When the dueña found she could make no impression on him she ran off at last to call Blanca, who was not yet out of bed, crying long before she got within hearing, “Infantina, Infantina[4]! get up and come down quickly, for here in your gardens is a shepherd who is weaving a stuff which cannot be matched in all the world, and cannot be bartered for cloth of gold; for whoever puts on a garment made of it will instantly appear young, how old soever they may have been before; and if they are already young and beautiful, it will make them much more so.”
Now the waiting-maid, it must be observed, was neither young nor pretty, and she was most desirous to get possession of the stuff; and as the shepherd would not give it to her, she was dying to make her young mistress get it from him.
Blanca’s curiosity was sufficiently whetted by the description, to get up in all haste and come down, and see the strange shepherd herself.
The count’s heart beat indeed, as she came near; and she looked so handsome, and so haughty, that the sight brought back the memory of all her cruelty, so that he was divided between the inclination to throw himself at her feet and beg her to come and be reasonable, and the resolve to follow the advice of the ring, and give her a lesson that should make her a good wife. But the ring adjured him to keep quite quiet, and not even look up at her.
“God be with you, this morning, villano!” she exclaimed, rather loud, with a little sharp cough, to attract his attention.
“May He have you in His good keeping, niña[5]!” rejoined the disguised shepherd, without looking up from his loom.
Blanca was not accustomed to be treated in this way; and she felt very much inclined to call some of the servants to chastise the supposed shepherd for his rudeness. Nevertheless, there was something about his manner that both awed as well as interested her to an unaccountable degree, and far too much to let her give up diving farther into the mystery that surrounded him without another attempt.
“Villano, villano!” she said, at last, “tell me, I pray, the tissue you are weaving, who taught you to weave it?”
“Seven fairies, lady,” replied the feigned shepherd, “who live in seven towers, and who never sleep or dine; but are constantly weaving and singing this refrain, which I sing continually too, lest I should forget it:—
“The cock o’ercomes, though somewhat rough,