“Quick—quick—your handkerchief—let it fall,” he again softly whispered; and as the old doctor had his eyes on him, he drew forth his sword and made a dreadful lunge at Bertha, who, with a squeal, shot away with all the speed she could muster.
As for the guardian—he thought he should burst with rage. But the next moment he had to scamper too, for the drunken wretch made a lunge at him.
“Sir—sir—I’m exempt from billeting.”
“Quick—quick—Rosina—take this letter;” and with a remarkably steady hand the soldier held her out a delicate little billet.
But she saw the eyes upon her, so she could not take it.
Still with his eyes on her, the old doctor thrust his hand into a desk, and brought forward a paper—an exemption from billeting.
Said the soldier, “Don’t pull that paper out, old man—unnecessary pain. I’ve taken up my quarters here—and here I will remain.”
“You will—not if there are cudgels in Seville.”
“You’d fight—then let’s begin. A charming thing a battle—truly. I’ll show you how to fight. Now mark me—let this be the trench—and you the enemy. Now pray you mark me, sir,—(drop your handkerchief)—now—but look the other way.”
Here the drunken soldier let fall a something like a note, and immediately something like a lace handkerchief fell over it.