Alon. Yes, she will not be unwelcome—This is she.
Amb. This is the Daughter to Octavia—Her Mother was a Lady whom once I did adore, and ’twas her fault she was not more happy with me, than with Don Manuel. Nor have I so wholly forgot that Flame, but I might be inclin’d to your Proposal: But, Sir, she wants a Fortune.
Alon. That I’ll supply.
Mar. You supply, Sir? On what kind Score, I pray?
Alon. That which you’ll suffer without being jealous, When you shall know she is indeed my Sister.
Clar. How! this brave Man my Brother?
Alon. So they tell me, and that my Name is Manuel. Had you not such a Brother?
Dor. Oh ye Gods, is this the little Manuel?
Ped. Yes, Dormida, and for a farther Proof see this. [Opens his Master’s Bosom and shews a Crucifix.
Dor. This I remember well, it is Don Manuel: