Said the soldier, “Don’t pull that paper out, old man--unnecessary pain. I’ve taken up my quarters here--and here I will remain.” “You will--not if there are cudgels in Seville.” “You’d fight--then let’s begin. A charming thing a battle--truly. I’ll show you how to fight. Now mark me--let this be the trench--and _you_ the enemy. Now pray you mark me, sir,--(drop your handkerchief)--now--but look the other way.” Here the drunken soldier let fall a something like a note, and immediately something like a lace handkerchief fell over it. The doctor saw it, though he did not see whence it came; and he made straight for the contraband property. But the soldier stopped him. “‘Tis nought but a prescription, sir; I told you I was a doctor, well degreed. The writing’s bad, I fain would have you see it not.” “And I myself would just fain see it.” “Ah! ’tis a little love affair, perhaps of hers. Pardon.” Here he picked up the note and lace, and handed them to Rosina. The doctor deserted the soldier directly, and fell upon his little ward. “Quick, quick, the paper!” “If I could but change it,” thought she; and she did. In a pretended little fright she leant against the table, covered a paper with her hand, and the deceptive deed was done. ’Twas but a list of groceries! “A fool--a fool--a very fool am I,” thought the old doctor. But he did not say so. Here there was the sound of weeping on the part of a young lady, who was heard to remark, in a tearful voice, that such oppression was intolerable, and such a life quite unendurable. These remarks, unusual in the sprightly Rosina--for she loved to defy the doctor--caused inexpressible pain to the drunken soldier, who was still reeling about; and perhaps somebody knew the little stabs these same remarks would give. “What man knows woman’s art, Faith--what man knows a part?” Suddenly the soldier lunged forward with his long sword again, and did so fly and lay about him, that old Bertha took more exercise than she had taken since her hair turned white. As for the old doctor, he flew about till his respectable black legs looked like a dozen at least. “Help, help!” shrieked the doctor. “Murder, murder!” quavered the old lady, getting over the ground more quickly than ever. “Oh! oh! oh!” said the young lady, in great fear of the drunken soldier. “Pray be still, soldier!” Suddenly, and with a bound, rushed in barber. “What’s the matter--what’s the clatter? About a quiet house ’tis pity. I pray you, doctor, gaze below, What’s this to-do, the crowd would know.” “This is a rogue.” “Then you’re another.” “This is a knave.” “Then you’re my brother.” Then the barber: “Good Mr. Soldier, have a care, Or, as sure as you stand there, This basin here, at one fell smack, ’Gainst your sconce it shall go crack.” “Bang--bang--bang!” at the street door. “Bang--bang--bang!”