aled! There is but one way for him to escape certain death. He must
emigrate to some distant planet. If he be sufficiently fool-hardy to
remain on this globe I will find him, no matter in what distant land he
strives to hide himself, and transfix him with this good sword--unless
indeed he be first turned to stone by the terrible Medusa-like power of
my eye."

In spite of all that he has witnessed, the obstinate old father
still feels unbounded faith in Matamore's valour, and persists in his
lamentable intention to bestow the hand of his fair daughter upon this
magnificent hero. Poor Isabelle bursts into tears, and declares that
she prefers the convent to such a fate. Zerbine loudly swears that
this marriage shall never take place, and tries to console her weeping
mistress. Matamore attributes this rather discouraging demonstration on
the part of Isabelle to an excess of maidenly modesty, not doubting
her penchant for himself, though he acknowledges that he has not yet
properly paid his court, nor shown himself in all his glory to her--this
last from prudential motives, fearing lest she might be dangerously
dazzled and overwhelmed if he should burst upon her too suddenly in the
full splendour of his heroic character, remembering, and taking
warning by, the sad and terrible fate that befell Semele, when Jupiter,
reluctantly yielding to her wishes, appeared before her with all the
insignia of his majesty.

Isabelle and her maid withdrew from the balcony, without taking any
further notice of the valiant Matamore; but he, undaunted, wishing
to play the lover after the most approved fashion, plants himself
resolutely under her window and sends Scapin to fetch a guitar; upon
which he thrums awkwardly for a while, and then accompanies it with his
voice, in an attempt at a Spanish love song, which sounds much like the
nocturnal caterwauling of a disconsolate tabby than anything else we can
compare it to. A dash of cold water, mischievously thrown down on him
by Zerbine under pretext of watering the plants in the balcony, does not
extinguish his musical ardour. "A gentle shower from the sweet eyes of
my Isabelle, moved to tears by this plaintive melody," says he, "for it
is universally conceded that I excel in music as in arms, and wield the
lyre as skilfully as the sword."

Unfortunately for him, Leander suddenly reappears, and highly indignant
that this miserable rascal should presume to serenade HIS mistress,
snatches the g