_Hyp._ Your grace is right. You are the better scholar. Now what a dunce was I to say ’twas Ovid. But hang me if it is not! (_Aside._) _P. Cura._ Pass this way. He was a very great man, was Cicero! Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony. [_Exeunt._ Scene III.—_A room in the Padre Cura’s house. Enter the Padre and Hypolito._ _P. Cura._ So then, Señor, you come from Alcalá. I’m glad to hear it. It was there I studied. _Hyp._ And left behind an honored name, no doubt. How may I call your grace? _P. Cura._ Gerónimo De Santillana; at your honor’s service. _Hyp._ Descended from the Marquis Santillana? From the distinguished poet? _P. Cura._ From the marquis, Not from the poet. _Hyp._ Why, they were the same. Let me embrace you! O some lucky star Has brought me hither! Yet once more—once more. (_Embraces him violently._) Your name is ever green in Alcalá, And our professor, when we are unruly, Will shake his hoary head, and say; _Alas!_ _It was not so in Santillana’s time!_ _P. Cura._ I did not think my name remember’d there. _Hyp._ More than remember’d; it is idolized. _P. Cura._ Of what professor speak you? _Hyp._ Timoneda. _P. Cura._ I don’t remember any Timoneda. _Hyp._ A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow O’erhangs the rushing current of his speech As rocks o’er rivers hang. Have you forgotten? _P. Cura._ Indeed, I have. O those were pleasant days, Those college days! I ne’er shall see the like! I had not buried then so many hopes! I had not buried then so many friends! I’ve turn’d my back on what was then before me; And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like mine own, or are no more. Do you remember Cueva? _Hyp._ Cueva? Cueva? _P. Cura._ Fool that I am! He was before your time. You are mere boys, and I am an old man. _Hyp._ I should not like to try my strength with you. _P. Cura._ Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. Martina! ho! Martina! ’Tis my niece; A daughter of my sister. What! Martina! (_Enter Martina._) _Hyp._ You may be proud of such a niece as that. I wish I had a niece. _Emollit mores!_ (_Aside._) He was a very great man, was Cicero! Your servant, fair Martina. _Mar._ Servant, sir. _P. Cura._ This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. Let us have supper. _Mar._ ’Twill be ready soon. _P. Cura._ And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Peñas Out of the cellar. Stay; I’ll go myself. Pray you, Señor, excuse me. [_Exit._ _Hyp._ (_beckoning off._) Hist! Martina! One word with you. Bless me! what handsome eyes! To-day there have been gipsies in the village. Is it not so? _Mar._ There have been gipsies here. _Hyp._ Yes, and they told your fortune.