es me.

_Ant._ I do not wonder at it. Barring a certain too intelligent look
that thou hast, thou art a pretty fellow, and made to charm the ladies.
Who is this damsel of your choice?

_San._ You'll keep my secret?

_Ant._ As faithfully as I do all others.

_San._ It is the maid of Donna Isidora. I knew her at Toledo, and for
years kept her company. During my absence,--Saint Petronila strike him
with the leprosy!--a certain Lopez, a dirty, shuffling, addle-pated
knave, stepped in between us, and married her. She took the poor fool
purely through pique, because I did not write to her; and the holy saint
knows I had not then learned.

_Ant._ (_aside_). Now would I beat his pate, but that I think the fool
may assist me out of my difficulties. (_Aloud._) What! love a married
woman! For shame, Sancho! I had thought better of you.

_San._ I loved her years before she married; and since the marriage, her
husband has deserted her, and I have met her often. Nina, for that's her
name, has often told me how much she repented of her marriage with the
fellow; and could I prove that he were dead, she'd marry me, Saint
Petronila directing her, and make a wiser choice in second wedlock.

_Ant._ (_aside_). The cockatrice. (_Aloud._) Sancho, I knew this Lopez.
He is not quite the person you describe; but never mind. Yesterday, he
came to Seville, and told me how much surprised he was to find his wife
here.

_San._ Then he's come back. Saint Petronila aid me! how unfortunate!

_Ant._ (_musing aside_). I have it! (_Aloud._) Sancho, we have ever been
the best of friends. I respect you much. I have most joyful tidings for
you, and, if you will be counselled by me, Nina is yours.

_San._ Indeed! I can't see how. I think I had a better chance before.

_Ant._ Tut, man! you've now a certainty. Sancho, your ear--Lopez is
_dead_!

_San._ The scoundrel dead! My dear Antonio (_embracing him_), I thank
you for the news, and so will Nina too. But can you prove it?

_Ant._ I can, but in strict confidence. Pledge me your word you never
will divulge, not even to Nina, what I now confide; for the women have
the power to sap the stoutest resolution. Swear on your knees.

_San._ (_kneeling_). I swear by Petronila, my adopted saint.

_Ant._ Well, then, this Lopez was a noisy braggadocio. Last night we had
some words whilst waiting near the gate of Donna Serafina. From words we
came to weapons, and, by a lucky thrust, I sent his prying soul t