Don Manuel de Lara: Sancho, hand me that warrant.
Trotaconventos: No! No! You fool!
Without a word Sancho hands the warrant to Don Manuel, who reads it carefully through.
Don Manuel de Lara: Sir Priest! I see you carry quill and ink-horn.... I fain would borrow them of you.
Trotaconventos: No! No! Do not trust him, Don Jaime.
Don Manuel de Lara (impatiently): Come, Sir Priest.
Jaime Rodriguez obeys him in silence. Don Manuel makes an erasure in the warrant and writes in words in its place.
Don Manuel de Lara (handing the warrant to Sancho): There, Sancho, I have made a little change ... you’ll not go home with an empty bag, after all. (Pointing to Jaime Rodriguez.) There stands your quarry, looking like a sleep-walker ... to gaol with him ... until his arch-priest gets him out ... ’twill make a good fable, “which tells of a Prying Clerk and how he cut himself on his own sharpness.”
The alguaciles, chuckling, seize Jaime Rodriguez and bind him, he staring all the time as if in a dream.