Isab. You shan’t have even that consolation; come, Ines.
[Exit.
Ines. Beware of the portcullis, sir knight.
(Shuts down the blind in his face.)
Men. Ines, beauty must be ever victorious, whether advancing or in retreat.
Enter Crespo.
Cres. That I can never go in or out of my house without that squireen haunting it!
Nuñ. Pedro Crespo, sir!
Men. Oh—ah—let us turn another way; ’tis an ill-conditioned fellow.