ades--smugglers and gipsy girls, chief of whom
are Mercedes and Frasquita. It is late at night, and a carouse is in
progress. Among those in the inn is Zuniga himself. As a matter of
truth, he has fallen in love with Carmen on his own account, and has
kept Jose under arrest in order to have him out of the way. There they
are, all together, the gipsies playing on guitars and tambourines. The
girls are mostly dancing. Carmen is coquetting with every man present,
and the fun becomes a riot, so that the innkeeper has to interfere.

"It is so late, I've got to close up," he says. "You'll all have to
clear out." Zuniga looks at Carmen. He wants to have a talk with her.

"Will you go with me?" he asks.

"I've no good reason for going with you," she answers, tantalizingly.

"Perhaps you're angry because I have locked Jose up," Zuniga suggests.
"If you will make yourself agreeable, I don't mind telling you I have
had him set free."

"What's that? Not in prison?" she asked. "Well, that's very decent of
you, I'm sure," she sneers. "Good-night, gentlemen, I'm off!" she
cries, and runs out into the night. Everybody follows her but Zuniga,
who knows well enough he cannot trust her. They have no sooner
disappeared than Zuniga hears shouts and "hurrahs" outside. He runs to
the window and leans out.

"Hello! They are going to have a torch-light procession, eh?" and he
leans farther out. "By the great horn spoon," he presently
exclaims--or something which is its Spanish equivalent, "it's that
bull-fighting fellow, Escamillo, who won that fight in Granada! Hello,
out there, old friend! Come in here and have something to drink with
me. To your past success and to your future glory!" Motioning to the
bull-fighter outside, Zuniga goes toward the door. In he comes, this
Escamillo, all covered with the glory of having killed some frisky
and dangerous bulls--with all the chances against the bulls,
nevertheless. Everybody else enters with Escamillo and all stand ready
for refreshments at Zuniga's expense. Carmen comes back, and of course
is to be found in the thick of the fun.

"Rah, rah, rah!" everybody yells, calling a toast to the bull-fighter,
who is dressed up till he looks as fine as a little wagon. The toast
suits him perfectly and he says so. He squares himself and strikes an
attitude of grandeur without the least doubt that he is the greatest
thing in the world, and while he is singing about it, half the people
in the opera hous