dance before the door of the Sevillano. Asturiano
played the guitar: the female dancers were the two Gallegans and
Argueello, and three girls from another inn. Many persons stood by as
spectators, with their faces muffled, prompted more by a desire to see
Costanza than the dance; but they were disappointed, for she did not
make her appearance. Asturiano played for the dancers with such spirit
and precision of touch that they all vowed he made the guitar speak; but
just as he was doing his best, accompanying the instrument with his
voice, and the dancers were capering like mad, one of the muffled
spectators cried out, "Stop, you drunken sot! hold your noise, wineskin,
piperly poet, miserable catgut scraper!" Several others followed up this
insulting speech with such a torrent of abuse that Lope thought it best
to cease playing and singing; but the muleteers took the interruption so
much amiss, that had it not been for the earnest endeavours of the
landlord to appease them, there would have been a terrible row. In spite
indeed of all he could do, the muleteers would not have kept their hands
quiet, had not the watch happened just then to come up and clear the
ground. A moment afterwards the ears of all who were awake in the
quarter were greeted by an admirable voice proceeding from a man who
had seated himself on a stone opposite the door of the Sevillano.
Everybody listened with rapt attention to his song, but none more so
than Tomas Pedro, to whom every word sounded like a sentence of
excommunication, for the romance ran thus:

In what celestial realms of space
Is hid that beauteous, witching face?
Where shines that star, which, boding ills,
My trembling heart with torment fills?

Why in its wrath should Heaven decree
That we no more its light should see?
Why bid that sun no longer cheer
With glorious beams our drooping sphere?

Yes, second sun! 'tis true you shine,
But not for us, with light divine!
Yet gracious come from ocean's bed;
Why hide from us your radiant head?

Constance! a faithful, dying swain
Adores your beauty, though in vain;
For when his love he would impart,
You fly and scorn his proffered heart!

O let his tears your pity sway,
And quick he'll bear you hence away;
For shame it is this sordid place,
Should do your charms such foul disgrace

Here you're submissive to control,
Sweet mistress of my doatin