Blan. E'en dead (you say) for love! but say of whom?
Don Z. Can Blanca ask a question so injurious,
As well to her own perfections as my faith?
Blan. I can hold no longer. [Aside to Francisca.
My faithful lover, then it is not you—— [To him scornfully.
Chi. She changes tone: I like not, faith, the key,
The music will be jarring. [Aside to his master.
Blan. 'Tis not then you, Don Zancho, who, having chang'd
His suit at court into a love pretension,
And his concurrents into a gallant rival,
Fell by his hand, a bloody sacrifice
At his fair mistress' feet: who was it, then?
[Don Zancho stands awhile as amazed, with folded arms. Chichon behind his master, holding up his hands, and making a pitiful face; Francisca steals to him, and holding up her hand threateningly—
Fran. A blab, Chichon, a pick-thank, peaching varlet!
Ne'er think to look me in the face again. [Aside to Chichon.
Chi. In what part shall I look thee, hast thou a worse?
It is the devil has discover'd it—
Some witch dwells here: I've long suspected thee.
[Aside to Francisca.