Carl. Do you know that Conde's name?
San. Don something de Cardona, whom the devil confound!
Carl. My old acquaintance; he charged with me in the battle, but what became of him I know not. If he be the man, despair betimes, Sancho; he'll revenge my quarrel, and carry her in spite of you.
San. I am cunning, you know; and I believe he named that cursed Conde, only to draw me on the faster.
Carl. And do you think a gentleman can succeed against a Conde with a woman?
San. Why not?
Carl. No more than a Conde against a duke, and so upwards;—abandon her, I say.
San. No; I am resolute.
Carl. To be the shoeing-horn for the Conde?
San. I confess I would not be the shoeing-horn, to draw him on.