_Lara._ No one so blind as he who will not see! _Don Carlos._ And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, And greater faith in woman.— [_Exit._ _Lara._ Greater faith! Thou shallow-pated fool! Do I not know Victorian is her lover? _Enter Francisco with a casket._ Well, Francisco, What speed with Preciosa? _Fran._ None my lord. She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you She is not to be purchased by your gold. _Lara._ Then I will try some other way to win her. Pray dost thou know Victorian? _Fran._ Yes, my lord; I saw him at the jeweller’s to-day. _Lara._ What was he doing there? _Fran._ I saw him buy A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. _Lara._ Was there another like it? _Fran._ One so like it I could not choose between them. _Lara._ It is well. To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [_Exeunt._ Scene II.—_A street in Madrid. Night. Enter Chispa, followed by musicians, with a bag-pipe, guitars, and other instruments._ _Chispa._ Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here’s my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Man is fire, and woman is tow, and the devil comes and blows; and, therefore, I have heard my grandmother say, that if your neighbor has a son, wipe his nose and marry him to your daughter. Aye! marry! marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter! And of a truth there is something more in matrimony than cake and kid gloves. (_To the musicians._) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray walk this way; and don’t hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the man in the moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend? _First Musician._ Geronimo Gil, at your service. _Chispa._ Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?