Men. Enough, enough—it has struck three. My gloves and tooth-pick.
Nuñ. That sinecure tooth-pick?
Men. I tell you I would brain anybody who insinuated to me I had not dined—and on game too. But tell me, Nuño, hav the soldiers come into Zalamea this afternoon?
Nuñ. Yes, sir.
Men. What a nuisance for the commonalty who have to quarter them.
Nuñ. But worse for those who hav.
Men. What do you mean, sir?
Nuñ. I mean the squires. Ah, sir; if the soldiers are billeted on them, do you know why?
Men. Well, why?
Nuñ. For fear of being starved—which would be a bad job for the kin service.