Interposing.] Nay, gentlemen! here's good work! sweet signor of the mules! you mistake him. Ho. nour is a delicate matter-he could not mean it. driver of the beast, be pacified.

Noble

4th Mule. Wound my integrity! 'tis dearer to a Spaniard than life. 'Tis an affront cannot be mended.

Tocho. It shall, honourable signor! and your pack-saddle, too. Good friend, throw the cold water of your repentance on the fire of his anger. Come, 'twas a hasty speech; say so, and be friends.

3d Mule. Well, I—I meant not to wound his honour. Tocho. See there, now!

4th Mule. I—I am content :-but remember, in future, brother, what is due to a Spaniard. Insult him, and he will compass the globe for revenge. Your hand: my honour is satisfied: we will clean our mules in fellowship, as usual.

Tocho. By our lady, 'tis sensibly said! many a noble life has been lost upon a point of honour not more difficult to be settled than this! another cup to drown animosity.

1st Mule. Content: and then to rest. 'Tis deep midnight, and we must rise betimes, on our way to Ubeda. Tocho. Mass! you muleteers, in the way of pleasant travelling, have a wearisome life of it.

4th Mule. The grandee, mine host, that sleeps upon down, dreams little of our hardships. Yet we can be merry, too. Let us troll a round, and then go stretch on the straw.

GLEE.-MULETEERS.

You high-born Spanish noblemen, you dons and cavaliers !
Ah, little do you think upon the lowly muleteers!

To earn an honest livelihood, what toil, what cares we know,
Small our gain, great our pain,

O'er the hill, o'er the plain,

Parched with heat, drenched with rain,

Still the muleteer must go!

When darkness overtakes us, our mules to droop begin;
Fatigued and spent, what joy we feel to reach the wished-for inn!
We drain the wine-cup jollily, we toss it to and fro:—
While to sleep as we creep,
Maritornes may weep,

That, when daylight does peep,
Then the nuleteer must go.

[A knocking at the door of the Venta-a Voice calls without, 'Soho! within, there! ho!'

Tochc. Travellers, by St. Dominick!—and by the noise, of authority. [Calls off, R.] Perequillo ! [Knocking again.] 'tis ever thus. I never knew your great man on the wrong side of the house, that ceased his clamour till he got in!

Enter PEREQUILLO, R.

Perequillo, look to the gate. Signors, a good rest. That way to your straw-chamber, gentlemen.

[Pointing to the Stable door.

1st Mule. 'Tis fit we be called betimes, mine host.

Tocho. Perequillo, knock at the gentleman's stable door by day-break. [Knocking still-Muleteers go into the sta• ble.] Out, you gaping rogue, run to the gate!

Per. These travellers rob a good fellow of more sleep than the musquitoes.

[Exit, L. Tocho. I fear me, the tough old cock will never crow 'daylight' again. Six years has he served me for a dial; and now must I twist his neck, to give these gallants a supper. Truth is, we are marvellously scant of provi

sions.

Enter FLORANTHE, L., dressed as a Cavalier, leaning on ROQUE.

Roque. So-cheerily, I warrant! come, a seat, now, quickly. Bestir, bestir!

Tocho. Is not his worship well?

Roque. Cannot your worship see?—a chair, you-[10cho brings a chair.] So!

Flor. [Sitting down.] I faint, almost, with weariness. Roque. Plague on your dark nights and foul ways!— why dost not mend them?

Tocho. Truly, gentlemen, there be those, in this quaiter, that might better the foul ways-but, for mending the dark nights, we are, I do confess, ill-furnished with work

men.

Roque. Art furnished with a good bed, frier d?

Tocho. The best in Spain. We are much and nobly frequented here, signor-we have, this night, a company of some twenty.

Roque. A murrain light on 'em! then they have occu piea the bed-chamber.

Tocho. Why, as luck would have it, they repose in the stable. Each traveller, signor, to his fancy.

Flor. I would to rest, friend-We have journeyed far: At sunrise we must needs set forth again.

I am nigh sinking with fatigue!

Roque. No wonder, poor heart!-my master's nag, friend, is the roughest pacer in Spain. 'Twould tire a devil.

Tocho. Would not the Signor Cavalier please to refresh? I have the remains of a kid that is delicious-and we are noted here for chicken.

Flor. Oh, I do loathe the very name of food.

Tocho. [Aside.] Loathe food! this is a mighty simple youth.

Flor. Prepare my chamber, friend, and fear not you, Though I betake me supperless to bed,

I will content thee, (for I know the custom,)

As I had banqueted.

Tocho. [Aside.] The youth is not altogether so simple as I thought him.-Signor Hidalgo, your chamber shall be prepared straight. For an excellent supper, if you eat it not, 'tis your loss, which is hard: if you pay for it not, 'tis mine, which is harder-for I am a poor man, sir, that would willingly grow richer.

Roque. Away, you knave! and obey orders: see to the chamber-look to the horses, and return, anon, with some wine my master is faint with travel.

Tocho. I shall, friend. [Aside.] This, now, must be a desicate bit of smock-faced nobility. Should Providence rain beards, 'twould do no harm to his face if his chin were thrust out in the shower. [Exit, R. Flor. Now tell me, Roque,-how far is it to the mountain?

Roque. We are nigh the foot on't, lady-we had foun .ered by the way else. Heaven rest those tender joints for they must needs ache with jolting thus from Seville. My tough bones, though well-seasoned in camps and marches, are fairly bumped into a rheumatism.

Flor. I care but little for my aching limbs,
Did not my heart ache with them. The encounter
We look will follow this same pilgrimage,
Makes me most sad and heavy.

Roque. 'Tis strange, now, the labour some will undergo to encounter melancholy! and truly, I left Don Octavian in poor plight to amend the spirits of those who wish him well. "What between love and loneliness, by living in "the woods he is clean an altered man. I once was ena"moured of a pin-maker's daughter of Segovia, and found “solitude did but increase my pain ;-so I e'en cured my"self on't, in three weeks, by keeping my mistress com"pany."

Flor. Was't in the wild part of the mountain, Roque, where late you saw Octavian ?

Roque. Good faith, in the very bosom here of the Sierra de Ronde. With a full heart and an empty bottle, I was trudging from Granada to Seville-to bring the sad news of my master, Count Virolet, your ladyship's brother, being taken by the Moors; when, in crossing the mountain here, among other game started by the way, I at last put up a man-(Don Octavian, as your ladyship knows,) who sprung from a thicket, and flew from my sight like a wild duck.

Flor. Alas! for pity, after twelve long months, To meet him thus again! now hear me, RoqueI think thou art attached to all our house;

For I have heard my late lost father say,

Ere thou couldst lisp thy service had begun in't.

Roque. If my mother's word may pass, lady, I held my first birthday in't, up four pair of stairs, in the right hand garret that looks over the fishpond and if ever I prove thankless for being born in the one, I would I might, that moment, be dragged through the other.

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Flor. Thou didst first trudge an urchin to the field

"With my poor father: lately thou hast followed

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My brother Virolet. Though trained to arms, 'And a rough soldier, Roque, I think thou canst Extend thy honest love of this our family

"E'en to a female of the stock.

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Roque. A soldier, lady, can extend his love to the fe "male of any family. But you, Donna Floranthe, daughter of my old master, and sister of my young one !-what "would not I give now to see you beset with a good roun dozen of your enemies!—well, I am getting in years-"but they should have a taste of old Roque's skill in the "cuagel, yet."

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Flor. I do believe thee, Roque-therefore, good fellow, To-morrow, when we seek this mountain's gloom, "Searching its caves, and tangled labyrinths, "Where the wolf nightly howls against the moon, "And lawless plunder, on his hungry watch, "Lurks, meditating murder, then, good Roque," Should any ill befal,—and Heaven knows

What may befal me!

Roque. What, Donna Floranthe, and I with you!—they must fight hard, lady, that would harm you. An' you take the road to dying, madam, by your leave, I must go fore

most.

Flor. I would not have it so, good Roque. Whate'er betide, to tell my simple story; Lest slander blot a luckless maiden's fame, And no one left to clear her memory.

Live thou,

Roque. Truly, madam, I am the worst teller of a story of any in Spain. I can only say, that my old master, your father, bid you love Don Octavian; but as old gentlemen will sometimes change their minds, he, after a while, chargged you to love another, which ill suiting Don Octavian's humour, he fairly ran his rival through the body; fled in despair; and hadn't been heard of for a twelvemonth; till I started him here in the woods: when coming to tell you the news, I found my old master, rest his soul! at peace; you single; the wounded man recovered, and mar ried to a rich one-eyed widow of Salamanca.

Flor. 'Twill be a faithful history, old soldier.

Roque. I trust not, madam; for I shall then proceed to specify that you went forth in search of your lover, and died by the way; which I hope, saving your presence, will be one of the roundest lies that ever found passage through the mouth of a soldier.

Enter LOPE Tоснo, with a bottle and glass, R.

Flor. Now, friend, hast thou prepared my chamber? Tocho. 'Twould ha' done your heart good to see the warming pan slide between the white sheets; you will sleep in aired snow, signor. Would it please you take a whet before you creep betwixt 'em? [Offering the wine.

Flor. Not a drop, host; I will to rest; and, Roque, Get thee to bed. We must away at dawn, host.

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