AT this moment there was a sound of people approaching on horseback, and the innkeeper rushed to the gate to receive the guests. There were four men, with lances and bucklers, and black veils for their faces; a woman, dressed in white and also veiled, and two attendants on foot. One of the four, a gentleman of distinction, helped the lady to dismount, and they entered the inn.
As they came into the room where the curate had just finished reading the novel of "Ill-Advised Curiosity," Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio left and went to the garret. As the gentleman seated the lady in a chair, she heaved a deep sigh. Her arms fell limply by her side. The curate was curious to know who these people were, so he asked one of the servants that accompanied them. But none of them knew, for they had met the travelers on the road, they said, and had been offered employment at good pay. They added that they feared the lady was being taken somewhere against her will, as she had done nothing but sigh all through the journey, and had exchanged no words whatever with her escort.
Dorothea, hearing the lady sigh repeatedly, felt compassion for her, and asked her whether there was anything that she could do for her. But although she asked her the question several times, she got no reply.
When the gentleman with the distinguished bearing observed that Dorothea was interested in this lady, he told her it was useless to bother with her, for her answers were all lies and anything done for her would be rewarded with ingratitude. This remark was speedily answered by the lady, who retorted. "I have never told a lie. On the contrary, it is because I am truthful and cannot lie that I am now in this miserable condition. And you are the lying one!"
Cardenio was in the adjoining room, just returning from the garret, and when he heard these words he exclaimed: "Good God! What is this I hear! It is her voice!"
The lady heard the exclamation, and seeing no one, she became agitated and rose, but was held back by the gentleman. Her veil suddenly fell off, and every one could see her face, which was one of alabaster-like whiteness and great beauty. And while the gentleman was struggling to keep her from leaving the room, his own veil became unfastened and Dorothea saw that he was no other than her own lover, Don Fernando. The moment she recognized him she fainted, and the barber caught her, or she would have fallen to the floor. The curate was quick to throw some water on her face, and she soon came to. As soon as Cardenio heard the commotion, he rushed in from the other room, imagining that the worst had happened to his Luscinda—for it was no other than she—and it was a curious thing to see the four suddenly finding themselves face to face.
Luscinda was the first one to speak, and she implored Don Fernando to take her life, so that her beloved Cardenio might believe that she had been true and loyal and faithful to him until the very last.
When Dorothea heard Luscinda speak thus, she fell on her knees before Don Fernando and implored him to reconsider everything that he had done that was base and wrong and sinful. She pleaded with tears in her eyes, begging him to give up Luscinda to her faithful Cardenio, told him how much she still loved him in spite of his wrong-doing, and said she would forgive him everything if he would only let his real and better nature come into its own. And her tears and sincerity moved Don Fernando so that he himself wept, and he promised to abide by the ending which Fate itself seemed to have provided for by bringing them all together in this strange way.
He told Luscinda that when he had found the paper in which she declared she could never be the wife of any other man than Cardenio, he was tempted to kill her, but was prevented by chance. He had left the house in a rage, and had not returned home till the following day, when he found that she had disappeared. Some months later he learned that she had taken refuge in a convent. He gathered the companions they had seen at the inn, and with their help he carried her from the convent. Now he repented of what he had done, prayed he might be permitted forever to live with his Dorothea, and asked them all for forgiveness. Then he gave his blessing to the overjoyed Cardenio and Luscinda, who were both so affected at their reunion that they shed tears. Even Sancho was weeping, although for quite another reason. He was grieved to find his Princess Micomicona suddenly lose her royal identity and turn out to be a mere lady.