"Seldom," replied Roque—"and when they unfortunately deceive me, I sorely feel for the deception. I am a man of very tender feelings."
"Argus," observed his master, "was punished for his negligence, and it is meet thou shouldst experience the same treatment, under similar circumstances."
"Aye," quoth Roque, "he was changed into a peacock—I wonder into what animal I shall be changed, since this sort of transformation is the retribution attendant on negligent scouts—I think the character of a jackal would suit me best, for I certainly lead the lion to his prey. But now, Sir, leaving jesting aside, I have a little piece of serious information for your ear. Do you know whom I saw in close converse with Don Manuel de Monteblanco when he left his house?"
"No, nor do I care."
"Don't you, indeed?—Well, it is very fortunate, for it happened to be no other than your rival, Don Rodrigo."
"Now, Roque," cried his master jocosely, "here's a convincing proof of the failure of thy boasted eye-sight."
"Why I really thought so at first myself, and I made the sign of the cross accordingly, but I soon perceived it was no delusion. Now it would be pleasant, should this same Don Rodrigo come upon an expedition similar to yours—it would seem as tho' the man was born on purpose to thwart you."
"Well," returned Gomez Arias, with a smile—"and it would seem also that I am born to chastise his insolence."
To this, Roque made some foolish reply; for in his capacity of gracioso,[13] he freely availed himself of the privilege allowed him of giving utterance to every thing that came into his head, whether to the purpose or not.
They proceeded with hasty steps towards the mansion of Monteblanco;—already they reach the spot, and the moon that sheds a partial gleam over yonder reja,[14] developes to the sight the outline of a female form. Gomez Arias approaches, and his penetrating glance discerns through the darkness the figure of his Theodora—her face is decked in placid smiles, and her frame evinces the soft flutterings of an anxious heart. The bolt of the entrance gently creeks, and the harsh sound thrills like the strain of heavenly music to the lover's throbbing breast—the door opens at length, and a comely matron far stricken in years welcomes the cavalier. Don Lope is not backward in his advances; a smile of grateful recognition plays upon his lip. He then seizes the good duenna's hand, and presses it in kind acknowledgment.