Cam. [starts and shrieks.] Ah, he has found me; I am ruined!
Bel. You hide your face in vain; for I see into your heart.
Cam. Then, sweet sir, have pity on my frailty; for if my lady has the least inkling of what we did last night, the poor coachman will be turned away.
[Exit after her Lady.
Mask. Well, sir, how like you your new profession?
Bel. Would I were well quit on't; I sweat all over.
Mask. But what faint-hearted devils yours are, that will not go by water! Are they all Lancashire devils, of the brood of Tybert and Grimalkin, that they dare not wet their feet?
Bel. Mine are honest land devils, good plain foot-posts, that beat upon the hoof for me: But to save their labour, here take this, and in some disguise deliver it to Don Melchor.
Mask. I'll serve it upon him within this hour, when he sallies out to his assignation with Theodosia: 'Tis but counterfeiting my voice a little; for he cannot know me in the dark. But let me see, what are the words?
Reads.] Don Melchor, if the magic of love have any power upon your spirit, I conjure you to appear this night before me: You may guess the greatness of my passion, since it has forced me to have recourse to art; but no shape which resembles you can fright
Aurelia.
Bel. Well, I am glad there's one point gained; for, by this means, he will be hindered to-night from entertaining Theodosia.—Pox on him, is he here again?