“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a tall, black-eyed, dark-haired damsel, of a very swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it’s in vain you try to make a fool of me. I don’t believe any such thing—that’s all.”
Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with his finger along his chin, and at last discovered a starved fragment of beard, which he pulled with great gravity, at the same time looking intently upwards, as if bent on discovering the evening star in broad day-light.
“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good Signor Rattlebrain,” thus answered the buxom Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes not a whit of difference to me. But I tell you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, that last night, just about dark, as I was walking near yon cottage on the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a chestnut on the other—”
“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta, “mean you the cottage which the tall, strange old woman hired but yesterday?”
“The very same. Well, just as I was walking there, all alone, I heard a footstep!—”
“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished by her hair of glowing red.
“Our Lady!—but you do not say so?” exclaimed the other.
“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the bushes, I saw a dark looking monk enter the cottage, and he was followed by a big, rough soldier; and he was followed by such a handsome cavalier, dressed in such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all—he wore such a fine, dancing feather in his cap! Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the evening twilight!”
“What color were his eyes?” asked Loretta.
“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.