ses of the senora
scullion, unless you wish that, besides thinking you a fool, I take you
for a heretic into the bargain."

"Do you call Costanza a scullion, brother Lope? God forgive you, and
bring you to a true sense of your error."

"And is not she a scullion?"

"I have yet to see her wash the first plate."

"What does that matter, if you have seen her wash the second, or the
fiftieth?"

"I tell you brother she does not wash dishes, or do anything but look
after the business of the house, and take care of the plate, of which
there is a great deal."

"How is it, then, that throughout the whole city they call her the
illustrious scullery-maid, if so be she does not wash dishes? Perhaps it
is because she washes silver and not crockery that they give her that
name. But to drop this subject, tell me, Tomas, how stand your hopes?"

"In a state of perdition; for during the whole time you were in gaol, I
never have been able to say one word to her. It is true, that to all
that is said to her by the guests in the house, she makes no other reply
than to cast down her eyes and keep her lips closed; such is her virtue
and modesty; so that her modesty excites my love, no less than her
beauty. But it is almost too much for my patience, to think that the
corregidor's son, who is an impetuous and somewhat licentious youth, is
dying for her; a night seldom passes but he serenades her, and that so
openly, that she is actually named in the songs sung in her praise. She
never hears them to be sure, nor ever quits her mistress's room from the
time she retires until morning; but in spite of all that, my heart
cannot escape being pierced by the keen shaft of jealousy."

"What do you intend to do, then, with this Portia, this Minerva, this
new Penelope, who, under the form of a scullery-maid, has vanquished
your heart?"

"Her name is Costanza, not Portia, Minerva, or Penelope. That she is a
servant in an inn, I cannot deny; but what can I do, if, as it seems,
the occult force of destiny, and the deliberate choice of reason, both
impel me to adore her? Look you, friend, I cannot find words to tell you
how love exalts and glorifies in my eyes this humble scullery-maid, as
you call her, so that, though seeing her low condition, I am blind to
it, and knowing it, I ignore it. Try as I may, it is impossible for me
to keep it long before my eyes; for that thought is at once obliterated
by her beauty, her grace, her virtue, and modesty,