I have already told you that Don Rodrigo had discovered in Ambrosio a man whom he thought likely to promote his interest with Daraxa, who had hitherto only treated his professions of love with indifference. The coldness of his constitution, however, was such, that this did not by any means discourage him; not susceptible of violent love, the little progress that he made in Daraxa’s favour caused him no trouble. The advantage he possessed over his rivals, in seeing and conversing with the beautiful Moor, was a pleasure that consoled him, though he knew he was not the favoured lover. As he had not as yet acknowledged his sentiments to Daraxa, otherwise than by any little attentions he had paid her, and perceiving that she took pleasure in speaking the Moorish language with Ambrosio, he determined to prevail upon this gardener to declare his passion for her in that language; and Ambrosio accepted the commission, promising his young master to perform it with all imaginable zeal the first opportunity that should present itself, which occurred the very same day. The ladies, after having taken several turns about the garden, entered the arbour in which they usually rested themselves. Ambrosio came up to them with a basket of flowers; and Don Rodrigo desired him to make up some nosegays, and at the same time made sign to Elvira to follow him, as though he had something particular to communicate to her. The brother and sister having left the arbour, Ozmin, finding himself alone with his mistress, was beginning to speak to her in a tone of pleasantry in favour of Don Rodrigo’s passion; but he perceived her melancholy appearance and desisted. “Whence this sorrow, Madam?” said he, with a countenance that betrayed his concern. “How happens it, that when I am about to divert you by the performance of a part but little dissimilar to that which you enacted towards me last night, I find you thus evidently affected with grief?” A sigh from Daraxa was the only answer. This redoubled Ozmin’s surprise and anxiety. “Speak,” cried he, “speak to me, Daraxa, if you wish not to drive me to despair. What can your silence and that sigh portend? They seem to announce more misfortunes than I have as yet had any reason to fear.” The beautiful Moor at length replied, that the peculiarity of their fortunes, and the daily crosses they both met with, occasioned a sadness which she could not shake off.