And the man of stratagem playfully thrust about the uneasy rustic, while the master led away the young girl. Then the dancing began, and soon the don had thrust Zerlina into a closet, unperceived, he hoped, but fully marked by the eyes under the masks.
At once they ran towards the door, as the girl called out loudly, “Help! help!”
“Verily, ’tis her own voice—help me, masters, help!”
Here the don entered by another door, and, sword in hand, fell upon the luckless Leporello. “What, thou wicked servant, thou destroyer, wouldst thou, in thy master’s house, send thyself to perdition? Ho, ho! thou shalt die.”
The simple folk were inclined to believe the don, and would have fallen upon the servant, who cried under his breath, “’Tis the fiend himself.”
But the wearers of the masks showed their faces—Don Ottavio, Donna Anna, and Donna Elvira.
And they unmasked him, too, for they pointed to him as the ravisher.
Then they threatened him, stood about him with angry glances. Nearer and nearer they came, and as though approving them, the thunder muttered high in the air.
But he was fearless; on heaven, or earth, or both, he cared not. Like a baffled tiger, he flew at his enemies, cut his way through them, and was saved.