“And, then, if his uncle dies, he’ll make somebody else his heir.” “What does that matter to me, Adina?” “And then he’ll die of hunger and misery;” addressed generally to the surrounding landscape. “Either of hunger or love, what matters it, Adina?” “Well, well. He _is_ modest, which Sergeant Belcore certainly is NOT. This Nemorino don’t presume, and I never shall love him.” “But why--why, Adina?” “He might as well ask the wind why it loveth to go this way or that, over brook or field.” “Then I ought?” “Then he ought to think no more about me.” “But I cannot, Adina.” “But why?” “You might as well ask the river why it flows to the sea.” “Ah, I see; because he _must_!” “Even as the river floweth onwards to the sea, I’ll follow Adina.” “Ah, ah, ah!” And with this general winding up of her interviews with the luckless youth, she ran in, and clapped to the little door. CHAPTER II. One hour later and everybody in the market place was opening his or her eyes, as widely open he or she could. For with a great blowing of trumpets, and other unusual sounds, came _such_ a visitor! In a carriage, too--not an ordinary carriage, but a gilt carriage. Not a mean covered-in carriage, like a van, but a fine open carriage, with _such_ a gentleman sitting within it. One had to look twice before he could comprehend him--he was _so_ grand. His waistcoat was a fair field, and his forehead a great plain. But as for his legs, to what shall they be compared? The legs of Jupiter himself, or perhaps Hercules! Yet he had a benignant face, this new comer, and he seemed to know he should be welcome. Who was he--a lord, a prince? And who was his trumpeter behind, blowing a triumphal march? All the people gathered round this wonderful being with open-mouthed respect. Then this great man condescended to step from his grand carriage and address the villagers, as his carriage and his trumpeter stopped together. “Listen, listen, listen--oh! oh! you rustics all Listen, listen, listen, or great and small. I am, I am, I am the greatest of great men! For I can fright away the greatest oldest wen! I, present now, Who make a bow. Am Doctor Dulcamara. In France I’m known, The French will own, In Venice and Ferrara. Such things I’ve done, That more than one Have said I am--no matter; But this I know, Where’er I go, I make no little clatter.