Don Fer. Pray, my good, new, old friend, where has your care deposited this portmanteau?
Spado. Gone!
[Looking after Don Scipio.
Don Fer. The portmanteau gone!
Spado. Ay, his senses are quite gone.
Don Fer. Where's the portmanteau that Don Scipio says you took charge of?
Spado. Portmanteau! Ah, the dear gentleman! Portmanteau did he say? yes, yes, all's over with his poor brain; yesterday his head run upon purses, and trumpeters, and the lord knows what; and to-day he talks of dreamers, spies, and portmanteaus.—Yes, yes, his wits are going.
Don Fer. It must be so; he talked to me last night and to-day of I know not what, in a strange incoherent style.
Spado. Grief—all grief.
Don Fer. If so, this whim of my being Pedrillo is, perhaps, the creation of his own brain,—but then, how could it have run through the whole family?—This is the first time I ever heard Don Scipio was disordered in his mind.