The old guardian hesitated for a moment; but then, thinking he couldn’t make matters worse, he went and opened the door; and in came the watch, and part of the crowd, and tramped all over the place. Said the officer: “I ne’er heard such a noise before, Whence springs this horrible uproar?” The drunken soldier, and the indignant guardian, and the rapid Figaro, and the pert Rosina, and even the flushed old Bertha herself, hastened to give their evidence in chorus; but, with a stern wave of the hand, the captain of the watch bade one speak at a time. The doctor’s grey hair carried it. He deposed that the soldier was a scoundrel, a coward, and a scamp, who had sought his life and drawn his sword--and that, too, without the least provocation. Here the barber could not help striking in, “Yes, Senor, and _I_ came in, and _I_ parted the sanguinary combatants.” “Oh dear, oh dear!” This was the voice of a frightened little maiden who began to think a certain drunken soldier was in trouble. “You are arrested,” said the captain of the watch to the drunken soldier. Who, thereupon, thinking that the farce had been played long enough, tore open the breast of his coat and showed the Order of the Grandees of Spain. We are bound to set forth the particulars of the Spanish chronicle, whence we learn that the effect of this “Order” was order indeed. The officer, with unpardonable partiality, immediately un-arrested (to coin a word) the drunken soldier, and everybody was respectfully astonished. Then, everybody went peacefully home, and (bed time arriving) went possibly, to bed. CHAPTER III. Next day, Dr. Bartolo sat him down to discuss the drunken soldier. The aged gentleman had sent out streams of inquiry in every direction, and he had ascertained that no such person as the drunken visitor was known in the regiment. Then who was he? Suspicion gave birth to acuteness, and this jealous old gentleman soon made up his mind that the stranger was in the employ of his ward’s--the unknown--lover, the detested Count Almaviva. He was in the midst of a deep plan of retribution and revenge, when a thwacking at the outer door jerked him, as it were, from his reverie. Before old Bertha could open that door the knocks were repeated again and again, and the doctor had just risen to open himself (that is the door) when a visitor appeared. A youngish looking, fairly handsome man, whom partial eyes would have declared to be very much like the drunken soldier, alias Lindoro, alias Count Almaviva, stood just within the room, dressed sedately in black, and making the profoundest of bows. “May heaven send you peace and joy.” A profound bow. “Thank you; they’ll be new gifts of heaven, but don’t trouble yourself. Who are you?” “May peace and joy be yours for years, and years by thousands.” Another profound bow.