“The cock o’ercomes, though somewhat rough,
So man, no less, the coy rebuff
Of woman!”
The dueña, who had been standing by, watching this scene with the greatest anxiety, intent only on getting a chance of possessing some of the weft which was to make her young and beautiful, was driven beyond endurance by the turn matters were now taking. So she called her young mistress aside and descanted so earnestly on the incomparable powers of the cloth and the little probability of ever meeting with such a chance again if she neglected this one, and threw in, too, such clever hints about easy ways of getting over the difficulty,—that the simple shepherd could easily be deceived, that she could pretend she was going to listen to his attentions, though it need only be pretence, and in the meantime she would get his priceless treasure out of him,—that poor little Blanca was quite bewildered. She was, indeed, so anxious to see more of the mysterious shepherd, and so possessed with the vague fancy that there was some connexion between him and the Count of Barcelona, that it was no very difficult matter to overcome her scruples, particularly as the dueña promised to smooth the way a little for her.
The count, who had also been a little frightened, lest he had spoken too abruptly, was also willing to receive the dueña’s mediation, and in a very little time Blanca had obtained possession of the texture; but the count had also played his game so successfully, that Blanca was quite under his influence, and could think and dream of nothing else, nor rest till she had an opportunity of meeting him again. Of course this was not difficult, and the dueña was ready enough to assist her, as she thought the shepherd might have some other precious gift to impart.
Nor was she mistaken. The count consulted his ring as to what he should do next, and the ring gave him a fowl which laid pearls for eggs, and the chickens that came out of them had feathers like gold.
When Blanca saw this, she could not forbear coming down into the garden to ask for the beautiful fowl. The shepherd was feeding her with gold corn, and he went on throwing down the grains without taking any notice of her approach, but singing,—
“My fair begins to yield;
I’m safe to win the field!”
“Pastorcillo, pastorcillo! give me the beautiful fowl!” said Blanca imploringly. “I should so like to have her. I shall cry if you won’t give her pastorcillo;” she continued, as the count turned on his heels, and continued singing,—