"Together they drank the remainder of the wine, and having given certain orders to Dame Margy, left the house, each taking a different route.
"It rained in torrents, when my hero wrapped his long cloak about him and set out. The tormenting drops ran the length of his nose and poured into his bosom, they crawled damply down his boots, they trickled grievously into his ears, they clung to his long black hair, and soaked through his sombrero; yet did the brave Spaniard press onward, as a hero advances to the breastworks amid a storm of shot and shells. Love had cast its thickest blanket about his heart, and a flame burned glaringly there that nothing but matrimony and maravedis could quench. Arriving in front of his mistress's abode, my hero picked up a handful of sand, and threw it lightly against a window pane, such being the signal by which he was to make known his presence when Miguel was at home. Almost immediately a lattice was opened, and a woman's head, ornamented with a scarlet cap de nuit was thrust out.
"'Who's that?' demanded the duenna, snappishly.
"'It's only me,' responded Don Bobadil, in low tones.
"'And who's me?' asked the amiable woman.
"'Don Bobadil Banco.'
"'Don Bobadil Banco had better go home, if he don't want to have his head broken with a flowerpot,' snarled the duenna.
"'Now, my dear Laura.'
"'Don't 'dear' me! Are you drunk?'