Phil. Gently, my good Lisardo. A breast thus suddenly changed from the cold of Nova Zembla to the warmth of the torrid zone requires to be ruled with discretion. And yet, luckily for you—
Lis. Speak—are you about to announce the sale of some bibliographical works?
Phil. Even so. To morrow, if I mistake not, Gonzalvo's choice gems, in this way, are to be disposed of.
Lis. Consider them as my own. Nothing shall stay me from the possession of them.
Lysand. You speak precipitately. Are you accustomed to attend book-auctions?
Lis. No; but I will line my pockets with pistoles, and who dare oppose me?
Phil. And do you imagine that no one, but yourself, has his pockets "lined with pistoles," on these occasions?
Lis. It may be so—that other linings are much warmer than my own:—but, at any rate, I will make a glorious struggle, and die with my sword in my hand.
Phil. This is Book-Madness with a vengeance! However, we shall see the issue. When and how do you propose going?
Lis. A chaise shall be at this door by nine in the morning. Who will accompany me?