Isaac. For Heaven's sake, now, my dear brother-in-law, don't be in a rage! I'll recollect as well as I can.
Don Ferd. Be quick, then!
Isaac. I will, I will!—but people's memories differ; some have a treacherous memory: now mine is a cowardly memory—it takes to its heels at sight of a drawn sword—it does i'faith; and I could as soon fight as recollect.
Don Ferd. Zounds! tell me the truth, and I won't hurt you.
Isaac. No, no, I know you won't, my dear brother-in-law; but that ill-looking thing there——
Don Ferd. What, then, you won't tell me?
Isaac. Yes, yes, I will; I'll tell you all, upon my soul!—but why need you listen, sword in hand?
Don Ferd. Why, there.—[Puts up.] Now.
Isaac. Why, then, I believe they are gone to—that is, my friend Carlos told me he had left Donna Clara—dear Ferdinand, keep your hands off—at the convent of St. Catherine.
Don Ferd. St. Catherine!