Ille ego Sum Vates rabido data proeda dolori,  
Qui Supero Sanos Lusibus atque jocis,  
Zenonis Soboles, vultu mala ferre sereno,  
Et potuit Cynici libera turba Sophi,  
Qui medios inter potuit lusisse dolores  
Me proeter toto nullus in orbe fuit▪  Egid Menagius  

SCARRON's NOVELS.  
Viz.  
The FRUITLESS PRECAUTION.  
The HYPOCRITES.  
The INNOCENT ADULTERY.  
The JUDGE IN HIS OWN CAUSE.  
The RIVAL-BROTHERS.  
The INVISIBLE MISTRESS.  
The CHASTISEMENT OF AVARICE.  
Rendered into English, with some Additions, by JOHN DAVIES of Kidwelly.  
LONDON, Printed for Thomas Dring, at the George in Fleetstreet near Cliffords-Inn. 1665.   

To the most ACCOMPLISED, THOMAS STANLEY Esq  
AT the first coming abroad of the three former of these Novels in English, they were addressed to you, partly upon this account, that they were rendered into that Language at Cumberlow, it being but just you should have the Patronage, of what had its birth under your roof. The lightness of the Subject might indeed have deterred me, from presixing before it, a Name, which will challenge veneration, till that of Philosophy have lost the respect due to it, and the world be re-involved in Ignorance and Barbarism: but my presumption on the kindnesses you were pleased to have for me, and the earnestness I had to make some public acknowledgement of my extraordinary obligations to you, overcame that difficulty.  
When the Books of the former Edition were nigh spent, and that I was called upon, to provide for another, it was again my fortune, after almost two years' retirement in Wales, to come to your House, where I had the opportunity, to review what was printed, and make what additions I could thereto, out of the same Author's works. So that the same reason, which I had, at first, to make, obliges me to continue, the Dedication of these Pieces to you; but with this advantage now, that I am the less solicitous of their fate, since the entertainment, some of them have already found, is such, as hath encouraged the Bookseller to venture at a Second Impression.  
But if these were not sufficient, I have several other motives, which would not suffer me to decline the doing of what I am now upon, but particularly one, whence I derive the greatest satisfaction imaginable, which is, that, by this Address, all those who love, that is, all who know you, will be assured, of your having overcome a Sickness, which begat a general report of your death.  
And this reflection, methinks, may well dispense a little, with my retreat into the style of the ancient Dedicatories, which were commonly concluded with wishes and prayers. Mine are, at the present, that, for some time yet, we may not have the occasion to bemoan the loss of so precious a life as yours; That the Health you have so happily recovered may have an uninterrupted continuance for many years; And when you are cloyed with the enjoyments and happiness of this world, (which, as you are wont to express it, consist in these three words, Wife, Children, Friends) you may, by the attendance of those Learned men, whose Labours all subsequent Ages will be obliged to, be conveyed into the joys and bliss of another. And I doubt not of my having, after so long acquaintance, so much credit with you, as that, when I am devour, you will believe me sincere, and, consequently, that these are the hearty wishes of,  
HONOURED SIR, Your most humble and most obliged Servant, J. DAVIES.   

THE PREFACE, Giving an Account of the Author of these Novels, some of his other Works, and his Person.  
THE three former of these Novels were printed here some four or five years since, and so well received, that the scarcity of them s●on called upon the Bookseller for a second Impression. This kind entertainment thereof put me upon an enquiry, what there might be more, of the same kind, written by the same Author, and I have made a shift to pick up four, out of several parts of his Works, printed together, since his Death, in six small Volumes in 12●. of which I have only this short account to give.  
Of the Six, there are only two Volumes in Prose, whereof one, he entitles Le Roman Comic, or, The Comical Romance. It is a description of the Lives of certain Country- Comedians, and other people, of several Conditions; but done, with such a natural smartness, as very few Authors have been so happy as to arrive to, and he does not bring any upon the Stage, to whom there happen not some very pleasant adventures. To this it may be added, that it is written in a stile particular to this Author, whose inclination to raillery is so much the more remarkable, in that he could not forbear it, even in those relations, wherein he was himself concerned.  
I am informed, that, some years since, a Person of Quality made it his recreation, to render part of that divertive Romance into English, translating not only the Work, but also the Scene, out of France into England: and no doubt but the design would have taken infinitely well, had it been prosecuted. But ere he had completed his Work, the Scene of our English Affairs was miraculously changed, from Anarchy to Monarchy, and that Person being highly engaged in the Transactions happening upon his Majesty's happy Restauration, there was such a stop put to what he had done therein, that it hath remained imperfect ever since: whence it may well be guessed, there is somewhat in it so far transcending ordinary Translation, that no other Hand durst attempt it.  
Out of this Romance, whereof there are now two parts extant in French, I have taken three of the Newly-printed Novels; to wit, 
The Judge in his own Cause;  
The Rival-Brothers; and  
The Invisible Mistress.   
'Tis a thousand pities, that the Author hath, prevented by Death, left the Work imperfect; so that we are, and ever shall be, at a loss, to know, what period he might bring so many noble Adventures to. Had he completed it, we should have found, whether he could have given his principal Hero a more honourable Exit, than to make it, on a Gibbet, at Pontoise, as he was wont to say himself, and may be seen in a Dedicatory of his to the Abbot Menagius, and Monsieur Sarrazin, before a little Piece in Verse, entitled, A true Relation of what happened between the Poets and the Destinies, upon the Death of Monsieur de Voiture.  
His other Works, in Prose, are only these NOVELS, and some LETTERS, which being but few, and those so particular about his own occasions and necessities, there will not be much worth the Translation into English. Among these was found the last Novel; to wit,  
The Chastisement of Avarice.  
All the rest of his Works are Poetry, in four Volumes; two, of Plays, Fragments of Plays, Epistles, etc. One, of Poems, upon several occasions; and the last, containing eight Books of the Aeneids, in Burlesque, under the title of, Le Virgile Travesty; in which kind of Writing lay his chiefest excellency: but all together may justly secure him the title of the smartest, and most pleasant Writer of this last Age.  
As to his Person, the account we have to give of it, is derived, partly from what he hath delivered himself, and partly from the Character given him by his Friends. What we have from himself happened upon this occasion. The forementioned Piece dedicated to Menagius and Sarrazin, being in the Press, there chanced to be some vacant Pages, whereupon the Bookseller entreating Monsieur Scarron, to bethink himself of some thing to fill them up, (for the humour of doing it with Catalogues of other Books, it seems, was not much in vogue in France) he gave him the ensuing Description of himself, at the beginning whereof, there was a Brass-cut, wherein he was represented sitting in a great Chair; with his back towards the Beholders, and five Women on the one side, and four on the other, as it were to represent the nine Muses. I shall here give the said Description, just as if I had the same occasion to do it as my Author had.   

TO THE READER, Who never saw me.  
REader, who never saw'st me, and haply are not much troubled at it, out of conceit, that there is little to be gotten by the sight of such a person as I am, know, that, for my part, I should have been as indifferent, as thou art, whether I were seen by thee or not, if I had not been informed, that some, very ingenious Persons, make my misery their sport, and give a d●scription of me quite different from what I am. Some say, that, if I could be capable of any motion, it would not be much unlike that of those exemplary Cripples, who go on their Hands and Britch; others affirm I have no Thighs, and that, being set on the Table in a Box, purposely made for me, I there fall a prating like an one-eyed Parrot: And others y●t are so pleasant, as to say, that, my Hat being tied to the end of a Cord, which runs through a Poultry fastened to the Roof of my Chamber, I, having the other end of the said Cord in my hands (which it seems I must not be able to lift up to my head) make a shift, to raise up, and let it fall, to salute those who come to visit me.  
I conceive myself therefore obliged in conscience, to give a check to these calumnies, that the World may at length be undeceived, and to that end, have I caused the Plate, which thou mayst see at the beginning of this Preface, to be graven. I doubt not, Reader, but thou wilt grumble, (for grumbling is very natural to all Readers, and I am inclined to it myself, as well as others, when I am a Reader) thou wilt grumble, I say, and quarrel at me, that thou hast not a sight of my forepart. To satisfy thee, know, that it is not out of any irreverence, or want of civility, that I turn my backside to the Company, but for this reason, that the convexity of my Back is fitter to receive an inscription, than the concavity of my Breast, which is overshadowed by the pendency of my Head, and that by that side, as well as the other, a Man may take a survey of the Site, or rather, the irregular platform of my Person. Without any imagination, that the world should think itself obliged by such a Present (for, by the Nine Gentle-Lasses that stand about me, I never hoped my Head would ever become the Original of a Medal) I would have had my Picture drawn, if any Painter durst have attempted it. For want of that, take this account of my Person.  
I am somewhat above thirty years of age, as thou mayst see by the back of my chair. If I live to forty, I shall make a great addition of miseries, to those I have already suffered, within these eight or nine years. I was of a passable stature, though somewhat below the middle size; but my diseases have shortened it by a foot and better. My head is somewhat of the biggest, considering my stature. My face is pretty full, and plump, compared to the Skeleton I am thence downwards. I am so well furnished with hair, that I need wear no Periwig, and much of it is turned grey, in spite of the Proverb. My sight is good enough, though my eyes somewhat larger than they should be: they are blue, and one of them more sunk into my head than the other. My nose stands well enough. My teeth, sometimes so many pearls, are now of a colour between black and blue. I have lost one and a half on the left side, and two and a half on the right, and I have two a little broken. My legs and thighs made at first an obtuse, than an equal, and at last, an acute angle. My thighs and my body making another, and my head hanging down over my breast, I am a certain representative or Hieroglyphic of the Letter Z. My arms are contracted as well as my legs, and my fingers as well as my arms. In a word, I am a certain contraction or Epitome of humane misery.  
Thus much as to my figure; and since I am so far in my way, I will give thee a slight touch of my humour. 'Tis more than I promised; but, to deal freely with thee, Reader, take notice, that this Preface is designed only to swell the Book, upon the importunity of the Seller, whose fear it was, he should not save himself by the Impression. Were it not for that, it would be to as little purpose as many others are. But this is not the first time, that some people show themselves fools, out of compliance with others, besides the fooleries they are guilty of upon their own account.  
As to my humour then; I am to confess, that I am somewhat choleric, a lover of good meat, and inclined to sloth. I often call my Man fool or coxcomb, and presently after, Sir, and Monsieur. I ha●e no body, God grant others have the same kindness for me. I am very glad when I have money, and would be much more, if I had my health. I am merry enough in company, and not much unsatisfied, when I am alone. I endure my miseries patiently enough. And now I think my Preface is long enough, and that it is time I should make an ●nd of it.  
So far the Author's description of himself, upon the occasion before mentioned. What we have from his friends is before his Virgil Travesty, consisting of certain Papers of Verses before that Piece, whereof some being in French, some in Latin, we shall cull out only the Latin Copies, as more particularly describing his Person and Indispositions.   

In Gallicam Scarronis Aeneidem ludicro carmine scriptam.  
DEbile Scarronis corpus, contractaque membra,  
Indomitus vexat nocte diéque dolor.  
Hinc caput obliquâ pronum cervice fatiscit,  
Nec licet obtutus tollere ad astra suos.  
Utque manus premit innocuas cruciatque chiragra,  
Sicsecat immeritos saeva podagra pedes.  
Et malè nodosos macies depascitur artus,  
Tabidáque arescens vix tegit ossa cutis.  
Torqueris leviùs volvendo, Sisyphe, saxo;  
Quique renascenti pectore pascis avem.  
Et tamen in mediis ridere doloribus audet,  
Nec miserum laeti deseruêre joci.  
Riciculum Aeneam, Troas, Danaósque facetus,  
Insolitâ Gallis arte, Poëta facit.  
Oblectant animos, non jam naufragia terrent,  
Itala que finxit, Vate Marone, Clio.  
Festiuè ventique ruunt, atque aequora versant,  
Jucundè Phrygias & quatit unda rates.  
Et supplex precibus superos dicacibus orat  
Naufragus, & grato cum sale nauta perit.  
Nec flenda ingentis modo sunt incendia Trojae;  
Haec possint Priamo sic placuisse seni.  
Ipsa quoque in Teucros joculares concipit iras  
Altisoni conjux, Juno, sororque Jovis.  
Tam benè qui ludit, dum toto corpore, languens,  
Deficit, innumeris obruiturque malis:  
Vel certè humanâ Deus est sub imagine Scarro,  
Ingenio pollet vel propiore Dei.  C. FERAMUS.  

In Aeneida Mimicam & jocosam Pauli Scarronis.  
COrpore Scarro aeger, sed cui ridere decorum,  
Phoebus, Amor, Charites, & Venus ipsa dedit.  
Gratum opus urbanis, Urbanae Aeneidos Autor,  
Transtulit in lepidos Arma Virumque jocos.  ATTICUS SECUNDUS.  

SCARRONI ex Patre Nepoti.  
SI punctum omne tulit, qui miscuit utile dulci,  
Ludendo scribens seria quid meruit?  
Virgilii miranda legens ridere jubetur;  
Hoc debet, Scarro, Gallica Musa, tibi.  Urb. Scarron Patruus.  

The Titles of the several Novels.  

NOV. I. The Fruitless Precaution.  
NOV. II. The Hypocrites.  
NOV. III. The Innocent Adultery.  
NOV. IV. The Judge in his own Cause.  
NOV. V. The Rival-Brothers.  
NOV. VI The Invisible Mistress.  
NOV. VII. The Chastisement of Avarice.    

SCARRON's NOVELS.  

THE FRUITLESS PRECAUTION.  
The First Novel.  
A Gentleman of Granada, whose true name I shall forbear to discover, and on whom I will bestow that of Don Pedro of Casteel, Arragon, and Toledo, or what you please, since that a glorious name in a Romance costs no more than another, (which is haply the reason that the Spaniards, not content with their own, ever give themselves of the most illustrious, nay hardly sit down with one:) this Gentleman, I say, (now Don Pedro) being arrived at the twentieth year of his age, lost both Father and Mother, and by their death came to a very great estare: all which happening to the same person contributes very much to his miscarriage if he be born a fool; but, if nature hath been more indulgent to him, puts him int●● capacity of improving himself to some esteem in the world. During the year of his mourning, he very prudently weaned himself from most part of the divertisements, which persons of his age are ordinarily addicted to, and busied himself in looking into the posture of his estate, and putting his affairs into a good order. He was a very graceful person, of an excellent wit, and behaved himself, in his youth, with a prudence and conduct such as might have become grey hairs. There was not in Granada any Lady who would not gladly have had him to her husband, nor any Father so prepossessed with the deserts of his daughter, as not to wish him his Son-in-law. Of the Beauties in Granada, which stood in competition for the Monarchy of hearts, one only there was able to captivate that of Don Pedro Her name was Seraphina, beautiful indeed as a Seraphin, young, rich, well descended, and, in a word, though of a fortune somewhat below that of Don Pedro's, yet a person as well accomplished to make a wife, as he a husband. He made no question, but that upon the first proposal of marriage made to her Friends, he should obtain their consent to become her Servant: but he chose rather to gain her by his own worth and desert, than their compliance, and resolved to court her with all the passion, submissions, and services imaginable, so to make a conquest of her heart, before he became possessor of her person.  
His design was noble, and might accordingly have proved more successful, if Fortune, who is, many times, maliciously pleased to disturb things managed with the greatest conduct and circumspection, had not raised him a Rival, who was become Master of the place he would have taken, while he was but yet making his first approaches. His name we have here little to do with, he was much about the age of Don Pedro, perhaps as lovely as he, and without doubt much more beloved.  
It was not long ere Don Pedro perceived he had a Competitor, and was not much troubled at it, as having the advantage of him in point of estate. He was at the charge of Music in the street where his Mistress lived; his Rival had the pleasure of it in her Chamber, and haply received more than ordinary kindnesses from her, while poor Don Pedro's teeth shattered in his head. At last he grew weary of hunting the bats, I mean, of the charge and inconveniences of that kind of Courtship, without making any progress in his business: Yet so as this ill success caused not any remission of his Love, but only made him quit the design he had to be too prodigal of his addresses to his Mistress, before he had obtained her of her Friends. He therefore went and demanded her of them, and they very liberally g●ve their consent he should have her, without ever advising with, or communicating the business to, their daughter; out of an excess of joy, to be entreated, to do what they earnestly desired, and indeed durst hardly hope. They soon after acquainted Seraphina with the good fortune that came to court her, and prepared her to entertain the addresses of Don Pedro, and; within a few days, to marry him. The news, which she should have received with joy, raised in her no small disturbance; insomuch, that, not able to smother the loss she was at, she hardly made a shift to conceal the occasion thereof from them, by persuading them it proceeded from the affliction, it would be to her, to part with those, for whom she had so dutiful an affection. She acted her part so handsomely, that, out of pure tenderness, the old people could not forbear tears, nor commending the good nature of their daughter. She used all the entreaties she could to persuade them to put off the marriage for four or five months, representing to them, that the decay of her health was visible in her countenance; and pressing, that, if ever she married, it might not be till she had recovered her perfect health, to the end she might be in a better disposition to please her husband, lest he might take any occasion to be dissatisfied with her, in the dawning of their marriage, and repent of his choice.  
Now whereas it was indeed true, that for some time before she seemed not to have her health as she was wont, her Friends were well satisfied with what she had said to them, and gave an account of it to Don Pedro, who also had nothing to except against it, as conceiving it argued the discretion of his Mistress. Nevertheless, they thought it not amiss to put things in order, as to the contract of marriage, and the settlement to be made thereupon.  
But though things were brought to this pass, the amorous Don Pedro omitted not any of those Expressions of Gallantry and Courtship, expected in the carrying on of a Match with consent of all parties. He sent his Mistress many presents, and writ to her every day. She on the other side returned him such answers as were at least very civil, thouh they betrayed much less of passion than was visible in his Letters. But she would not by any means be seen in the day time, excusing herself by reason of her indisposition; nay in the evenings was seldom seen at her window, which raised in Don Pedro a great admiration of her reservedness. He was better conceited of his own worth than any way to question the success of his applications, or doubt his being deeply in the favour of his Mistress, when he should be better known to her than he was, even though she might have had an aversion for him before she knew him.  
His affairs hitherto went on smoothly without any rub; but, on a sudden, it happened that he could not get a sight of his Mistress in four or five days. He was extremely troubled at it, or at le●st pretended it; he writ verses upon that occasion, or, it may be, hired, or bought some, and caused them to be sung under her window: but notwithstanding these great attempts of a most passionate Love●, all he could do was to speak with one of the Chambermaids, who told him, that his Mistress was much sicker than she had been. His Poetic vein swelled at this account of h●r, or, if not his, that of his mercenary Poet must breathe and bleed for it: for I could never be truly informed whether he himself had any gift in rhyming. Having got what he had, set to some doleful tune, and loaden, besides his offensive and defensive arms, with a Guitarrhe, (which I am apt to believe was the best the City could afford) he took his way very boisterously towards his Mistress', either to move her to compassion, or to set the dogs thereabouts a barking. 'Tis not unlikely he should have done one of the two, or both together, and yet it so happened he did neither.  
Being come within fifty paces short of the blessed mansion of his Divinity, he perceives the door open, and a woman coming out, who seemed much like his almost-invisible Angel. He could not imagine what should oblige a Woman, all alone, and at such a time of the night, to enter, of set purpose, into a great desolate building, destroyed not long before by a fire that had happened. To find out what the matter should be, he walked round about those ruins, into which there were several ways to get in, so, with as much convenience as he could, to get near the person whom he had followed in thither. It came into his imagination, that it might be his Mistress who had appointed his Rival a meeting in that strange place, as not daring to be seen at her house, and haply unwilling to have any third person privy to an action, which it concerned him so much to be kept secret; and if what he did as yet but only suspect, should prove tru●, his inviolable resolution was to be the death of his Rival, and to be revenged of Seraphina, by loading her with the greatest reproaches he could think on. He thereupon crawled along with as little noise as he could, till he came to a place whence he saw her (for it was she) sitting upon the ground, bemoaning herself, as a person ready to give up the ghost, or what signifies little less (to give it you in a word) in Labour, and with inexpressible pain, upon the delivery of a little creature, in the making whereof she had haply taken a great deal of pleasure. She no sooner saw herself disburdened, but deriving strength from her courage, she returned the same way she came, without taking any further thought, what should become of the Child she had brought into the world.  
I leave you to judge what astonishment Don Pedro was in at this strange accident. Now was he satisfied what was the true cause of his Mistress' sickness: he was a little frighted at the danger he was likely to have fallen into, and made his acknowledgement to Heaven, that he had escaped it. And being of a noble and generous disposition, he would not be revenged of one that had put such a treacherous trick upon him, to the dishonour of an illustrious Family, nor in his just resentment suffer the innocent little creature to perish, which he saw at his feet exposed to the mercy of the first dog or swine that had come that way. He took it up in his handkerchief, for want of something else to wrap it in, and, with as much haste as he could, went to a Midwife of his acquaintance, to whose care he recommended the Child he put into her hands, and gave her money to buy all things necessary for it. The Midwife, well paid, did what might have been expected from her, insomuch that the very next day, the Child was put out to nurse, christened, and (proving a girl) named Laura.  
In the interim, Don Pedro went to see a certain Kinswoman of his, one in whom he reposed very much confidence: he told her that he had changed the design he had of marrying so young into that of travelling, entreated her to take upon her the management of his estate, and to entertain into her house a little Girl, whom he made her believe was his own, to be very liberal in what concerned her education, and, for certain reasons, which she should one day know, as soon as she were three years old, to put her into a Nunnery, and above all things to take order that she should have no acquaintance with the things of this world. He gave his kinswoman Letters of Attorney, and what else was necessary for her management of his estate, furnished himself with money and jewels; got a trusty servant; and, before he left Granada, writ a Letter to Seraphina. She received it much about the time that she was acquainting her Friends, that her sickness would not any longer delay her marriage: but Don Pedro's Letter, wherein he discovered what he knew of her condition, filled her with other thoughts. And those were wholly directed towards God, insomuch that, not long after, she went into a Nunnery, never to come out again, it being not in the power of her Friends, with all their entreaties and tears, to divert her from that resolution, which they thought so much the more strange, the more they were to seek what the motives of it should be.  
But we will leave them bewailing their daughter, now turned Nun: Her, on the other side, bewailing her own miscarriage; the little Laura g●owing up, and blooming forth; and overtake Don Pedro upon his way to Sevil, not able to divert his thoughts from running upon the adventure that had happened to him, and thereupon entertaining a cruel aversion against marriage, after his having so great a desire to taste of it. All the women he meets he is frighted at, and without any reflection that, as well as men, there are some good, some bad among them, he concludes with himself, that a man must ever be distrustful of them, and much more of those who pretend to wit, than the simple; being apt enough to embrace their opinion, who hold that a woman knows more than she ought, if she knows any thing beyond what belongs to House-keeping, and the bringing up of her Children.  
Embracing these Heresies with some persuasion, he enters Sevil, and went to the house of Don John— (His name is quite out of my head) a rich man, and a person of quality, who was not only his Kinsman, but much his Friend, and so kind as that he would not suffer him to lodge any where else. The pleasantness of Sevil raised in him an inclination to make a longer stay there than he thought to have done: which his Cousin Don John perceiving, and wishing his divertisement yet greater than it was, spent some time in showing him whatever that place afforded that were any thing rare or considerable.  
One day, as they were riding through one of the principal Streets of the City, they saw, in a Coach that went into a great persons house, a young Lady, habited like a Widow; but so handsome, so attractive, that Don Pedro was surprised at her beauty, and made Don John laugh to hear the exclamations and oaths he made, that he had never seen any thing comparable to her in his Life. This angelical Widow reconciled to his favour all those of the female Sex, whom Seraphina had made abominable in his apprehension. He entreated Don John to ride once more through the same Street, and acknowledged to him, that ever so little more sight of her had really wounded him. 'Tis more than needed, replied Don John; for, if I am not much mistaken, you are so far wounded as requires some remedy. Ah, Cousin, says Don Pedro to him, I think I may confidently tell you, that I should esteem myself very happy, might I pass away my days with so excellent a person. Nay, if you take that course, replies Don John, and make such haste as you do, you may soon come to your journey's end, and be master of the happiness you propose to yourself. Not but that such an enterprise must needs be difficult, Elvira is a person of quality, and very rich, her beauty is such as you have observed it, her virtue not inferior, and for the space of two years that she hath been a Widow, the wealthiest fortunes in Andaluzia have not raised in her any motions to change her condition. But a person of your endowments and excellencies may conquer that which others have not been able to stand against. She is a Kinswoman of my Wives, and I sometimes visit her. I shall, if you please, acquaint her with your inclinations, and I am the more apt to hope my negotiation may prove effectual, in regard I have the honour to see her in her Balcony which is over against us, a favour not ordinary from a Lady so reserved, since she might as well shut up her own jealousies and her windows together, and so make us be laughed at after all our gallantry.  
With which words both the Cavaliers made each of them an obeisance to the Spanish Lady, which it cost them no small pains to acquit themselves well of. But particularly Don Pedro did his with such contorsion and violence to his whole body, that a little more he had injured his reins. The Lady in the Balcony returned them one not much to be found fault with, which engaged Don Pedro and his companion to revy it with two others; 
But seeing the Sun from th' Balcony was gone,  
They thought it full time to depart,  
One went away well, and as sound as a Bell,  
But the other was struck to the heart.   
Ah! Cousin, says Don Pedro to Don John, what probability is there that a stranger should storm a heart that hath stood out the assaults of all the best and noblest Champions as to quality and desert that Sevil affords? But, continued he, since the little hope I have of obtaining her favour is enough to occasion my death, it will come but all to one, if I hazard my Life upon her denials and disdains. Let me therefore, dear Cousin, entreat you to speak to her, as soon as possibly you can, and press not to her so much the greatness of my quality or estate, as the violence of my passion.  
Don Pedro was so over head and ears in love, that he could not speak of any thing else, in so much, that his Cousin perceived the greatest kindness he could do him, was, to speak with the soon to Elvira. He did it, and that with good success. The fair Widow entertained so kindly the Proposition he made on the behalf of his Friend, that she discovered rather a satisfaction, than any displeasure thereat. But, in Answer thereto, she told him, that having made a vow she would not hear of any addresses in order to a second Marriage till three years were expired after her former Husband's death, no consideration in the world should prevail with her to break it. She added further, that out of an exact observance of what she had promised the memory of her late Husband, she had till then behaved herself inflexibly towards all those that had made their addresses to her; and that if Don Pedro had so much command of himself as to continue his devotions to her for the space of one whole year, during which time they might become better acquainted one with another, she would promise never to be any man's Wife but his.  
Don John, upon his return, gave Don Pedro an account of his negotiation, and rendered him the most satisfied and most amorous man in the world. The long time he was to expect troubled him not at all, resolving to employ it in all manner of courtships, worthy achievements, and adventures, befitting a spruce Lover. He bought a Coach and Horses, took a House, and entertained Servants, set the Embroiderers and Tailors of Sevil a sewing, and the Musicians a singing. He would have presented Elvira with some things; but she would by no means permit it. Her Maids were much more easily entreated, and received his Presents as willingly as he bestowed them. In a short time, Elvira's Servants were more at his devotion than at hers, they causing her to show herself in the Balcony, though much against her humour, as often as Don Pedro was singing in the Street; in which employment, as I have been told, he was grown to be a Craftsmaster, not making use of his lips and tongue to quaver out the notes as many good Singers do.  
Six Months were already past since Don Pedro had laid a Siege to the affections of Elvira, yet had not the least private Parley with her; which added daily more and more to the esteem and devotion he had for her. At last, upon an importunity of Prayers and Presents, one of her Gentlewomen, better stored with confidence than any of the rest, or rather better bribed, promised to bring him in the nighttime to her Lady's Lodgings, and so to dispose of him as that he should see her put off her clothes before she went to bed, walking in her Smock about the chamber for coolness, and singing and playing upon the Lute, which she did admirably well.  
This took Don Pedro so highly, that he gave his Intelligencer much beyond what he had promised her; so that, night being come, the bold Granadine, according to the Gentlewoman's directions, comes into Elvira's house, slunk into her lodgings, and there, from a little ascent, which was over against her chamber-door, he saw her sitting on a couch, reading in a Prayer-book, how attentively I know not, while her women were undressing her. She had only a thin loose coat about her, and was upon getting into bed when Don Pedro's Pension-Gentlewoman, desirous to give him cause to be as much satisfied with her as she with him, entreats her Mistress to sing. To here's, her Companions added their entreaties; yet Elvira put them off a long time, telling them, she was melancholy, nay, assuring them she had some reason to be so: but the Gentlewoman who was so much at the devotion of Don Pedro, having put a Lute into her Mistress' hands, Elvira had the compliance to sing, and did it with so much excellency and delight, that Don Pedro could hardly forbear casting himself at her feet, there to act the part of the ecstatick Lover. She sung not long, but went to bed: her Women withdrew into their chambers, and Don Pedro, who would gladly have gotten into the Street, was at a cruel loss what to do when he found the great Gate fast. There was no other course to be taken, than to expect till it were day. He sat down on the brink of a Well which was at one corner of the Court, in no small disturbance, by reason of the fear he was in of being discovered, and to incur the displeasure of his Mistress, for his presumption.  
While he was thus engaged, his thoughts running upon thousands of designs, and those attended by so many fruitless wishes, he perceives a Door opening that belonged to some part of Elvira's Lodgings. He turned toward that side on which he heard the noise, and was much at a loss to see coming into the Court the fair Widow whom he thought fast asleep. By the light of a small Wax-candle she had in her hand, he perceived her night-cloaths were very neat about her head; that she was bare-necked, had an excellent Necklace of Pearl on, and that upon her Smock, about which was abundance of Lace, she had only a long rich Mantle. She had in her hand a Silver-plate covered with Jelly, Sweetmeats, and Conserves; and in that strange posture she was so full of charm and attraction, that Don Pedro was once in a mind to satisfy himself with the enjoyment of looking on her, though he should thereby draw on himself all the displeasure, which a presumption so great might justly deserve. But upon better thoughts he hid himself behind the Well, yet so as that he still observed his Mistress, flattering himself sometimes with an imagination, that he was the person she sought after. She went on towards the Stable, whither Don Pedro, at a distance, followed her, and saw her go into a little Chamber. The first apprehension he had, was, that his Mistress, out of an excess of pious charity, went to visit some servant of the House that was sick, though, without any prejudice to her charitable inclinations, she might have put that employment upon some one of her women. He hid himself behind a horse, which stood not far from the door of the Chamber, and thence observing his dear Widow, he saw her set down, on a little Table, the Candlestick, the Plate, and whatever else she had brought that was burdensome to her Ivory hands; and perceived, in a bed which took up almost all the Chamber, a Blackamoor that was sick, who seemed to be about thirty years of age, but so deformed, and of so dreadful a look, that he was in a manner frighted at the sight of him. His meager countenance, and the painful emission of his breath argued him very sick and much spent. Don Pedro could not but admire the unparallelled goodness of the fair Elvira, who took up the Negro's coverlet, and having thrust up his head, sat down by the sick person, and put her hand on his forehead, all wet, haply with the sweats and pains of approaching death. The Negro beheld, with a ghastly look, the charitable Angel that came to comfort him, and who still viewed him with tears in her eyes. Don Pedro knew not what he should think of a charity so transcendent, and having for a while admired it, he began to think it excessive: but as yet he had not seen any thing.  
At last, the fair Widow breaking forth into discourse, yet weeping as if it had been at the taking of a final farewell, she asked the Negro, How he did▪ My dear Anthony, said she to him with a voice interrupted by sobs, Art thou then resolved to die, and, with thy own, to be my death too? Thou speakest not to me, my dearest; take heart, my soul, take heart, if thou desirest I should live, and eat a little of this jelly, for my sake. Thou dost not vouchsafe so much as to look on me, cruel man; not on me, who love thee, who adore thee; kiss me, my Angel, kiss me, and recover thy health, if thou wouldst not have my company to Death, after I had so much loved thee whilst thou hadst any Life.  
To this effect were her expostulations, joining her angelical face to the diabolical countenance of the Moor, which she bedewed with her tears. I am apt to imagine that who ever had seen such a Vision, would have taken it for an Angel embracing a Devil. As for our Don Pedro, he began to think his fair Elvira as ugly as her Negro, who at last casting his eyes on his importunate Mistress, whom he had not till then vouchsafed a look, and with his scraggy hand removing her face from his own, said to her, with a hollow voice; What would you have of me, Madam, and why will you not let me die in quiet? Do you not think it enough that you have reduced me to the condition I am in? or do you expect I should, at the point of death, sacrifice the few minutes I have left, to the satisfaction of your insatiable inclinations? Take a Husband, Madam, take a Husband, and expect no more from me. I shall not see you any more, nor taste of what you have brought me; all my business now is only to die, since I am not good for any thing but the grave.  
Having so said, he slunk down into the bed, so suddenly, that the unfortunate Elvira could not get a word from him by way of return, notwithstanding all the kindnesses both of words and gestures she used towards him; whether it were that he was already dead, or obstinately resolved, not to speak to a person whom he thought the occasion of his death. Elvira, melted into tears, and in a manner out of herself, to see what a sad condition she left her dear Negro in, and most of all to consider his inhumanity towards her, took up all she had brought with her, and returned to her chamber, with so much sadness and affliction in her countenance, that it was much to her loss, she had not been seen in that posture by her apostate Lover, Don Pedro  
He in the mean time lay close and undiscovered, in the most obscure part of the stable, so astonished as that he had not been half as much, when he was present at the happy delivery of Seraphina. He saw the counterfeit Matron returning to her chamber, disconsolate as a Widow at the Funeral of a Husband she dearly loved; and, not long after, finding the great gate open, he got into the street, not much solicitous whether he were seen or not, as not esteeming the reputation of Elvira worthy the least tenderness or respect. Yet even in that did he follow the dictates of his own virtue, so far as that he discovered not what he had seen even to his Friend. He passed by Elvira's door the next day just as the Moor was carried out to his burial. Her Woman told him, that she was sick, and for the space of four or five days that he passed to and fro that way, she was not to be seen at her window, so incapable was she of any consolation upon the death of the African. Don Pedro was much desirous to hear from her. One day as he was in discourse with Don John, a slave of Elvira's brought him a Letter from her Mistress. He opened it with some impatience, and read in it what you are like to do, if you please.  
A LETTER.  
TWo persons, between whom there is a mutual affection in order to marriage, need no third person to solicit the business between them. You would have me believe, that you think me not unhandsome, and I cannot but acknowledge I am so far taken with you, as that I am willing to grant you immediately, what I had not promised till a year were expired. My Person and Estate are at your disposal, when you please to command them; and I am to desire you to believe, that though I cannot be too circumspect in a business of this nature, yet your merit and my own affection shall be my security, and enable me to overcome what difficulties soever I may meet with therein.  
ELVIRA..  
Don Pedro read over the Letter twice or thrice, so much ado had he to believe what he read. He considered with himself that he had been twice in danger to have been as unfortunately married as any man in Spain, and sent up his hearty thanks to Heaven which had enabled him to escape it, by discovering to him two secrets of so great importance. The resolution of marrying suddenly, which the Negro's death had put Elvira upon, raised in Don Pedro a quite contrary, which was, that of getting from her as soon as he could. He therefore told Don John, that it concerned both his life and honour, that he should be out of Sevil within an hour, and that he would take along with him only that servant whom he had brought from Granada. He entreated him to sell his Coach and Horses, and with the money to discharge his Servants; but above all things he desired him not to make any enquiry after the occasion of so sudden a change, and so unexpected a departure, promising to give him an account in writing from the first place he should make any stay at. He writ to Elvira, while some were gone to take up two Mules for him; he delivered his Letter to the slave, and, the Mules being come, took his way towards Madrid, confirmed, more than ever, in his former opinion, of being distrustful of all women of more than ordinary wit, nay indeed to have a horror of them. While he is spurring on his Mule, Elvira opens his Letter, and finds in it these words.  
A LETTER.  
HOw violent soever the affection I had for you might have been, yet have I ever preferred the desire of preserving your honour, before the pleasure of enjoying your person. Thence you might have perceived with what discretion all my Courtships and addresses were attended. I am naturally a person of a very nice conscience, and therefore cannot without some remorse answer your proposal of marriage, you being a Widow but since yesterday. You are much more obliged to the memory of the poor Negro, who hath lost his life in your service, and can bestow no less than a year in bewailing the miscarriage of a person, whose performances you thought so extraordinary. In the interim, we shall both of us have time to consider what we have to do.  
DON PEDRO.  
Elvira was almost out of herself at the reading of this Letter; the affliction she conceived thereat made her more sick, than she had been upon the loss of her Lover of Guinny. But bethinking herself that Don Pedro had left Sevil, and another person, whom she thought furnished for her turn, making his addresses to her in order to marriage, she took him at his word, and entertained him, to supply the place of the Negro. Not but that there were other Negro's choice enough; but she had heard say that there were several sorts of Negroes, and that they are not so far Devils as they seem black.  
By this time was Don Pedro got to Madrid, where he alighted at an Uncle's of his, who entertained him very kindly. This Uncle was a Gentleman of a very great estate, had only one son, destined in marriage for a Cousin of his, an Heiress, one that being but ten years of age was kept in a Monastery, till such time as she were ripe for the enjoyments of her Cousin. This Cousin's name was Don Rodrigues, a person as lovely as could be looked on, every way so accomplished, that Don Pedro entered into a friendship with him much beyond what a man hath for a kinsman, whom yet he may love very well; for they are not always of his kindred that a man loves best.  
Don Rodrigues had many times his thoughts so taken up with some reflections unknown to any but himself, that he minded not much what he did, or what company he was in, and these fits were often accompanied with certain agitations and disturbances. Don Pedro, having observed it, acquainted him with his adventures, to oblige him, by th●t confidence, to give him an account of his, and, in case there were any thing wherein he might serve him, to assure him of his being much more his Friend than his Kinsman. Whereupon he to●d him how he h●d taken notice of his sadness and disquiet, and entreated him to discover the occasion of it; or otherwise, that he should think his friendship not answerable to his own.  
Don Rodrigues desired nothing so much, hoping to be disburdened of his grief, when he had communicated it. He thereupon told Don Pedro, that he was passionately fallen in love with a Gentlewoman at Madrid, designed in marriage to a Cousin of hers whom she expected from the Indies, and whom she had never seen, much after the same manner as he was made sure to a Cousin of his whom he stayed for till she were of age to be married, and whom he had but little acquaintance with.  
But not unwilling to make a full discovery of himself; This conformity of Adventures, said he to Don Pedro, very much heightened the mutual love we had for one another, though it still kept us both within the limits of civility and our duty, when ever our passion would have advised us to prefer our satisfaction before the engagements wherein we were involved upon the account of our Families. Hitherto had my love had the success I could have wished myself, I mean, so as not to obtain the final reward of it, which she put off till after the arrival of her Husband, that is, when the cloak of Marriage might cover all the inconveniences likely to ensue upon an appointment which supposes somewhat more than a private conversation. I shall not tell you any thing of the beauty of Virginia, but only that it is impossible to say too much of it, and that I could say as much of it as would haply puzzle your faith to believe. I shall forbear, till you have seen her, and her Cousin Violanta, who lives with her, which when you have, it will haply force an acknowledgement from you, that Spain can hardly afford any thing fairer than these two incomparable Cousins, and, when you come to discourse with them, that you never met with any Women more witty.  
Ah! that's it makes me the more to pity you, replies Don Pedro And why so, says Don Rodrigues? Because a subtle Woman, replies Don Pedro, will be sure, sooner or later, to put a trick upon you. You know by the Relation I have given you of my adventures, how I had been like to be trepanned by them; and I am to assure you that were I but in hopes to find a Woman as simple, as I know there are witty, I would court her in the highest manner imaginable, and prefer her before prudence itself, if she would entertain me to be her Servant. Sure, you do not speak seriously, replies Don Rodrigues; for I never knew any understanding man, but thought it the most insupportable thing in the world, nay, a certain torment, to be but a quarter of an hour in company with a Woman that's little better than a natural Fool. 'Twere most irrational, that, while our eyes, our hands, in a word, our whole body, finds something of diversion, our souls, our noblest part, should be upon the rack of a tedious conversation, such as must needs be that of persons that have nothing in them. Let's have no more disputing, says Don Pedro to him, since there is but too much to be said upon this subject; be it your business to bring me as soon as you can to a sight of this admirable Lady, as also of her Cousin, to the end, if she suit with my humour, I may have something to trifle away the time withal while I stay at Madrid. I believe you will find them much otherwise than you expect, when you do, says Don Rodrigues. And why, I pray, replies Don Pedro Because, says Don Rodrigues, the person you would see is at the greatest distance with simplicity of any I know. I shall comply with time and circumstances, replies Don Pedro To be real with you, added Don Rodrigues, I know not well how Madam Virginia will entertain us, it's above eight days since th●t she hath treated me with all possible rigour and aversion, returned my Letters without ever opening them, and sent me word she would never see me, because not long since she found me in the Church, speaking to a young Lady, with whom she saw me the same day in a Coach, and upon this occasion it was that you saw me so sad and melancholy. It matters not, says Don Pedro, let's go and see them however, and take it from me, you will sooner satisfy her by vindicating yourself in her presence, than with all the Letters the whole Academy of Eloquence could furnish you with.  
Hereupon the two men-Cousins went to see the two women-Cousins; and the fair Virginia permitted Don Rodrigues to vindicate himself, which he found it no hard matter to do. Don Pedro thought them both handsomer than any he had seen of the sex before, not excepting the imprudent Seraphina, nor the counterfeit Matron Elvira. Violanta, who had dressed herself that day richer than ordinary, in order to have her Picture drawn, dazzled the eyes of Don Pedro so far, that he immediately broke the resolution he had taken, never to love any Woman unless she were a Fool. For his part, Violanta was no less taken with him, it being his fortune to speak things so obliging upon her Picture, among which some infinitely witty and smart, that they wrought in her an admiration of his excellent parts, and no small satisfaction at the first sallies of his courtships.  
But here I cannot avoid making a little digression, though it be only to tell those who know not so much, that your set-speeches to Gentlewomen, and your serious Students in the Academy of Compliments, are a sort of people that would be good at the putting off of whipped Cream and Syllibubs, and are charged with, nay, convicted of, an airy flatuous eloquence by persons of good understanding and judgement. If this word of advertisement be well considered by the public, some would find the conveniences of it equal to those of a good receipt against the Flies in Summer, and against stinking Breathes all the year long. Don Pedro, who had solemnly sworn never to marry unless he met with a Woman the next degree removed from an Idiot, made it appear that the Oaths of Gamesters and Lovers are not obligatory, though the late Casuists had not been so indulgent as to dispense with them. He was so infinitely taken, as with the beauty, so with the wit of Violanta, that despairing to obtain any favour of her but what might be granted without any prejudice to her honour, he was resolved to marry her, if she had no aversion for that kind of life. He many times gave her occasion to make some discovery of her thoughts, as to that particular; but either she understood him not, or at least would not, whether it were that she loved her freedom, or could not entertain any thoughts of Marriage.  
All went hitherto very prosperously on with these four Lovers; but misfortune comes ever when 'tis least expected. One day it happened, that the two young Gentlemen having tired their Tailors, Barbers, Milliners, Shoemakers, Sempsters, and all those other Trades which young Gallants put upon the rack when they would dazzle their eyes whom they pretend to adore, or to say all in a word, made themselves as fine as Castor and Pollux, and not making the least doubt to become Masters of the outworks at least of the places they besieged, there comes an unlucky Scrich-owl, I mean an old Servant-maid, to acquaint the two Cousins, that the Indian Spark, Husband to the fair Castilian, was come to Madrid, without so much as sending a Letter before him from Sevil, where the Ship came in; that the two fair Cousins knew not what he meant by his surprising them in that manner, and entreated the Gallants to have patience till such time as Virginia had made such discovery of the humours of her Indian, as to know how to deal with him, and that they should not only forbear visiting them, but even appearing before their Windows, till further order.  
Thus was all the trimming, scouring and powdering of that day clearly lost, nay, as if upon this account of their Mistresses they had a remorse for their vanity, for two days after, they had no more care of themselves than if they had been irreprievable Malefactors. They understood from common report about the Town, that the Indian ●nd Virginia had been privately married; that he ●as naturally jealous, a person of experience, as being turned of forty years of age, and had taken such order in his house, and was so vigilant over the actions of his Wife, that her Gallants, if she had any, could not hope so much as a sight of her at her Window. The further order they had been promised came not, and they thought long to expect it. They made their appearance in the Street where their Mistresses lived, and road up and down, as they were wont, before their doors, yet could never see, either going in or coming out, any face they knew, or meet with any Boy or Maid they had any acquaintance with. They one day saw the Husband go in accompanied by his Brother, a person handsome enough, and so young that he was then a young Student in the University. All this did but add to their affliction, and heighten the trouble they were in. They went forth betimes in the morning, they came not home till 'twere very late, and spent both time and pains to no purpose. At last one Holiday, being upon the Sentry, they saw coming out, at the Break of Day, one of Violenta's Maids to go to Mass. They made her stand at the Church-door, and through the persuasion of a many Presents Don Rodrigues prevailed with her to carry a Letter to her Mistress. The business of it was this.  
THE LETTER.  
Madam,  
I Find a greater unkindness in your oblivion of me, than I feel torment in my own jealousy, since there is no remedy for this latter, now that you are at the disposal of a Husband. However you are not to think yourself beyond the reach of my importunities, though you have discharged me your remembrance. I beg of you, as the last favour I am to expect, to let me know whether I have yet any ground to hope, or must resolve not to live any longer,  
Yours, etc. DON RODRIGUES.  
They followed the Maid at a distance; she delivered the Letter as she had promised them, and having made a sign to them to come near the house, she dropped out at the Window the Answer you are like to read.  
THE LETTER.  
A Jealous man, that hath not been married long, is but little from his Wife, and cannot so soon think himself dispensed from the duty he conceives lies upon him, to express his tenderness over her and observe her actions. There is some talk of taking a journey to Vailladolid, without my company, which if it happen, I shall vindicate myself, satisfy my engagements, and pay my debts.  
This Letter, which they both with a certain emulation kissed a hundred and a hundred times, revived their decaying hopes, and nourished them for some days: but at last, not hearing any thing from their forgetful Mistresses, they renewed their marches and countermarches before their windows, spent whole nights there; and could not see any going to and fro, no more than if the house had been haunted and no body lived in it.  
But one day it happened, that, these two despairing Lovers being in the Church, comes in Mistress Bride; Don Rodrigues went and kneeled down close by her, as 'twere to outface an old Gentleman-Usher that had brought her thither. He in few words made his complaints to her; she in as few excused herself, and at last she told Don Rodrigues, that her husband was not yet gone to Vailladolid, though he talked of going every day: that her impatience to have a private meeting with him was no less than his; and that she knew but one way to satisfy his desires, which absolutely depended on Don Pedro My husband, said she, is a man, whom, when once fallen asleep, the shooting off of great Guns would hardly awake, and it is four or five days since we spoke one to another, by reason of a little difference that is happened between us, which is not yet ripened to a● overtures of reconciliation. I have been at m● Cousin Violanta to supply my place in the Bed but she is not well, and in regard she and D●● Pedro are the only persons that are privy t● our Loves, and that I am unwilling there shoul● be any more, though it concerned my life, w● must make use of him in her stead, and, if he loves you so well as to do it, prevail with him t● go into bed to my husband after he is fallen asleep. There seems at first to be something o● hazard in such an enterprise; but it being considered withal that my husband and I are at ● distance, and that he is not easily awaked, doubt not but all may prove well enough as I imagine to myself; and this is the utmost I can do for you.  
This happy stratagem of Love, which Do● Rodrigues was so hot to understand, upon the first proposal of it, proved a cooler to his desires when he had heard it; for he was not only in doubt whether his Cousin would act the dangerous part which was imposed upon him in that extravagant adventure, but was in suspense, whether he should so much as propose it to him. His Mistress continued firm to her resolution, and, as she parted with her dissatisfied Gallant, assured him, that if the proposition she made to him were not well entertained and put in execution, as she had directed, there were never any thing to be hoped from her, nay she gave him leave to forget her, though a time had been she would sooner have signed the sentence of her own death.  
The time and place broke off the discourse between Don Rodrigues and his Lady; she returned home, he to his Comrade, who could not get a word from him, so much was he troubled that he must either make a request to him which he thought so unreasonable, or live without a happiness which is ever much more valued before the enjoyment than afterwards. At last, being gotten together into a private Chamber, Don Rodrigues having done himself all possible violence, made the extravagant proposition to Don Pedro, allaying it what he could with those circumstances which might render it the more entertainable. Don Pedro could not at first imagine but all was in jest, but his Cousin on the contrary protesting he spoke seriously, so far as to confirm it with such Oaths as convinced him he was in earnest, he would needs make some sport at it, telling him, he was very much obliged to his Mistress, for providing him an entertainment with so sweet a Gentlewoman, and that no doubt it was an expression of Violanta's gratitude towards him, who being not, by reason of her indisposition, in a capacity to requite the services he had done her, and thinking her engagement a burden, turned him over for the payment of it to her Cousin's husband, with whom he must expect a very pleasant night's lodging.  
Thus did he endeavour to divert both his Friend and himself with witty descants on so odd an adventure, but Don Rodrigues was in such a distraction of thought as that he minded them but little, and was so cast down, that his Cousin could no less than pity him, and was somewhat in fear how dangerous the consequences of his despair might be. Don Pedro was a person naturally daring enough, one that had run through many adventures, and durst undertake any thing though never so extravagant; he had also a great love for Don Rodrigues, so that, all put together, he was content to supply the place of the fair Virginia, though with the hazard of what mischief he might receive from an exasperated and jealous husband. Being therefore fixed in his resolution, he embraced his Cousin, and raised him to Life again by telling him what hazard he would run, to procure him the enjoyment of his Mistress. You shall not be, said he to him, so extremely obliged to me as you imagine for what I shall do for you, I find myself inclined to undertake it as an action of honour, wherein I pretend to as much reputation as if I had behaved myself ever so gallantly at the storming of some strong place.  
Things thus concluded, word was sent to Virginia, that her proposition was accepted; she appointed the time that very night; the two Cousins came according to appointment, were conducted into the house with as little noise as might be; and Don Pedro was forced, in the presence of the fair Lady, to put off his clothes, as being desirous her orders should be observed with the greatest exactness. Don Pedro being thus stripped to his linen, she brought him, as softly as if his way had been paved with eggs, and with the greatest caution imaginable, to the dangerous bedside, and, having drawn the curtains, and turned down the clothes as easily as might be, held the daring Don Pedro by the arms, while he gingerly laid himself down in the bed, who haply now began to repent him of his confidence, and no doubt contented himself with such a part of the bed as that he came not near the middle.  
Having thus disposed of him, she went her ways, locked the chamber door without ever minding the noise she made in doing it, which Don Pedro was troubled most of all at. Her business now was to get to Don Rodrigues, whom I am apt to believe she paid, like a gallant good natured woman, what ever she was in his debt, at least as much as he would take of it.  
Don Pedro in the mean time was in a condition much different from that of his Cousin's, who no doubt was over head and ears in the embraces of a fair Lady that was a bed with him, while this overcharitable Kinsman lay in fear of nothing so much as of those of a sordid man, who, to his great misfortune, was a very troublesome bedfellow. Then did he begin to reflect, but too late, on his foolish presumption, that being what he should have done before he engaged himself in such a design; he blamed himself, called himself fool, and acknowledged that the injury he did a husband was one of those that are unpardonable, if he himself were to pass his sentence upon it.  
But it was not long ere these sad reflections were interrupted, and his just fears heightened by his Bed-fellow's turning to him, and casting his burdensome arm about his neck, as if he would have embraced his wife. Don Pedro somewhat frightened at those unwelcome caresses, the more haply because accompanied with certain words imperfectly uttered, made a shift to disburden himself of the arm which he thought more weighty than a far heavier burden, and slipped his neck from under it, taking great care not to do him any hurt; and having so done, he got to the bedside, with his body so far over, that he had much ado to keep in the bed, wishing his life fairly at an end, and blaming only himself for running so great a hazard to comply with the passion of two indiscreet Lovers. He had hardly time to breathe, and recover his spirits ever so little, ere the unquiet Bed-fellow thrust in his legs between his; which last action, added to the foregoing persecutions, made him look pale as death itself. At last, whilst one came still nearer, and the other removed, day comes on, very expectedly to Don Pedro, who was not able to stand out any longer against his Adversary, who had thrust him as far as he could go.  
He got out of bed as gently as he could, and went to open the door, which he found very carefully double locked, a misfortune as indigestible as any of the precedent. As he was trying, to little purpose, to thrust back the lock, it flew open of a sudden, and the door had almost taken him over the face. Virginia comes into the room as it were in much haste, and asked him loud enough, Whither he made such haste? Don Pedro entreating her with a low voice to speak more gently, asked her whether she were mad to hazard in that manner the waking of her husband, and desired her she would let him out. How! go out? replies the Lady with a loud voice. No, I would have my husband see what bedfellow he hath had to night, that he may see the fruits of his own jealousy, and what I am able to do.  
Having so said, bold as a Lioness she took Don Pedro by the arm; then, in such disturbance as that he had not the strength to get from her, opened the shutters of the windows, without letting go her prize, and dragging him to the bedside, drew the curtains, saying aloud, See, Mr. Jealous-brains, whom you have had to your bedfellow! Don Pedro was not so scared, but that he had the confidence to look into that dreadful bed, where, instead of the imagined Satire, he found his amiable Violanta, who had lain with him, and not Virginia's husband, who was gone into the Country eight days before. The two fair Cousins jeered him most unmercifully, never had a witty man such a task to vindicate himself, or betrayed a greater confusion. Violanta, who was extremely a lover of mirth, and spoke things handsomely and ingeniously, made her Cousin almost burst with laughing when she related what frights she had put Don Pedro to, whenever, pretending to be between sleeping and waking, she got any t●ing near him.  
This baiting put Don Pedro, who was still in his shirt, almost out of countenance; so that it was a long time ere he could recover himself out of the confusion he was in. At last Virginia took pity of him, and left him and her Cousin to themselves, to make up the accounts that were between them, which were of some consequence, for it took up their time from morning till it was noon. From that time, while the Husband was in the Country, the two he-Cousins and the two she-Cousins had frequent meetings, and made their advantages of the opportunity. The Indian being returned, only Don Rodrigues fared the worse for it; for Don Pedro, by the assistance of the Servants whom his Presents had brought to his Lure, made a shift, for two or three months, to spend most flights with Violanta, who was at her own disposal, and, since her Cousin's marriage, lodged in a part of the house whereof she had the command, and which had a backdoor that opened into another street. He was so deeply in love with her, that he earnestly wished himself married to her, but when he made any Proposal of that nature to her, she so handsomely put off the discourse, that he knew not whether it were out of design, or that she minded not much what he said to her. At last, to confirm the general opinion, that this world is a Stage of perpetual changes, Violanta began to remit much of her passion, and by little and little grew to that coldness towards Don Pedro, that he could not forbear complaining of it, and, not knowing what to quarrel at, charged her with infidelity, reproaching her, that she had entertained some other Gallant into her favour.  
But instead of recovering himself by this means into that place in her affections which he had formerly possessed, it made him so insupportable to Violanta, that she did not only forbear the kindnesses she did him in the night, but could not endure his company in the day time. Yet was he not a jot cast down at it. He, by the charms of a many Presents, prevailed so far with one of the Gentlewomen, treacherous enough of her own inclination, as that she discovered to him, that her Mistress was extremely taken with her Cousin's Brother-in-law, who was then just come from the University; that he was a very handsome young man, and no less in love with Violanta, than Violanta was with him. To act something notorious for the perfidiousness of it, this wicked Wench advised him to pretend himself sick, to send his Mistress notice of it, complaining as if she were the cause of his indisposition, which, by reason of the likelihood of it, might be credited; and, in a word, to pretend it so seriously, that her Mistress might not be so vigilant, nor stand so much upon her guard, as she had ever done, since she broke off her correspondence with him. Don Pedro played his part as well as if he had been an old Actor at it. Violanta perceived not the Mist that was cast before her eyes, and the perfidious Author of the Plot, had no sooner brought her Mistress' new Adonis into that chamber, but she went to open the gate to the jealous Don Pedro  
He comes all fury into Violanta's chamber, and surprises her already in bed, and her young Exerciser putting off his clothes to lay himself by her. He went with his sword drawn straight to his Rival, haply to frighten him a little. The young man had his wits about him, so that taking up one of his shoes, and holding it out as one would do a pocket-pistol, aimed at Don Pedro's face, so confidently, that Don Pedro, who mistrusted no such thing, and doubted not but that he would have shot at him, slunk down and turned of one side, in which interval the young man got out at the door. Violanta, who was resolved to make an absolute rupture with Don Pedro, broke out into a laughter, and jeered at his fear of being pistolled with a shoe. He took her abuses so heinously, that he fell a boxing of her; she had him by the hair; it came to a bloody scuffle, insomuch, that at last, the hardhearted Granadin, having used her so unmercifully, that she was forced to cry out Murder, made his escape into the street, just as Virginia, her husband, and all the servants, armed, as it were to engage an enemy, that had beat up their quarters, came into Violanta's chamber.  
In the mean time Don Pedro gave Don Rodrigues an account of what had passed, and, not losing any time, went and proffered his service to the Duke of Ossonne, who was to depart the next day to be Viceroy of Naples. Don Pedro expected him at the Port, where they were to embark, leaving his dear Cousin extremely troubled both at his departure and the occasion of it. He continued six or seven years at Naples, much respected by the Viceroy, who allowed him very considerable pensions. He received also no small sums out of Spain, so that there was not any person in Naples lived at ● higher rate than he did, which made him more considerable in Italy than most of your Spaniards, who go thither as much out of a design to grow rich, as the French do to spend their money. He travelled to Sicily, made some stay in the more eminent Cities, and, being returned into Italy, spent two or three years at Rome, as many at Venice, visited all the places he thought worth it; and, at last, having been fourteen or fifteen years out of Spain, ever in love, or, if you will, ever making it his main business to satisfy his lust, still engaged in some adventure or other, and more and more confirmed in his opinion, that a man could not be safely married to a witty woman, an humour took him to put a period to all his extravagant courses, and to return to GRANADA, to see all the friends he had left there.  
But the greatest motive of his departure out of Italy, was, that his returns of money failed him, through the disappointment of his correspondents; or, at least, his Exchequer was grown so low, that he had hardly so much as carried him to Barcelona. There he sold what clothes he could spare, to buy him a Mule, and keeping only the best he had for his journey, he took his way towards his dear Country, without any retinue at all, the servant whom he had brought with him out of Spain being, in all probability, dead of the Neapolitan disease, and his stock so small, as would not haply defray the charges of another.  
He left Barcelona at the break of day, to avoid the heat, and the importunity of the flies, which in August are very troublesome, so that by nine of the clock he was gotten four or five leagues in his way. He road through the middle of a pretty large country village, where a certain Duke of Cataloniae passed away part of the Summer, as having in that place a fair Castle that stood upon the road. The Duke was an ancient man, and had to his Lady a woman of an excellent humour, a great both lover and maker of sport, and about twenty years of age. He was that day gone abroad upon some hunting-meeting, and was not to return till the next. The young Duchess standing in a Balcony of the Castle cast her eye on our Adventurer of Granada. His goodly presence and the state of his riding raised in her a desire to have a sight of him nearer hand; besides, that she was of an inquisitive nature, and suffered few strangers to pass through the Town without sending for them. Though he had resolved to bait some leagues off the place where he than was, yet could he not civilly answer a request made to him from the Duchess with a denial, amounting to no more than his waiting on her only as long as the urgency of his occasions would permit. She was beautiful as an Angel, and the Granadin was one that felt a certain warmth diffuse itself through his whole body, at the sight of such beauties, though they were not Duchess'. He, on the other side, was a person every way graceful, and the Duchess took much pleasure to see men of his making; to redeem, in some measure, the time she misspent with her husband, who, to her great misfortune, thought her so handsome, and was so infinitely taken with the pleasantness of her behaviour, that he imagined he never saw her enough, though she were seldom out of his sight.  
Don Pedro, being a person of excellent parts and good judgement, found the Duchess much diversion by giving her a relation of his Travels, and soon observed her to be of a nature much inclined to mirth and a pleasant passing away of the time. She enquired particularly concerning the Gallantry at Naples, would needs know whether the Women there have much freedom, and whether the Gallants of Italy were comparable to those of Spain. In fine, Don Pedro was confirmed by the questions she put to him, that if she were not very well read in the business of Courtship and Gallantry, it was not for want of goodwill. She would needs entertain him at dinner to both their mutual satisfaction: soon after dinner he would have taken his leave of her, but she would not by any means permit it telling him her Lord would not return that day, that he must needs be her guest, and very obligingly adoing, that persons of his worth being very rare in Catalonia, they were not to be parted with till some extraordinary necessity forced them away, and consequently the happiness of their company was to be improved to the utmost.  
She thereupon led him into a Closet, which by reason of its spaciousness was very cool, adorned with Pictures, Porcelain, and other Rarities, and furnished, besides all things suitable to the greatness of the person, with a sumptuous Couch, covered with a Satin quilt. Having seated him on it, he related to her his adventures at Granada, Sevil, and Madrid, as also those he had met with in Italy, which are not come to my knowledge. The Duchess heard him with much attention, and he told her at last, that he was resolved to marry, if he could but meet with a woman simple enough to secure him, as to those inconveniences which witty women run their husbands into. An Estate I have, continued he, plentiful enough, and though she I shall marry have no fortune at all, so she be well brought up, and not over-deformed, I shall not scruple to marry her; though, to be sincere with you, I should rather make choice of one that were unhandsome, so she were simple, than a handsome one that were not. Ah how strangely do you misapprehend things in my judgement, says the Duchess to him, or, what do you mean, when you say, well brought up? I mean a virtuous woman and of good reputation, replies he. And how is it possible a woman that's little better than a natural fool can be virtuous, says the fair Lady, since she knows not what Virtue is, nay is not in a capacity to learn? How do you imagine a fool can have any affection for you, having not the apprehension to know you? She will be wanting to her duty, yet not be sensible of it; whereas a woman of understanding, in case she should be distrustful of her own virtue, will make a shift to avoid the occasions which may endanger the loss of it.  
Their contestation took up much longer time, th● Granadine maintaining, that a woman should aspire to no greater knowledge than that of loving her husband, being faithful to him, and careful of the government of her house and children; and the Duchess on the other side desirous to convince him, that a simple woman was not able to do any thing of all this; nay that, though she were handsome, it would not be long e'er she would be thought troublesome▪ They were both satisfied of one another's wit and judgement, and the mutual good opinion they had conceived one of another was soon heightened into an affection, nay, I may say, something yet greater. There was not only a difference between the Granadine and the Duke, as to age, understanding, and person, but the former was of such an exact composure as the world haply afforded but few like him; and if he was thought such by his Duchess, he in requital thought her the handsomest woman he had ever seen. He was bold as a Lion, and never had the opportunity to be alone with a woman, but he made proffer of his service to her. If it were accepted, he did the best he could; if offence were taken, he cast himself on his knees, and calling himself first the presumptuous Ixion, he craved pardon so ingenuously and with such exquisite hypocrisy, that either his offence was pardoned, or haply it would not have been taken amiss if he offended again. I never thought, said he to the Magnetic Duchess, to have met with a person able to force me out of an opinion wherein so many experiences had confirmed me: but I must withal confess, I never was before opposed in it by a person extraordinary as you are, whose soul alone, without making any advantage of your beauty (which yet defies the world to parallel it) may exercise what jurisdiction it pleases over all those who have apprehension enough to acknowledge, that your excellencies are greater than those of all other women put together. You have cured me of one error, but suffer me to groan under something else which is so much the more dangerous, and hard to be cured, by how much I take greater pleasure in my sickness, and satisfy, by enduring it, the noblest ambition man can be capable of.  
I have now forgot what other hyperboles he drew up together, to engage the Duchess' virtuous inclinations; as also what reserves of pathetical impertinences he was forced to make use of; for, he was upon a very hot and dangerous service of Courtship. Nor could I ever learn with what countenance the Duchess entertained a Forlorn of Love and Gallantry so confidently brought up; whether she received the amorous charge suitably to the fierceness of it; or made the weaker resistance out of hope of better quarter. These particulars, though much desirous of it, I could never have any account of, and only have it from one of the Duchess' Gentlewomen, since dead in France of the King's Evil, that the Closet-door was locked upon them at two of the Clock, and that they were there together till Suppertime; and besides what the Gentlewoman said, I know myself by experience, that Opportunity makes the Thief. Night came on, the indulgent Deity of stolen Loves▪ but Don Pedro and the Duchess were prejudiced rather than obliged by it, for out of a regard to Civility, and to keep the Servants from talking, (whose jealousies ever magnify things to the great prejudice of Truth, a Virtue they are professed enemies to) they called for lights, which, being brought, were darkened by the two bright eyes Heaven had bestowed on the Duchess, and which then out-vy'd the Stars with their lively sparkling. Her complexion, which now had doubled the hue of its native carnation, appeared brighter to Don Pedro than the Sun in a Summer's day, and his face too had a little touch of the violent inclining to red.  
But as they were beholding one another with much confidence and satisfaction, an alarm came to the Duchess, that the Duke her husband was come into the Court. All she could do upon so sudden notice, was, to dispose her much astonished Gallant into a Closet where she kept her perfumed waters, and, having locked him in, to cast herself on a Bed. The Duke, who was a man of threescore years of age at least, comes into his Lady's Closet, and finds her fresh as a rose upon the bush. He told her, that a Letter he had received from the Viceroy had occasioned his return sooner than he expected. He was grown very hungry, ordered to be brought him into the Closet what there was ready, and the Duchess, though she had no great stomach to eat any thing with him, while her Gallant shakes, or haply did something else, for fear, yet took a Chair and sat near the Table. She was of a disposition extremely inclined to make sport, and so divertive, as that it, in a manner, retrieved her old husband into youth again, so much was he pleased at every thing she did. It was an ordinary thing between them to lay extravagant wagers, and that most commonly when she had some occasion or humour to get money out of him, which the simple man took great delight to lose, as one that inexpressibly doted on so excellent a woman.  
He never admired her so much as at this time; She, to heighten his admiration, told him a hundred pleasant stories; at which the good Duke was ready to burst with Laughing; for eating with a good stomach, and at the same time laughing very heartily, he was two or three times so near choking, that they were forced to give him such thumps in the back, as he would have taken very unkindly at another time: but through God's mercy, he got no hurt, only a crumb or two missed their way down his throat. At last, the Duchess, who had a malicious humour to make sport at any thing, would needs divert herself at the cost of her imprisoned Gallant. She told the Duke, that it seemed a long time to her since they had laid any wager; and that she would gladly lay a hundred Pistols with him, upon such a match and terms as they should agree upon. The Duke told her he was at her service, and expected what she would propose. The Duchess made many proposals to him, which she was confident he would not accept; and at last she asked him, whether he would lay any wager, that he named all those things, requisite about a house, that were made of iron. The Duke took her up, though he thought the wager very extravagant, and having called for pen, ink, and paper, as soon as they had taken away, and his Almoner said Grace (for the Duke was a man of good example) he writ down the names of all the Iron things he could think on; But such was the Duchess' good fortune, as that he forgot to set down Keys. She caused him divers times to read over what he had writ, and having asked him whether he had any thing to add, she folded up the paper, and told him she would take time to examine it, and in the interim acquaint him with an adventure had happened to her, one of the most pleasant he had ever heard of.  
I was gotten, continued she, presently after your departure, to one of the Balconies of the Castle which look towards the Road, where I had not been long, ere I spied passing by, mounted on a Mule, a man of a goodly and graceful presence, who, by the rate of his riding, seemed to be employed upon some business that required more than ordinary expedition. I was very desirous to know what might be the occasion of his haste, and thereupon sent a Page after him to bring him to me. I must needs acknowledge, I never saw a handsomer Man, nor one more likely to make the gravest Matron, or strictest Nun, break their vows of chastity. I asked him, Whence he travelled and What he was? He gave me an account of himself with so much gallantry and ingenuity, that he inflamed me with a desire of more of his conversation. I prevailed with him so far as that he was willing to stay the remainder of the day in the Castle, and give me a relation of his Adventures, which must needs have been very remarkable, and consequently very pleasant in the relation. He acquitted himself answerably to my expectation, and I must confess, I was never better pleased with any story in my life; and I shall not think it much to let you participate of the pleasantness of it.  
She thereupon acquainted the Duke what had happened to Don Pedro at Granada, Sevil, and Madrid, whereat the good man, who made as much sport at a foolish story as any Duke within a hundred miles of him, spent his spleen in such violent and immoderate Laughters, as occasioned those as well of the Duchess, as the chiefest of the Duke's Menial Servants, with whom he innocently lived in great intimacy and familiarity. She afterwards acquainted him what had happened to her Gallant in Italy, which was also very pleasant, as I have been told, but the particulars I could never learn. Only this I know, that the Duke laughed so heartily thereat, that Don Pedro himself, locked up as he was, could hardly forbear. She told him what an ill opinion he had of all women that pretended to any thing of wit, the reasons which he alleged to maintain it, and those which she had urged in opposition thereto.  
At last, having found her husband, and all that were present, nay Don Pedro himself so much sport that they were weary of it, she told the Duke, that the Gallant of Granada, after the relation of his adventures, grew so presumptuous as to make his applications to her, and had done it with so much address, that, not knowing how to take it am● from a stranger, that he was so confident in ● Courtship, as to aim at her enjoyments, she ● so taken with him that it was no hard matter w●● him to perceive it. To be short, to what e●● should I detain you longer, continued the Duchess, such a person may attempt any thing, an● not be thought too confident. We spent mo●● part of the day together, to our mutual satisfaction, and would have been together still, had you not come upon us when I least expected you▪ I shall not dissemble with you, I was both troubled and surprised at your return. My lovely stranger seemed to be more astonished than I was; I with much precipitation got him into my Closet of perfumed waters, whence he hea●s me if he be not dead out of fear: but confident in the influence I have over you, and being of my own nature, unwilling to dissemble, even in those things wherein the freedom of my humour might prove prejudicial to me, I would needs find you matter of d●●ersion at the cost of that poor Gentleman, whom I will set at liberty as soon as you are departed to your Chamber, and dismiss him that he may return to Granada, where, he says, he goes to find out a woman simple enough to be his wife.  
The Duchess accompanied her relation with so much ingenuity, freedom, and likelihood, that the Duke began to quit his mirth and to take things in good earnest. He grew pale; was afraid his Lady had said no more than what was true; nay, could not forbear ask her for the Key of the Closet, where she said the Granadine was locked up. She fell to some other discourse, and thereby heightened both his jealousies and his fear; he asked her a second time for the key of the closet; she denied to give it him. He would needs have it, and started out of his chair in a great fury. Not so fast, my Lord, not so fast, says the Duchess to him; before you ask for keys so hastily, pray have the patience, leisurely to read the Inventory you have given me; you have forgotten to set down, keys, you cannot deny they are usually made of iron, and that you have lost your hundred Pistols, which I accordingly expect to be immediately paid me; and know withal, that it was only to convince you that you had lost, as also to put you into so good an humour as that you might part the more freely with your money, that I have entertained you with so pleasant a story. Take heed another time you be not so easy of belief, as to receive for true what is pure fiction and Romance. There's no probability, that so many extraordinary adventures should happen to the same man, and much less, that I should have related such a story, if it were true.  
The Duchess spoke this with such a confident indifference, that the Duke was more easily induced to believe all she had said was fabulous, than he had been to think it true. He laughed at all, as if he had been little better than out of his wits; he admired the miraculous ingenuity of his wife, and obliged all his domestics that were present to a like admiration, who were haply as credulous fools as their Master. Do but see, for God's sake, said he, breaking forth into loud exclamations and laughter, do but see, with what artifices she hath satisfied me that I had lost my wager. The Duchess was ready to burst with laughing, her Gentlewomen were not much behind. Don Pedro in the closet was forced to add to the Duchess' perfumed waters, the better to smother his joy. At last having given his Steward order to deliver his Lady the hundred Pistols, he took his leave of her and went to his own lodgings, often telling her, one while, that she was a female Devil, another, that she had a wit and invention beyond the Devil. The servants repeated the same thing after their Master, so that till he was a-bed and asleep, nothing was talked of about the house, but the damnable wit of the Duchess.  
In the mean time, the Duchess being paid the hundred Pistols by the Steward, caused the chamber-door to be locked; and having brought Don Pedro out of his imprisonment, not fully recovered of the fear she had put him into, she pressed him to acknowledge, that a witty and discreet woman may, without prejudice to her honour, salve a misfortune, whereof the very thought would make a simple one die for fear. She would needs have him eat of what her Women had brought up for herself. He entreated her to excuse him, and to dismiss him as soon as might be. She gave him the hundred Pistols she had got of her Husband, with a Gold-chain, and her own Picture, which amounted to as much, and desired him to remember her, and to give her an account of his further Adventures.  
Having thereupon embraced him with much affection, she recommended him to the conduct of her Women, who put him and his Mule secretly out at a backdoor. He thought it no prudence to lodge in that place, but to ride forward two Leagues, to the Town where he thought to have dined the day before, when the Duchess retained him.  
As he rid along, what had happened to him with the amorous Duchess was perpetually present to his thoughts. He could not sufficiently admire, at least as he then thought, the readiness wherewith at first sight she entertained his affection, even before she knew him; her confidence to make so strange and pleasant a story to the Duke, which yet was but too true; and lastly, her subtlety in salving all by applying it to the Wager. He could not also but admire the easy nature and simplicity of the Duke; he pitied him, and, after all accidents and circumstances weighed, was confirmed more than ever in the opinion, that a witty Woman was of a difficult keeping; and thence inferred, that, if the Duchess had not been over-confident of her own wit, she would not so easily have executed what she had been so desirous to do, nor have been guilty of a presumption so incredible as to declare it to her Husband.  
In fine, from all the Adventures he had run through, and all the experiences he had of mankind, he derived a certain confidence, that he should never run the hazard of being unfortunately married, either by not taking any Wife at all, or marrying one so simple, as knew no difference between love and aversion.  
Amidst these reflections he arrived at Madrid, where he found his Cousin Don Rodrigues possessed of his Father's estate, and married to his Cousin. He understood from him, that Violanta was married; and that the fair Virginia was gone to the Indies with her Husband. From Madrid he took his journey for Granada. He alighted at his Aunt's, who entertained him with inexpressible kindness, and acquainted him that Seraphina led a Saints life in the Nunnery, and that her beloved Servant was dead, out of pure grief and indignation that he had not prevailed with her, to quit the holy life she had obliged herself to, and marry him.  
The next day he went along with his Aunt to see young Laura, Seraphina's daughter, she had been put into a Convent at four years of age, and might then be about sixteen or seventeen. He thought her beautiful as all the Angels together, and withal simple beyond all the Nuns that came into the wo●ld without wit, and were taken out of it ere they got any. He viewed her very seriously, and w●s extremely taken with her beauty. He obliged her to speak, and could not but admire her simplicity and her innocence. He doubted not but that he had found out what he sought; and what made him have a greater inclination for Laura, was, that he had had a great love for Seraphina, and perceived her daughter to be much like her, though incomparably more handsome. He acquainted his Aunt that she was not his daughter, and how that he had some intentions to marry her: His Aunt encouraged him in his design, and acquainted Laura therewith, who expressed not any either satisfaction or dissatisfaction thereat. Don Pedro took order for the furnishing of his house, harkened out for such Man-servants as were in some measure remarkable for their sottishness, laid out for Maids as simple as the Mistress that was to govern them, and had much ado to find any. He made her clothes as rich and sumptuous as any could be had in Granada. All the persons of quality about the City were at the Wedding, and were no less satisfied with Laura's beauty, than dissatisfied with her want of understanding. The ceremonies of the wedding were over in very good time, so that the new married couple were left alone. Don Pedro ordered his Servants to go to their beds, and having sent away his wife's maids, after they had undressed her, locked the chamber door.  
Having thus ordered things, Don Pedro, out of a transcendency of prudence, which was the greatest madness in the world, put in execution the most fantastic design that could fall into the imagination of a man, who had all his life been accounted a person of understanding. Being more fool than his wife was simple, he would needs try how far he might trust her simplicity. He set himself in a chair, caused his wife to stand before him, and said these words to her, or others haply no less impertinent; You are now my wife, a happiness for which I hope I shall have cause to bless God as long as we live together. Let it sink very deeply into your mind, what I am going to tell you, and observe it exactly as long as you live, both for fear of offending God, and displeasing me. At all these honeyed words, the innocent Laura made very low courtzies, whether seasonably, or not, is no great matter, and looked on her Husband as timerously as a Boy newly sent to School would on an imperious Pedant. Do you know, continued Don Pedro, what kind of life persons that are married do lead? I know nothing of it, replies Laura, making a courtzie lower than any before; but if you will teach it me, I shall be as perfect in it as in my Avemary, and then another courtzie. Don Pedro was the most satisfied man in the world, to find his wife much more simple than he could well have expected. He drew out of a closet that was in the chamber a suit of Armour, very rich and very light, which he had sometime worn at a magnificent reception, which the City had made for the King of Spain. He put his idiot-wife into them, he put on her head a little gilt Head-piece covered with a plume of feathers, girt a short Sword to her side, and having put a Lance into her hand, told her, that the duty of such married Women as would be accounted virtuous, was, to watch their Husbands while they slept, armed all over as she then was. She made him no answer; but with her ordinary reverences, which had not haply been at an end a good while, if he had not commanded her to take two or three turns about the chamber▪ which she did by chance with so much Majesty, (her natural beauty, and Pallas-like accoutrements contributing much thereto) that the over-subtil Granadin was in a manner out of himself for joy to see it. He went to bed, and Laura continued in the posture he had left her in, till five in the morning.  
The most prudent and most circumspect of all the Husbands that ever were, at lest who thought himself no less, got up, put on his clothes, disarmed his wife, helped her to put off her clothes, and having disposed her into the bed out of which he rose, kissed her over and over, and wept out of pure joy that he had found, as he thought, what he looked for. He ordered her to lie a bed till it were very late, and having commanded the Maids not to disturb her, he went to Mass, and thence about his occasions; for I had forgot to tell you, that he had bought an Office at Granada, such as might be that of a perpetual Major or Sheriff.  
The first night of the Nuptials was spent in the manner you heard, and the Husband was such a Coxcomb as to make no better use of the second. But Heaven punished him according to the use he made of his Talon. There happened a business, which obliged him, all excuses laid aside, to take post the same day, and make all the expedition he could to Court. He had no more time allowed him than to shift himself, to put on other clothes, and to take leave of his wife, whom he commanded, upon pain of God's displeasure and his own, exactly to observe, in his absence, the life that married women were to lead.  
Those who have any thing to do at Court, are uncertain how long it may be, ere they are dispatched. Don Pedro thought not to have stayed abroad above five or six days, but his business kept him there like a Burr, now sticking to one Courtier, anon to another, for four or five months; in the mean time, the simple Laura neglected not her duty, spent the nights according to her Husband's order, in armour, and the days that succeeded them in such works as she had learned among the Nuns.  
Much about this time came a Gentleman of Corduba to prosecute a Lawsuit at Granada. He was, as to his internals, no fool; as to his externals, handsome enough. He often saw Laura in her Balcony, and thought her very handsome: he often passed and repassed by her windows, a kind of Courtship ordinary in Spain: and Laura, on the other side, so let him go to and fro, without either knowing what it meant, or indeed having any desire to know. A Citizen's wife, of mean quality, who lived over against Don Pedro's house, being of a nature extremely charitable, and concerning herself much in the exigencies of any she saw distressed, soon took notice both of the affection of the Stranger, and the insensibility of her fair Neighbour thereof. She was a woman could manage a business with abundance of conduct and circumspection, and the principal quality she professed, was that of making Matches, and soliciting venereal causes, whether they were just or unjust it mattered not, so they brought in something to make the pot boil. And this employment Nature seemed to have designed her for, as having furnished her with all the accomplishments requisite in such as would be eminent therein; for she had some skill in making of Periwigs, she had a pension from all Chambermaids, and Waiting-Gentlewomen, to sell their Lady's cast clothes and their own, and other things which your meaner sort of Gentlewomen make a great show with; she distilled several sorts of Waters, she had some secrets for the beautifying of the body, and above all, she had confidence enough to pretend to some skill in Chiromancy and Astrology, and upon that account, lay under some suspicion of being a Witch. She so constantly saluted the Gentleman of Corduba every time he passed by her Neighbour's door, that he could not but imagine it done out of some design. He returned her Salutation, went to her, and with the fame labour became acquainted with her, and improved that acquaintance into Friendship; he made her privy to his Love, and promised her a very good reward if she proved a successful sollicitress on his behalf to her Neighbour.  
Upon this encouragement (instructions she needed not any) the old piece of Brokery bestirs herself immediately; she soon prevailed with the simple Servants to let her in to the Mistress, under pretence of showing her some rarities which she had to sell; She commended her beauty, bemoaned her being deprived so soon of her Husband's company; and, being left alone with her, brought in some discourse of the gallant Gentleman who passed by her doors so often. She told her that he loved her beyond his own life, and was passionately desirous to become her servant, if so be she would permit him. Truly, truly, I am very much obliged to him, replies the innocent Laura, and should gladly entertain him into my service; but the house is now full of servants, and till some one of them be dismissed, I dare not entertain any in my husband's absence. I will write to him about it, if this Gentleman be desirous I should, and doubt not but he will do any thing I shall press him to.  
The tempting Gipsy needed not so great a discovery to be satisfied, that Laura was little removed from simplicity itself. She therefore made her apprehend, as well as she could, after what manner the Gentleman was desirous to serve her; told her he was a person of as great an estate as her husband, and that if she were desirous to make any trial of it, she would bring her, as a present from him, Jewels of great value, and what else she should desire. Alas, Madam! says Laura, I have so much of what you speak of, that I know not what to do with them. Nay, if it be so, replied the Satanical Ambassadress, and that you do not much care whether he make you any presents, do him but the favour as that he may give you a visit. That he may do when he pleases, says Laura, there's no body hinders him. That will do very well, replies the Old one, but it were better, if none of your Servants knew of it. That's no hard matter, replies Laura, for my Women lie not in my own Chamber, and I go to Bed without their assistance, and that very late. Take this key, which opens any lock about the house, and, about eleven at night, he may come in at the Garden-gate, where there is a little pair of stairs that lead to my Chamber.  
The old Crone upon that took her by the hands, and kissed them over and over, telling her she would go and revive that poor Gentleman, whom she had left half dead. How comes he to be in that condition, cries Laura not a little frighted? 'Tis you are the occasion of his death, replies the old tremptress. Laura grew pale, as if she had been convicted of a murder, and would have made protestations of her innocence, if the wicked Agent, who thought not fit to make any further trial of her ignorance, had not cast her arms about her neck, and, assuring her the sick party would not die, taken leave of her.  
It may be well imagined she was not so neglectful as to leave behind her that miraculous Key, which opened all doors. There may haply be some body, who▪ upon reading what is here said of that Key, will think he hath played the Critic rarely, when he shall say, that it was enchanted, and that this passage betrays something of fable: but whoever he be, let him know thus much from his most humble Servant, that the M●sters of Families in Spain have such Keys, which they call Mistress-keys, and accordingly take heed another time, how he carps at what he understands not. But now I think on't, let him take what falls within his narrow apprehension which way he pleases: may I be thought as impertinent as he, if ever I trouble my head with it.  
Nor shall I care a jot if he think this very digression impertinent; let him make a Parenthesis of it if he will. I know he is impatient to know what the old woman does. She is just gone to the amorous Gentleman, who is at her house entertaining a Daughter of hers; one her Mother designs to be her successor in the Discipline of advancing the enjoyments and accommodations of Mankind. Knocking as hard as she could at the door, the Gentleman began to suspect he might be betrayed; but the Daughter understood it to signify the happy success of her Mother's intercession, as having learned from her, and she from the common proverb, that, Who brings good news is not afraid to knock at the door. She comes into the room with an infernal smile in her countenance, and gave him that account of her furtherance of the business, as made him ready to leap out at the windows for joy. He rewarded her very liberally, and expected night with much impatience. It comes at l●st, though never the sooner for his expectation. He gets into the Garden, and with as little noise as might be to Laura's Chamber-door, while she was walking very seriously up and down the Chamber, all in Armour and a Lance in her hand, according to the wise instructions of her extravagant Husband▪ There was one small light, and that placed in a remote corner of the Chamber, the Door being wide open to receive the Gallant she expected; but he seeing the glimpse of a person all in Armour, made no doubt but there was some treachery in the business. His fear at that time overmastered his love, how violent soever it might be, so that h● made more haste to be gone than he had to come thither, imagining he could hardly get soon enough into the Street. He went to his Proxey, and acquainted her what danger he had been in. She, to vindicate the sincerity of her procedure, went the next day to Laura, who presently asked her, Whether the Gentleman were still sick, and why he came not according to appointment? He is neither sick, nor hath failed to come, replied Satan, but finding a man all in Armour walking up and down your Chamber, it frighted him away▪ Laura at this burst out into a laughter, she could not recover herself out of for a good while, which the Old one knew not how to interpret. At last, not able to laugh any longer, and making a shift to speak, she told her Neighbour, that it must needs be the Gentleman was never married, and that it was she herself who walked up and down the Chamber in Armour.  
The old woman was still to seek what Laura should mean by that, and for a good while could not believe she was well in her wits; but after abundance of questions and answers, she apprehended what she could never have believed, as well, of the simplicity of a young Maid of sixteen years of age, that should know any thing almost; as the extravagant precaution her Husband had bethought him of to secure his Wife's honour. She thought it her best course to let Laura continue in her error till she were undeceived by her expected Gallant, and so, in stead of betraying her surprise at the strangeness of the thing, she joined with Laura in laughing at the fright she had put the Gentleman into. Another appointment was made that he should give his personal appearance at her Chamber that night. The old woman satisfied the Gallant, and both admired the sottishness as well of the Husband as the Wife.  
Night came on, he gets into the Garden, thence up the private stairs, and found his Lady all in Armour, upon duty, as she used to be. He embraced her though all clad in Iron, and she entertained him, as if she had known him from the longest day she could remember. At last he asked her, Why she was all in Armour? She made answer, smiling, that she might not put them off, nor pass away the night in any other posture, and told him, since he seemed not to know so much, that it was the life of married women, and that to fail in the observance thereof was a very great sin. The crafty Cordu●se had all the trouble in the world to undeceive her, and to persuade her that she was abused, and that the Life of married persons was quite another thing.  
At last he prevailed with her so far as that she was content he should disarm her, and to learn of him another way of exercising Marriage much more commodious and pleasant than that which her Husband made her practice, which Laura acknowledged to be very inconvenient and wearisome. He was not slothful in disarming her, he helped also to undress her, as not finding her ready enough at it, and having soon put off his own clothes he laid himself by her, and made her confess there was a vast difference between his Precepts of Marriage and those her Husband had given her; he read her all the Lectures he could upon that subject, and she was so far apprehensive of hi● instructions, as that she grew not weary of learning, plying it very hard as long as her Husband continued at the Court. At last she received a Letter from him, which acquainted her that he was upon his return, and that he had dispatched his business at Court, and the Corduba-blade having also dispatched his at Granada, the crafty Companion returned home, without so much as taking his leave of Laura, and I think without the least regret for the loss of her company, nothing being so frail as the Love a Man hath for a Woman that's little better than a natural Fool.  
Nor was Laura on the other side less indifferent, but received her Husband with so much satisfaction, and betrayed so little resentment for the loss of her Gallant, as if she had never seen him. Don Pedro and his Wife supped together to the great satisfaction of both. Bedtime came on. Don Pedro went into Bed as he was wont to do, and was much astonished to see his Wife in her Smock coming to lie down by him. He asked her in a great fury, why she was not in Armour? So I should indeed, said she to him, had not another Husband taught me a more pleasant way for a Woman to pass away the Night with her Husband. It seems than you have another Husband, replies Don Pedro? Yea, that I have, says she to him, so pretty a man, and so handsome, that you will be ravished to see him; and yet I know nor when we shall see him, for since I received the last Letter you sent, I could never set Eyes on him.  
Don Pedro, smothering the trouble of his thoughts, asked her, Who it was? She could not give any further account concerning him, but in requital proffered Don Pedro to show him what the other Husband had taught her. The unhappy man pretended himself sick, and it's not unlikely he was so, at least in his mind. He thereupon turned from her, and bethinking himself that he had made choice of an Idiot to his Wife, who had not only done what blemished his Reputation, but thought herself not obliged to conceal it, he called to mind the wholesome advice of the Duchess, who no doubt would have been pleased with the account of this last Adventure of his. He thereupon detested his Error, and was satisfied, though too late; That a virtuous and discreet Woman knows how to observe the Laws of Honour; and if, out of frailty, she chance to break them, that she can conceal her miscarriage.  
At last, taking heart, he resolved to submit with patience to a misfortune that was not to be remedied. He continued for a time his pretence of being indisposed, to see whether the Lectures of his Lieutenant had done any thing besides reaching his Wife what he had done better to have taught her himself. They lived together some years afterwards; he had always an eye over her Actions, and, before he died, (having had no Children by her) he left her his whole Estate, upon condition she would become a Nun, and go into the same Convent where Seraphina was, whom he acquainted that Laura was her Daughter. He writ to Madrid, to his Cousin Don Rodrigues, and sent him the History of his Life and Adventures, and acknowledged that his embracing of so erroneous an opinion had reduced him to that misfortune which he feared most of any, and against which he thought he had used the greatest precaution.  
He died; Laura was neither troubled at it, not glad of it; she went into the Nunnery where her Mother was, who finding the Estate left by Don Pedro to her Daughter to be very great, founded a Convent, and became the first Abbess of it. The History of Don Pedro was divulged after his death, and served to satisfy those that made any doubt of it. That, without wit, Virtue cannot be perfect; That a witty Woman may be Virtuous of herself; And that a simple Woman cannot be such, without the assistance and good directions of some other.   

THE HYPOCRITES.  
The Second Novel.  
THE most delightful season of the year was putting the Fields and Trees into a verdant Livery, when a certain Woman came into Toledo; a City, which, as well for its antiquity, as its eminence, takes place of any in Spain. The woman was handsome, young, subtle, and such a professed enemy to Truth, that for whole years together, that Virtue came not so much as once into her mouth, and what is yet much more to be admired, is, that Truth was never the worse for't, at least never complained of it. She had either the artifice, or the good fortune to be ever very successful in her lies; and there is not any thing more certain, than that a fiction of her dressing hath sometimes met with approbation of the severest enemies of Falsehood. This was a S●●●nce she was so great a professor in, as that her Dictates would have furnished the best customed Astrolog●rs, the Poets, and the Mountebanks: in a word, this natural endowment was such in her, that the conjunction of it with the beauty of her countenance, in a short time, got her pieces of Gold answerably to her insinuations and the crafty designs she carried on. Her eyes were black, sweet, sprightly, full of gallantry, and yet unmerciful Hectors, that had been convicted of four or five murders, and stood charged with the suspicion of above fifty, which could not be fully proved against them; but as for the unfortunate wretches whom they had wounded, it is hard to guess, nay indeed to imagine, the number of them. For matter of dressing, she had an excellency and happiness in it beyond any of her sex, insomuch that the least pin fastened by her hand wanted not its particular grace. For what especially related to her head, she never troubled any for either advice or assistance; as making her Looking-glass, at the same time, her Council of State, her Council of War, and her Exchequer. How fatal must it be for any man to see such a Woman! since that if he saw her, he could not forbear falling in love with her, and if he loved her he could not do it long, and be withal long without trouble.  
This Lady, accomplished as I have described her, came into Toledo just in the close of the evening, much about the time that all the young Gentlemen of quality in the City were preparing for a Mask to be represented at the Nuptial solemnity of a strange Lord, who was to be married to a Lady of one of the best Families in the Country. The Windows were become a kind of Firmament, by reason of the Torches which were placed in them, but much more in respect of the Ladies who looked out at them; the great number of lights having restored to the streets that day which the night had deprived them of. The Ladies of meaner quality clad in their mantles, discovered to those who beheld them, no more than what they thought most worth the looking on. Many Bravoes, or rather (to use the modern word) Trapanners, Blades, and Hector's, were hunting after some prize, a sort of people that great Cities ever were and will be pestered with, who trouble themselves not much whether their good fortunes be real, provided they be thought such, or at least doubted of; who never set upon any, but in considerable numbers, and that with insolence enough; and who, upon their good faces and a short hanger within their breeches, assume to themselves a jurisdiction over the lives of others, and think to make all the women die for love, and the men for fear. O what work would this day have found the soft-headed Complementers and Cajollers of Womankind, and what low and pitiful equivocations were there used!  
But among the rest, a young man, who, of a Scholar, was not long before turned Page, was so prodigal of his Rhetorical fooleries before our Lady errand, as if he had thought beyond all language to express how highly he admired her. He had seen her alight out of the Hackney Coach that brought her, and was so dazzled at the sight of her, that, not content with that, he had followed her to the house where she had taken a chamber, and thence up and down to all those places whither she went out of a desire to see something. At last the strange Lady, having seated herself in a place she thought convenient to see the Maskers go by, the eloquent Page, dressed that day all in linen, much finer than ordinary, had soon fastened on some discourse with her, he being not the first man she had ever seen. Of all the women in the world, she had the best faculty to engage a young conceited fool upon many impertinencies, and that with the greatest insinuation and most unsuspected malice that could be. Imagine then, if finding this Page a Talker beyond all confidence, whether she engaged him not to speak much more than he knew. She besotted him with flatteries and commendations, and afterwards did what she would with him. She learned of him, that he served an old Gentleman of Andaluzia, Uncle to him who was upon marriage, and upon whose account the whole City was in solemnity; that he was one of the wealthiest men there of his quality; and that he h●d not any to make his heir but that Nephew, whom he had a great tenderness for, though he were one of the most dissolute young men in all Spain, one that fell in love with all the women he saw, and, besides the common Slugs, and such as he could command upon the account of his Gallantry or his Presents, had sometimes exercised his satirical violences upon Maids, without any regard of their qualities and conditions. To this he added, that his riots and extravagances had made him a dear Nephew to his Uncle, and out of that reflection was he the more inclined to see him married, to try, if upon a change of his condition there would ensue a change of manners.  
While the Page was revealing all the secrets and concernments of his Master to her, she still by her soothing and admiring interruptions egged him on to further discoveries, making her remarks to those of her company, with what grace and pleasingness he spoke handsome things: and, in fine, omitting nothing that might contribute aught to the undoing of a young man, who had already conceived but too good an opinion of himself. Commendations and applauses coming from a handsome woman that hath some design in it, are dangerous and much to be feared. The poor Page had no sooner acquainted Helenilla that he was born at Vailladolid, but she presently breaks forth into praises of th●t City and the Inhabitants of it, insomuch that having run herself out of breath in the commendations of them, even to hyperboles, she told the befooled Page, that of all she had known of that Country, she had not seen any so handsome and accomplished as himself. After this last touch of her flattery there needed no more to make an absolute fool of him. She invited him to see her at her lodging, and it is not to be questioned, whether she gave him her hand rather than any other. He felt in himself such agitations of joy, as made him ever and anon do such things as some would have thought him a little crack-brained, and he was fully satisfied, that a man should never despair of a good fortune how miserable soever he were.  
The Lady being come to her chamber caused the best Chair to be presented to the Page. He was so besotted with his imaginary happiness, that going to sit down before he had well looked about him, he fell short of the Chair, his britch took acquaintance with the ground, he scattered his cloak, hat, and gloves about the room, and had like to have fallen upon a dagger he had, which in his fall got out of the sheath. Helenilla run to help him up, making as much stir as a Tygress robbed of her young ones: She took up the dagger, and told him, that she could not endure he should wear it any more that day, after the mischief it was like to have done him. The Page got up all he had let fall, and made many pitiful compliments suitable to the occasion and the accident.  
In the mean time, Helenilla made as if she could not recover herself out of the fright she had been put into, and began to admire the neatness of the dagger. The Page told her it came from his old Master, who had sometimes given it to his Nephew, together with a sword and all things belonging thereto, and that he had made choice of it that day before many others that were in his Master's wardrobe, to wear upon some extraordinary occasion. Helenilla proposed to the Page whether she might not go disguised to see after what manner persons of quality were married at Toledo. The Page told her, the ceremony would not be till midnight, and invited her to a Collation in the Steward's chamber, who was very much his friend. He thereupon took occasion to curse his misfortune, and that he was obliged to exchange the most pleasant company in the world for that of his old Master, whom the indisposition incident to age confined to his bed. He added that being extremely troubled with the Gout he would not be at the wedding, which was kept at a house in the City far from that of the Count of Fuen●alide where the old Marquis his Master lived. Being upon taking his leave, he was pumping for some handsome compliment, when some body knocked at the door in as much haste as if they had come for a Midwife. Helenilla seemed a little troubled thereat, and desir'd the Page to go into a little closet, where she locked him up for a longer time than he thought of. He who knocked so confidently at the door was a Gallant of Helenilla's, who to blind the world she made people believe was her Brother. He was privy to all her leudnesses, and the ordinary instrument of her slighter pleasures. She immediately gave him an account of the Page who was locked up in the closet, and the design she had conceived within herself to squeeze some pieces of Gold out of his old Master, such a design as whereof the execution required no less diligence than subtlety.  
Having resolved how all things should be carried, the Coachman was called and ordered with all expedition to make ready his Coach, though the poor Beasts which had brought them thither from Madrid were sufficiently tired. All being in readiness, Helenilla and her retinue (which consisted of the dreadful Montufar, an old woman called Mendez, venerable for a weighty pair of Beads, and a Matronlike carriage and countenance, and a little pigmy of a Lackey) embarked themselves in that shattered Vessel, and gave command to drive into the street, where live the Modern Christians, whose Faith is of a newer fashion than the clothes they sell. The Maskers were still about the streets, insomuch that it happened the Bridegroom, disguised as the rest, met the Coach wherein Helenilla was, and saw that dangerous Stranger, who seemed to him a Venus in triumph▪ or, to speak a little more hyperbolically, the Sun itself in a Progress. He had such a temptation to her, that a small matter would have put all thoughts of his wedding out of his head, to go and endeavour the conquest of that unknown Beauty; but for that time he had so much command of himself, as that he smothered a desire violent enough though it were but just sprung in him. He followed the Maskers, and the Hackney-Coach kept on its way towards the Brokery, where in a trice, and without two words to the bargain, Helenilla bought her a suit of Mourning from head to foot, and put the old woman Mendez, her Gallant Montufar, and her little Lackey into the like, and taking Coach again alighted at the house of the Count of Fuensalide. The little Lackey went in, enquired out the lodgings of the Marquis of Villefagnan, and demanded audience of him for a strange Lady come from the Mountains of Leon, who had some business with him of great consequence. The good man was much surprised at the visit of such a Lady, and at such an unseasonable hour. He settled himself in the bed the best he could; ordered his rumpled band, and caused to be thrust under his back two cushions more than he had before, to receive so important a visit with greater ceremony.  
This posture was he in, having his Eyes fastened on the Chamber-door, when he perceives, not without the great admitation of his eyes, nor less disturbance of his heart, the disconsolate Montufar, in Mourning down to the ground, accompanied by two Women in the same dress, whereof the younger, whom he led by the hand, and who had some part of her face covered by a thin Hood, seemed to be the most sad, and the more considerable of the two. A Lackey bore up her Train after her, which had so much stuff in it, as that being held out with advantage, it took up the best part of the Chamber. As soon as they were come within the Chamber-door, they saluted the old Marquis who lay sick a-bed, and gave him a volley of three low reverences, not counting that of the little Lackey, whose congey was not worth the remembering. Being come to the midst of the Chamber they made three reverences more, all at the same time, and afterwards three more ere they took seats, which were brought them by a young Page, Comrade to him whom Helenilla had locked up in her Chamber: but these three last reverences were such, as if the former had been forgotten. The softer, I mean the kinder, part of the old Man's soul was strangely moved there it; the Ladies sat down, and Montufar and the little Lackey withdrew, bareheaded, to the Chamber-door.  
The old Man all this while put himself to no small torment to requite their compliments, and was much troubled for their being in Mourning, before he knew the occasion of it, which he entreated them to acquaint him with, as also upon what account they honoured him with a visit at a time so unseasonable for persons of their quality. Helenilla, who but too well knew, what compassion a weeping Beauty raises in the beholders, opens the sluices of her fair eyes to let out the tears they seemed to be burdened with, and accompanied them with sighs sometimes loud, sometimes low, as she thought fit, taking occasion ever and anon to put out her Ivory hand to wipe her face, which she also thought it not amiss to discover, to show it was as troubled, as beautiful.  
The old Man expected with much impatience that she should speak, and began to conceive some hopes of it; for the torrent of tears which had broke forth at her eyes, was already so far fallen and dried up, that the Lilies and Roses it had oreflown were to be seen, when the old Mendez, who thought it became her to go on with the doleful part where the other had left, beset herself to weep and sob with so much earnestness, that it was some shame to Helenilla to be outdone by a thing that seemed not to have so much moisture in her as the tears she spilt amounted to. Nay, the old Woman thought not that enough, but to have the advantage of Helenilla, beyond all dispute, she conceived a handful or two of hair might do well, and prevail much upon the Auditory. No sooner thought than done; she made a fearful devastation upon her head; but the troth on't is, she spoilt nothing of her own, nor meddled with so much as a hair that ever grew there.  
Helenilla and Mendez were lamenting in this manner, as if it had been upon a wager, when Montufar and the Lackey, upon a signal agreed betwixt them, were heard at the Chamber-door sighing and weeping, though not so violently as those by the Bedside, who yet upon that new Consort, took occasion to renew their Lamentations. The old Marquis was out of himself to see so much weeping, and not know the occasion of it. He wept too, as well as he could make a shift to do it; sobbed as vigorously as any in the company, and entreated the distressed Ladies, for Heaven's sake, and all in it, to moderate their affliction, and to acquaint him with the occasion thereof, assuring them his life should be the least thing he would hazard and sacrifice to serve them, and regretting his past youth, as being now uncapable to give them effectual demonstrations of the sincerity of his good intentions.  
They were a little appeased at these words, their countenances appeared more pleasant, and they thought they had wept enough, because they could not, without some violence to themselves, weep any more. Besides, they were thrifty of their time, as knowing they had not any to lose. So that the old Woman uncovering her Head, to the end her venerable and Matron-like countenance might give her all the credit she stood in need of, began her declamation in this manner. May it please God, out of his omnipotence, to preserve the Right Honourable the Marquis of Villefagnan, and afford him all the Health he stands in need of; though, to say truth, what we come to acquaint him withal be such news, as from which he will derive but little joy, which is indeed the flower of Health: but the misfortune of our misfortune is such, that we must communicate it to others. The Marquis gave himself a thump on the breast with his fist, which at the same time discharged itself of a deep sigh: May it be the pleasure of Heaven that I am mistaken, cries he, but I fear me, this is some new prank, or rather some extravagance of my Nephew's, that I am like to hear of. Go on, Madam, go on, and pardon me for interrupting you. The old Woman, instead of making any answer began to weep afresh, so that Helenilla was forced to go on with the discourse. Since you know by experience, said she, that your Nephew is a person, that, of any man, hath least command of his passions, and that you have been often troubled to smother the reports of his violences, you will be the more easily induced to credit that which he hath done me. Being at Leon the last Spring, whither I conceive you had sent him, he meets with me in a Church, and upon the first sight told me such things, as, had they been true, we should both have continued still in that Church to avoid the Hands of Justice, I as a Murderess, he as the dead man I had killed and made ready to be put into the ground. He told me a hundred times that my eyes had murdered him, nay, he omitted not the least of those flatteries and insinuations which are ordinary among Lovers, who would abuse their simplicity upon whom they have some design. He followed me to my Lodging, road every day up and down before my Windows, and every night importuned all the Neighbourhood with the Music he intended only for me. At last, perceiving that all his amorous addresses prevailed nothing, he with Presents corrupted a Negro-slave that I had, and, through her treachery and advice, surprised me in a Garden we had in the Suburbs. I had no body with me but the perfidious slave; he had in company with him a man as lewd as himself, and had given money to the Gardener to go an Errand for him to the other end of the Town, upon pretence of some important business. What need I make many words, he set his Dagger to my Throat, and finding nevertheless that I had a greater value for my Honour than my Life, with the assistance of his Complice, he did that by violence, which all his courtship and importunities should never have obtained. The Slave made no small stir, and the better to disguise her perdiousness, got a sleight wound in one of her hands, and presently after fell into a feigned swoon. The Gardener returns: Your Nephew frighted at the thought of his crime got away over the Garden-wall, with so much precipitation that he let fall his Dagger, which I took up. Yet needed not the insolent young man have been in such fear; for being not in a capacity to cause him to be stayed, I might have had that command of myself as to put a good countenance on it, and dissemble the horrid misfortune that had happened to me. I did what I could, not to appear more sad than I was wont to do. The wicked slave not long after run quite away. I lost my Mother, and I may say, I had with her lost all, if my Aunt, who is here come along with me, had not had the goodness to give me entertainment, which she does so nobly, as that I have the same treatment with her own two excellent Daughters. In her house it was that I heard, your Nephew is so far from thinking of any reparation for the wrong he hath done me, that he is upon Marriage in this City. I have made the greatest haste I could hither, to the end that before I go out of your Chamber, you should give me in money or jewels two thousand Crowns, to put myself into a Nunnery: for knowing as much as I do by experience of the disposition of your Nephew, I could never fancy to marry him, though he and all the Friends he hath should use all the proffers and entreaties that may be to persuade me to it. I know he is to be married this night, but I'll break off the match if I can, at least make a disturbance he shall hear of while he lives, if you do not take that course to prevent it which I propose to you. And that you may be satisfied, added she, that there cannot be any thing more true, than what I tell you, of the violence your Nephew hath done me, behold the very Dagger he set to my Throat! I wish, God had so pleased he had done somewhat more than threatened me with it.  
Having given over speaking, she beset herself to weeping afresh. Mendez kept still a note above her, and the musical consort at the door, whereof the little Lackey made the treble and Montufar the base, was no less ambitious to be heard.  
The old Marquis, who had already given but too much credit to what had been said to him, by the craftiest of all Womankind, no sooner cast his Eye on the Dagger, but he immediately knew it to be the same he had sometime given his Nephew. All therefore his thoughts ran upon was to prevent the disturbance which might happen at his Nephew's wedding. He would gladly have sent for him, but he was afraid some body might be so inquisitive as to ask what should be the occasion of his so doing; and, as it happens our fears are extraordinary when our desires are such, he no sooner perceived the afflicted Ladies making as if they would go and break off the match, which it had cost him abundance of trouble to bring to the posture it was in, but he commands one of the Pages to bring a certain Cabinet, and to take out of it two thousand Crowns in pieces of Gold of four Pistols. Montufar received them, and told them very exactly one after another; whereupon the old Marquis, having made them promise to give him a visit the next day, made a thousand excuses to the Ladies, that he was not in a condition to wait on them to their Coach. They got into it very well satisfied with their visit, and made the Coachman drive back again towards Madrid, bethinking themselves that if they were pursued, it would be towards Leon. Their Hostess in the mean time, seeing her guests were vanished, goes into the Chamber: She finds the Page in the Closet, who could not imagine what reason they had to lock him in there; she suffered him to go his ways because she knew him, or rather because she found all things as should be in the Chamber. Those, who make it their profession to steal, and think of no other way of livelihood, stand in little fear of God, and therefore are so much the more afraid of Men. They are of all Countries, and yet are not of any, and never have any settled habitation. As soon as they have set foot in a place, they make their advantages, and then shift into another. This unhappy profession, which is learned with so much pains and diligence is different from others: for people quit those out of age, or for want of strength; but a man seldom quits that of stelling unless it be in his youth, and for want of longer life. It must needs be that those, who follow it so closely, find a strange pleasure in it, since, for that, they hazard a great number of years, which, sooner or later, the Executioner cuts them short of.  
But alas! Helenilla, Mendez, and Montufar, were little troubled with such reflections as these their thoughts were wholly set upon the cruel fear they were in of being pursued. They gave the Coachman double the rate he demanded, that he might make the greater haste; which he honestly did, answerably to his hire; so that it may be imagined that never did hackney Coach make such speed upon the Road to Madrid. They had no inclination to sleep, though the night were far spent▪ Montufar was much troubled in mind, and, by his frequent sighing, discovered more remorse than satisfaction. Helenilla, who saw into his very thoughts, would needs divert him with a relation of the particulars of her life, which till then she had kept from him as a great secret. Since I see thou art somewhat out of order, said she to him, I will now satisfy the desire thou hast ever had to know who I am, and to be informed of the Adventures that happened to me before our acquaintance. 'Twere easy for me to tell the● that I am well descended, and give myself an illustrious name, as most do: but I will observe that sincerity towards thee, as that I will discover to thee even the most inconsiderable imperfections of those that brought me into the world.  
Thou art then to know, that my Father was born in Galicia, by profession a Lackey, or, to speak more honourably of him, a Servingman. He had a great veneration for the memory of the Patriarch Noah, for his excellent invention of the Vine, and indeed, abating the inclination he had to the juice of that noble Plant, it may be said of him, that he cared not much for the temporal goods of this world. My Mother was of Granada, by condition, (to be free with you) a Slave: but there's no contesting with the Stars. She answered to the name of Mary, which her Masters had given her, and it was indeed the name she received at her Baptism, but she would have taken it more kindly if one called her Zara, which was her name before she was converted from the Turkish Religion; for (since I must tell you all) she was a Christian only out of compliance, and conformity, but in heart a Moor. Yet would she often go to Confession, but rather to discover the sins of her Masters, than her own; and whereas she entertained her Confessor much more with the hardships and inconveniences of her Services, than her own imperfections, and made him believe miracles of her patience; He, being a very holy man, and measuring others by himself, took all for true that she said, and, instead of reproving, commended her, so that who should have been near my Mother at Confession, would have heard nothing but commendations of all sides. You are haply desirous to know how I came to discover so great a secret, and you may well think, I have it not from my Mother; but I am naturally much inclined to pry into things, and young as I was, my Mother never went to Confession but I got as near her as I could to overhear what she said. Though she were swarthy, or rather black, yet was there in her countenance and making, somewhat that was not unhandsome, and above six Knights, Commanders of white and red Crosses, have courted her favour. She was so charitable, that she divided amongst them all, what was so much desired by every one in particular, and she was of a nature so full of acknowledgement towards her Masters, that, to requite, in some measure, the trouble they had been at in her education from her infancy, she did all that lay in her power to bring them every year a little Slave male or female; but Heaven was not pleased to further her good intentions, for all the little half-Negroes died presently after they were born. She was much more fortunate in bringing up the children of others. Her Masters, who lost all their own as soon as they came into the world, made her Nurse to a Child given over by the Physicians, who yet in a short time, through my Mother's tenderness of it, and the goodness of her Milk, discovered signs of perfect health, and hopes of a long life. In requital of this service, my Mother's Mistress g●ve her her liberty when she died. My Mother is now a freewoman; she turns Laundress, and proves so excellent at it, that in a short time, there was not a Courtier in Madrid who thought his Linen well done unless it came from the Turkish Laundress. Now had she leisure and opportunities to put in practice the Lectures which her Mother had sometime read to her, about a familiarity with the people of the other world. She had desisted from that tempting Profession, more out of modesty, and as wearied with the commendations people gave her of being excellent in her Art, than out of any fear of the Magistrate. But now she made it her principal Employment, only to oblige and pleasure her Friends, and in a short time, she made such considerable acquaintances, and raised herself to such credit in the Court of Darkness, that to be a Devil of any reputation there was a necessity of holding a correspondence with her. I speak not this out of any vanity, for I never tell a Lie, added Helenilla, and would not give my Mother the commendations of those excellencies which were not in her; but indeed I could do no less than give this testimony to her virtue. The secrets she sold, those she revealed, and her Oracular faculty in answering questions (for all which she was pointed at as she went along the Streets) were but ordinary talents among those of her Nation, in comparison of her experience in the business of Maidenheads. A cracked Wench, after she had been under her hands, went for a better Maid than she was before the Miscarriage, and her Maidenhead sold at a higher rate the second time than the first. She might be about forty years of age when she was married to my Father, honest Rodrigues. 'Twas the wonder of the whole Quarter, that a Man who loved Wine so well would take a Woman that drunk not any, as observing the Law of Mahomet, and one that had her hands perpetually in the Water, as being a Laundress: but my Father made answer, There would be the more Wine for himself, and that Love made all things pleasant. Not long after, he made a shift to get her with child, and, when the time came, she was brought to bed of Me. This joy continued not long in our house. For when I was about six years old, a certain Prince would needs put a hundred Lackeys into Liveries to run down a m●d Bull. My Father being one of those that were made choice of, he drunk that day without any discretion, and going in the valour of his drink to oppose the passage of the furious Bull, he was by him tossed into several pieces. I remember there were Songs made of him, and that it was said upon occasion of my Father's death, that no body cared for those of his Profession. It was a good while after ere I apprehended it to be a jeer put upon him, as if he wore Horns as well as the Bull; but ill tongues will be wagging, nay, to forbid people to be abusive would but make them the more such. My Mother was grieved at my Father's death, I also was grieved at it; she took heart and forgot it, I did the like. Not long after, my Beauty began to make people talk of me. There was no small emulation at Madrid, who should take me abroad in a Coach, c●rry me to Plays, and entertain me with Coll●tions upon the Banks of the Masanares. My Mother was as watchful over me as an Argus, which I took very heinously; but it was not long, ere I was convinced it was for my advantage. Her severity, and the high rate she set on me, made the commodity the more valuable, and raised an emulation among those whose teeth watered at me. I was to be his that bid most; yet every one thought he had had me before his Rival; and every one imagined he found that which was gone long before. A rich Geneva Merchant, whose addresses were only in private, dazzled my prudent Mother's eyes with so much Gold, and discovered so much sincerity in his procedure, that she answered his good intentions as he expected. He had the precedency of all others in my favour, but it cost him dearly. There was a faithfulness observed towards him, as long as he was distrustful of us; but as soon as he seemed persuaded of our faith, we immediately broke it. My Mother had too great a sympathy for the sufferings of others not to be moved at the continual complaints of my Gallants, all persons of quality about the Court, and all very rich. 'Tis true, they squandered not their Gold away as my Geneva man did; but my Mother knew how to esteem gre●t gains, and yet slighted not the small; besides, she was very obliging out of a principle rather of charity than interest. The Geneva Blade broke, I know not whether we were the cause of it. There happened to be some quarrels upon my account; the Magistrates visited us, rather out of civility than otherwise: but my Mother indeed had an aversion for young Lawyers and Scholars, and hated no less the Hectors and selfconceited Gallantillo's, who began to haunt us. She therefore thought it her best course to remove to Sevil, made money of all her Goods, and took a returned Hackney Coach for herself and me. We were basely betrayed by the Coachman, robbed of all we had, and my Mother so unmercifully beaten, because she would not over-readily part with what she had, but opposed the Villains as much as her strength would permit, that before we could get to a wretched Inn she fairly died at the foot of a Rock. I plucked up a good heart, though I were yet but very young. I felt all about the folds of my Mother's clothes; but there was nothing to be expected after the exact Searchers that had been there before me. I left her to the mercy of those that passed by, not a doubting but that in a great Road, such as that between Madrid and Sevil, there would come by, some people so charitable as to bestow Burial on her. I returned back again to Madrid; my Gallants heard of my misfortune, made a contribution to set me up again, so that in a short time I was got into clothes, and a House very well furnished. About this time was it that I saw thee at a Friend's of mine of the same Profession, and was immediately taken with thy good endowments. I need not give thee any further account of my Life, since that we have ever since lived together. We came to Toledo; we leave it all in haste; and so well furnished with Money, that if thou hadst as much courage as I thought thou hadst had, thou wouldst be more cheerful than thou art. And since the relation I have made to thee hath had the virtue to make thee sleepy, as I perceive by thy reiterated yawnings and nodding of the head, lay it in my lap, and take thy rest. But know, that what ever there may be good and profitable in Fear, before the committing of a crime, proves very base, and very dangerous when it is once committed. Fear ever distracts the mind of the guilty person; so that instead of avoiding his pursuer, he many times casts himself into his hands.  
Montufar fell asleep, and the morning broke forth so pleasant and gay, that the birds, the flowers, and the fountains saluted her, each according to their mode; the birds in singing, the flowers in perfuming the air, and the fountains in laughing or making a noise, which you please; one's as good as the other.  
In the mean time the Marquis of Villefagnan's Nephew, the sensual Don Sancho, was thinking to get up from his new Bride, much wearied, and haply already cloyed with the enjoyments of marriage. His imagination was full of the beautiful stranger, the dangerous Helenilla, whom he had seen in the Hackney-coach; and represented her to him wholly admirable: doing thereby a very great injustice to his Wife who was a Lady so handsome and so accomplished, that there were not a few in Toledo that sighed for her, while she sighed to think on the unkindness of her Husband; and he, fickle Man as he was, wished himself in the embraces of an infamous Strumpet, who communicated herself for a small matter to any that had a mind to her. What a strange irregularity is this of our Appetite! A man that hath a handsome wife of his own, hath a greater inclination to one of his maids. A Noble man, who hath his Table ordinarily furnished with Bisques and Pheasants, looks on them with disdain, and calls for a mess of Broth, and the plain Piece of Beef provided for the Servants. Most People are depraved in their taste as to many things, and your great Lords more than any. For having greater Estates than they know what to do withal, and being inclined still to seek after what they have not, they are drawn in, to do that which is evil, purely out of diversion: and, to compass their enjoyments, they care not much what pains they are at, nor what time and money they spend, nor think it much to be guilty of base importunities to some scornful Wench to obtain that of her, which she sometimes bestows on others without so much as being entreated to do it.  
All this happens through the just permission of Heaven, to punish Men's inclinations to evil by the very inconveniences of the evil. Ah unfortunate Don Sancho! Heaven hath been pleased to bless thee with those two things, which, of aught this world affords, can most contribute to thy felicity, wealth in abundance, and a lovely person to thy wife; wealth, to supply those who deserve, yet have it not; and, because they have it not, are many times engaged in those unworthy courses to which poverty reduces the most generous spirits: and a wife, equal to thee as to quality and estate, accomplished as to both mind and body, beautiful even in thy eyes, and much more in those of others, who see more clearly in the affairs of other people than they do in their own, and, in a word, reserved, modest, and virtuous. What dost thou look for abroad? Hast thou not in thy own house thy second self, a Woman, whose ingenious conversation will delight thee, whose body is absolutely at thy devotion, who is tender of thy honour, careful in managing thy house, prudent to improve thy estate, furnishes thee with Children, who divert thee in their youth, and will relieve thee in thy age? What, I say, canst thou look for abroad? I'll tell thee in few words, what will be thy fortune; thou wilt ruin thyself, both as to estate and reputation, thou wilt lose the respect of thy friends, and wilt raise thyself many powerful enemies. Dost thou think thy honour secure because thou hast a virtuous woman to thy wife? Alas! what little experience hast thou of the things of this world, and how little reflect on humane frailty? The surest horse of his feet in the world, and the most at command, slips under an unskilful Rider, and haply gives him a fall. A woman may resist such and such a temptation to do something that's unhandsome; and haply transgress in the highest degree, when she thinks herself most secure. One miscarriage is a trap-door to let in several others after it; and the distance which is between Virtue and Vice, is sometimes but a short day's journey.  
But to what end are we troubled with all these moral truths, and of what benefit are they, will some body say? And why does that some body trouble his head so much? let him make use of them or let them alone, as his convenience shall advise him, however, he may think himself obliged to the person who gives them for nothing.  
Don Sancho was thinking to get up from his wife, when his Uncle's steward brought him a Letter, giving him an account of the strange Lady, who he could not but think had trepanned him, because she was not to be heard of in any of the Inns about Toledo, where he had caused inquiry to be made after her, and in the same Letter entreating him to let him have one of his men to send after the Slut towards Madrid, which way he thought she might be gone, for that he had sent people to all the other great Roads that went to the Towns about Toledo, that only to Madrid excepted. Don Sancho was out of all patience at this news: he found himself assaulted in that part of his soul which was least able to resist, and was elevated to a strange height, to find himself unjustly charged with one weakness, though he had been convicted of many. The loss of the money, and the cheat put upon his Uncle, he was equally enraged at. He made a relation of the business to his wife, and some of his kindred, who were come to visit him the next morning after his marriage; and persisting in the resolution he had taken to do what he intended, notwithstanding the entreaties of his wife and friends, he slips on his clothes, eats something, then runs to his Uncle's, and thence after he had learned of the Page who had brought the Ladies into the old Marquess' chamber, what kind of Coach they were in, how many in company, and by what marks they might be known, he took post for Madrid, attended by two servants, in whose courage he reposed much confidence. He road on four or five Stages with so much speed, that he had not the least thought of the beautiful stranger: but his choler being a little evaporated by so violent agitation of his body, Helenilla reassumed her former place in his imagination, so beautiful, and attractive, that he was several times in a mind to return to Toledo, to find her out. He was a hundred times angry with himself that he had been so far transported upon the trick put upon his Uncle, and often called himself an undiscreet person, and an enemy to his own enjoyments, for bruising his body in that manner by riding post, instead of bestowing his time better in seeking after a happiness, the possession whereof would, in his opinion, raise him to the highest pitch of felicity.  
While he was in his amorous reflections, he often spoke to himself, as one distracted, and that so loud, that his servants, who were a pretty distance before him, making a sudden stop, would turn about, and in much haste ride back to know what he would have. What reason is there, would he cry sometimes, I should leave the place where I saw her? Must I not be the most unhappy man in the world, if this Stranger have left Toledo before I get back again thither? 'Twere no more than my desert, for offering to turn Constable, and running with a Hue and Cry after I know not whom. But if I return to Tol●do, continued he, without doing any thing, what will they say of me, who would have diverted me from such an enterprise? Or must I let a sort of trapanning Rogues go unpunished, after such an unheard of affront put upon my Uncle, and my own reputation so treacherously wounded.  
The dissolute young Spark was thus balancing of things, when, coming near Xetaffa, his servants discovered Helenilla's Coach by the marks that had been given thereof. They presently cried out to their Master, that they had taken the Thiefs, and not staying till he came up to them, road full speed after the Coach with their swords drawn. The Coachman stopped extremely frighted; Montufar was no less. Helenilla caused him to remove out of the Boot, and sat there herself, to see what might be done to remedy so great a misfortune. She saw Don Sancho coming towards her with his sword drawn, and could perceive nothing in his countenance whence she might promise herself any favour: but the amorous Gentleman had no sooner fastened his eyes on her who had already so deeply wounded him, but he was immediately persuaded that his servants were mistaken: For it is natural for a man to have a good opinion of what he loves, and thereupon, as if he had known Helenilla from his infancy for a Lady not to be charged with any thing unhandsome, he run upon his servants striking at them as hard as he could with the flat of his sword. You Rascals, said he to them, have I not given you sufficient warning to take heed you were not mistaken? and do you not deserve I should break your arms and legs for so unmannerly stopping a lady's Coach whose very presence might have forced you to more respect? The poor Slaves, who had not been so forward but upon the marks given them by the Page, and saw they had to do with a woman extremely handsome, an object that raises submissions and respects in the most uncivilised souls, avoided, by getting out of the way, the fury of their Master, and thought he had reason to be angry, and that it was an excess of his kindness that he had not sufficiently loaded them with blows.  
Don Sancho, having thus disengaged his servants, craved pardon of Helenilla, and told her upon what ground his presumptuous servants were like to have done her some violence, which she knew as well as himself. He entreated her to consider how apt a person blinded with choler is to be mistaken. Do but see, I beseech you, said he, into what inconveniences servants may engage their Masters? Had I not been with these Villains that came along with me, they had upon very uncertain appearances put the whole Country into an Alarm, and having the power in their own hands, would have brought you to Toledo, as a Thief. Not indeed but that you are such, added he, composing himself to mildness, but the Robberies you are guilty of are rather those of hearts than any thing else. Helenilla acknowledged the indulgence of Heaven towards her, in bestowing on her a face which pleaded her exemption from punishment, notwithstanding the many leudnesses she was ordinarily guilty of, and assuming a confidence which banished the fear she had been in, she answered Don Sancho with much modesty and in few words, as knowing that for one to be over-earnest in disclaiming a thing laid to his charge increases the suspicion of his guilt. Don Sancho could not but admire he should meet with what he sought, after so strange a manner; and, besotted as he was, thought Heaven prospered his designs, since it had prevented him from returning to Toledo, as he had several times thought to have done: which no doubt had been to avoid that good which he sought after with so much earnestness. He asked Helenilla her name, and the place of her abode at Madrid, and entreated her not to take it amiss if he waited on her thither, to confirm the proffers he had made her of his services. Helenilla gave him such an account of both as he was for the present satisfied with, and told him she should think herself very happy to receive his visits. He proffered to wait on her all along the way, but she would by no means permit it, representing to him that she was married, and that her Husband was to meet her in a Coach, and whispered him in the ear, that she was somewhat distrustful of her own servants, but above all stood in fear of the displeasure of her Husband.  
This slight expression of confidence raised in Don Sancho an imagination that she had some kindness for him. He took leave of her, and, carried more upon his own hopes than the Post-horse he had under him, (if I may so say) he set forward towards Madrid. He was no sooner arrived but he made enquiry after Helenilla and her habitation, according to the directions she had given him. His servants were tired to find her out, and the endeavours of his friends were not spared, yet all to no purpose. Helenilla, Montufar, and the venerable Mendez, were no sooner got to Madrid but they were thinking which way to get out of it. They were sensible they could not avoid the Cavalier of Toledo, if they stayed there, and that if they gave him a more particular account of their persons and quality, they should find him as dangerous an Enemy, as they thought him then their passionate Servant. Helenilla put all the goods she had into a sure hand, and the very next day after her arrival, putting herself and her train into the habit of Pilgrims, she took her way towards Burgos, the place where Mendez was born, and where she had still a sister living, of the same profession with herself.  
In the mean time, Don Sancho out of all hopes of meeting with Helenilla, returns to Toledo, with so much shame and confusion, that from his departure out of Madrid till he came to his own house, he was not heard to speak one word. After he had saluted his wife, who entertained him with thousands of caresses and kindnesses, she gave him some Letters from his Brother, wherein he found that he lay very sick at one of the chiefest Cities of Spain, where he possessed the greatest dignities of the Cathedral Church, and was one of the richest Clergymen in that Country. He stayed but one night at Toledo, and the next morning took Post, to go and see his Brother recovered, or possess himself of what he left if he died.  
While Don Sancho is upon his way to his Brother, Helenilla is upon hers to Burgos, having conceived a dissatisfaction of Montufar greater than the love she had sometimes born him. He had expressed so little resolution, when Don Sancho and his servants stopped the Coach, that she made no doubt but he was an arrant coward. Out of this reflection was he become so odious to her, that it was with some violence to herself that she could endure the sight of him, insomuch that her thoughts were wholly taken up to find out some way to be rid of this domestic Tyrant: and till it were done comforted herself with the hope of seeing herself ere long at liberty and her own disposal. This advice was given her by Mendez, which prevailed the more upon her, for that it was fortified with all the reasons which her prudence could suggest. She could not endure, that in a house, where she was to live, there should be any Montufar to command her, who should have the Mistress of it, at his devotion; and, not doing any thing towards it, spend what they both had much ado to get. She perpetually represented to Helenilla the wretchedness of her condition, comparing it to that of the Slaves employed in the Mines, who to enrich their Masters with the Gold which they take so much pains to force out of the earth, and instead of being better treated for their endeavours, are many times rewarded with blows. She would be always telling her, that Beauty is a flower, and consequently of no long continuance, and that her Looking-glass, which then represented to her but what was most amiable, and ever spoke to her advantage, would soon, entertain her with objects she should be little satisfied with, and tell her such news as she should not be well pleased at. Assure yourself, Madam, said she to her, that a woman once turned of thirty, loses something particular of beauty every six months, and makes new discoveries every day, either in her body or face, of some spot, or some wrinkle. 'Tis the malice of Time to make young Women old, and to make old Women wrinkled. If a Woman that's grown rich, at the cost of her modesty and reputation, meets nevertheless with the contempt and reproaches of the world; what horror must she needs raise in people, who through want of conduct is reduced to both poverty and infamy? upon what ground can she hope to be relieved in her misery? If with the wealth you have made a shift to get, by such courses as are not approved of by all the world, you raised the fortunes of some deserving virtuous person, who would in requital marry you, it were an action acceptable in the sight of God and Men, and the end of your Life would expiate the beginning of it: but to cast yourself away as you do, by being at the diposal of a Rascal, as lewd as cowardly, one whose great achievements consists in the trappanning of Women, who yet are never gained by him but with Threats, nor kept but by Tyranny, is, methinks, the direct way to bring yourself to the greatest extremities imaginable, and to be the Author of your own ruin.  
With these and the like arguments did the judicious Mendez, who was much better at speaking than doing, endeavour to exasperate Helenilla against Montufar, whom she still loved, though rather because she was accustomed to it than that she could give any reason for it; as indeed having too long experience of his manners, not to have found out of herself all the specious inducements laid down to her by her old Remembrancer. Yet did they not prove ineffectual. Helenilla took them in very good part, and the more readily for that Mendez advised her to things which she herself would be not a little the better for, if she should put them in execution; so that perceiving Montufar coming up to them, being to go together to Guadarrama, where they were to dine that day, they put it off to another time to consider of the course they should take to be rid of him, so as never to have a sight of him again.  
All Dinnertime he seemed to be indisposed, having no stomach at all to any thing, and as he rose from table, he was taken with a shivering, and not long after with a violent fever, which stuck close to him the rest of that day and all night; and the violence of it being augmented towards the morning, put Helenilla and Mendez into good hope● the fever would do them a courtesy, though 'twere only to free them from further trouble how to shake him off. Montufar finding himself so weak as that he was not able to stand, told the Ladies they must not stir from Guadarrama; that a Physician must be had, what ever it cost; and that all imaginable care should be taken of him. This was said with so much imperiousness and authority, as if he had spoken to Slaves, and that their Lives and all things else were absolutely at his disposal. His Body in the mean time became more and more weak of the fever, which had reduced him to such a condition, as that, had it not been for his often calling for drink, he might have been given over for a Dead man.  
There was no small stir about the Inn, that a Confessor was not all this while brought to him, that he might, as a good Christian, discharge his Conscience in this world, before he took his journey for the next. At last, while the Good man was gone for, Helenilla and Mendez, making no doubt but the fever would carry him away, came to him, and sitting down on both sides of his bed, Helenilla broke her mind to him in these terms.  
If thou hast so much memory left, dearest Montufar, as to remember after what manner thou hast ever lived with me, that is, how thou hast behaved thyself towards one who had laid the greatest obligations imaginable upon thee, as also towards Mendez, a person venerable upon the account of her Sex, her Age, and her Virtue, thou wilt not be so fond as to imagine, I should importune God Almighty for the recovery of thy health: but though I were as desirous of it, as I have reason to wish thy destruction, yet is there a necessity we poor mortals should comply with his holy disposal of us and ours, and that I should offer up, myself, what sometime I had most doted on, and had been most dear to me. But to deal freely with thee, we begin to be so weary of thy Tyranny, that our separation was unavoidable, and, if God had not brought things to this pass, we should have had that consideration of our own happiness as to have endeavoured it otherwise. Thou art going with all expedition to the other world, we envy thee not the good entertainment thou wilt find there: but, hadst thou been ordained to make any longer stay here, we should, to avoid thy insupportable company and behaviour, have removed into some part of SPAIN, where we should have thought no more of thee, than if there never had been any such thing as thou art in the world. Thou think'st life sweet, but if thou consider well how thou hast lived, thou hast much reason to take thy death kindly, since Heaven, for reasons unknown to men, sends it thee in a more honourable way than thou hast deserved, permitting a Fever to do that, which the Executioner does to person's less wicked than thou hast been, or Fear to such white-livered cowardly Rascals as thou art. But, my dear Montufar, before our final separation, speak to me sincerely once in thy life. Is it true, that thou didst really expect I should stay here to look to thee and nurse thee up? Alas, suffer not these vanities to come into thy mind, so near thy death. So little regard have I of thy welfare, that were it to restore thy whole Race, I would not stay a quarter of an hour here. Make friends, and get into the Hospital, if thy Disease do not dispatch thee the sooner; and since all the advice I ever gave thee hath been for thy good, do not slight the last I am like to give thee. 'Tis this, my poor Montufar; Not to trouble thyself to send for any Physician, as knowing, he will forbid thee the drinking of Wine, which, without any Fever, is enough to make an end of thee in four and twenty hours.  
While Helenilla was making this Funeral Sermon to her once much beloved Montufar, the charitable Mendez ever and anon felt his Pulse, and laid her hand on his forehead; and perceiving her Mistress had given over speaking, she would needs also give him a departing Lecture. Your Lordship's head, said she to him, burns extremely, and I am much in fear this unhappy accident will be the occasion of your marching off to see your friends in the other world, without affording you the time to come to yourself again. Take therefore this pair of Beads, added she, and fall devoutly to your prayers till such time as the Confessor comes. You will be so far in your way as to the discharge of your Conscience. But if credit may be given to the Historiographers of the Prison for Malefactors at Madrid, who have so often had occasion to spend their Pens in setting down your achievements, your Lordship's exemplary life may well exempt you from much Penance; besides that, God, who is very merciful, will no doubt put to your account in Heaven, the glorious progress you made bare-shouldered through the principal Streets of Sevil, in the sight of so many people, and guarded by Beadles, and other Officers of the Garrison of common Rogues, Cutpurses, and House-breakers. You may also produce as an acquittance for your further discharge, the Voyage you made by Sea, during which, viz. for the space of six years, you did many things not unpleasing to God, taking much pains, eating little, and being still in danger, and consequently the more devout; but what is more considerable, is, that you were hardly twenty years of age, when, to the great edification of your Neighbour you began that holy Pilgrimage. Moreover, it is very probable you will be well recompensed in the other world for another thing, which is, your care, that the Women who have had any dependence on you, should not be idle or want something to do, making them work, and live, not only by the labour of their hands, but that of their whole body. To this I may add, that if you die in your Bed, you will put a pleasant trick upon the Judge of Murcia, who hath solemnly sworn, he would sentence you to die upon the Wheel, who expects the satisfaction to see it; and who must needs be enraged when it shall be told him, that you died of yourself, without the assistance of any third person. But I trifle away the day here in talking, and never think it is time to set forward on the journey we have a desire to make. Farewell, dear Friend that hath been, receive this last Hugg as heartily as I bestow it on you, for I think we shall never see one another again. With which words Mendez casting her arms about his neck embraced him with so much kindness, as that, had she used a little more, it had stifled him: Helenilla did the like, and with that Compliment left the Chamber, and, without calling for any account, soon after, the Inn also.  
Montufar, who was used to their Abuses, who had also the faculty to return them as good as they brought, and who fond imagined all they had said to him, was only for his diversion, looked on them as they departed from him, without the least suspicion, more inclined to conceive they went to give order for his Broths. He soon after, out of pure security, fell into a little Drowsiness, which held him so long as that the two Gentlewomen might well be gotten a League or better in their way, before he was perfectly awake. He asked the Hostess for them, who told him they were gone abroad, and had given order he should not be disturbed, for that he wanted sleep very much, having not closed his Eyes all the night before.  
Upon this account of them, Montufar began to believe, the Ladies had spoken to him in good earnest. He swore at such a rate as would have made some think the Earth might open and swallow down the Inn and all in it; he threatened even to the very way they travelled on, and the Sun that lighted them. He would needs get up to put on his clothes, and had almost broke his Neck in attempting it, such was his weakness. The Hostess endeavoured to excuse the Ladies, and did it the best she could, but with such impertinent Reasons that the sick man was the more enraged, and fell out with her. He was so incensed that for four and twenty hours nothing went down his throat, and that diet with abundance of rage and fury proved so effectual, that after the taking of a certain Broth, he found himself strong enough to pursue his fugitive Slaves. They were got as far before him as they were able to travel in two days; but two Hackney Mules, he fortunately met with upon their return to Burgos, contributed as much to his design as it proved fatal to that of the two counterfeit Pilgrims. He overtook them within six or seven Leagues of Burgos. They grew pale, and then blushed when they saw him, and excused themselves, if any such thing could be done. Montufar smothered his anger, for very joy that he had found them, which he could not forbear expressing in his very countenance. He first broke forth into a Laughter at the trick they had put upon him, and raised them to such security, that they thought him the veriest Sot they had ever met with. He thereupon made them believe they were out of the way to Burgos, and having (to bring them into it) led them among Rocks and Precipices, such places as he knew no man travelled through, he drew a long Dagger, an Instrument for which they had ever had a great respect; and commanded them very imperiously to make present delivery of what Gold, Silver, and Jewels they had. They thought at first with their tears to have pacified him so far as to bring the business to some composition. Helenilla was very prodigal of them for her part, casting withal her arms about his Neck; but the unmerciful Hector grew so insolent upon their submissions, that he would not hear of any thing by way of treaty, and once more gave them the peremptory word of command, allowing them but half a quarter of an hour to resolve whether they would deliver or no. There was no way but to sacrifice their Purses to the safety of their Persons, so that with much regret they parted with what was dearer to them than their very entrails. Yet was not Montufar's revenge satisfied with that. He pulled out of his Pocket a parcel of Whipcord which he had bought on purpose for such an execution, and having tied them to several Trees one against the other, he told them, with a treacherous smile, that, out of a certain knowledge he had of their negligence in doing Penance from time to time for their sins, he would, for the good of their souls, give them a little discipline with his own hands, that they might remember him in their Prayers. The Sentence pronounced was immediately put in execution, with branches of green Broom that grew thereabouts in abundance, he having so much mercy in his justice as not to do it with the Whipcord, whereof he had had himself experience both of the weight and smart, notwithstanding the grave reproaches of Mendez not long before to that purpose.  
Having disciplined them till he grew weary, at the cost of their poor skins, he sat him down between the two Patients, and turning himself to Helenilla, entertained her somewhat to this effect. My dearest Helenilla, said he, be not so much displeased with me, for what hath happened between us, till thou hast considered my good intention in it, and thereupon reflected, that every one is obliged in conscience to follow his vocation: it is thine to commit lewd actions and to be mischievous; it is mine (the world consisting of good and evil) to punish lewdness and mischief where I meet with them. Thou knowst better than any one, whether I discharge my duty as an honest man should, and thou art to assure thyself, since I chastise thee so heartily, that I love thee no less. Were it not that it is more pardonable in me to be tender of my duty, than inclined to compassion, I should not leave a Gentlewoman so well descended, and so virtuous, stark naked tied to a Tree at the mercy of the first that passes by. Thy illustrious birth, which thou not long since gavest me an account of, deserves another destiny; but be ingenuous, and acknowledge thou wouldst do no less thyself, if thou wert in my place. What will prove thy greatest misfortune, is, that, having been so common as thou hast, it will not be long ere thou art known, and then it is to be feared, that out of a Maxim of Policy, to the perpetual terror of public sinners, order will be given for the burning of this mischievous Tree, whereto thou art as it were incorporated, together with the wicked fruit that grows on it: but in recompense, if thou hast only a fear of all the evils thou bringest on thyself, thou wilt one day make very pleasant relations of thy adventures, and have this to add, that, by the patient suffering of one hard night, thou shalt have acquired an excellency, which will be much talked of amongst the many other thou art Mistress of already; and that is, my dear quondam-acquaintance, the knack of being able to sleep standing.  
But the charitable Mendez might justly quarrel at my incivility, if I should continue my discourse any longer to thee, without so much as turning my face towards her, who was so free of her advice and assistance in my sickness: and I should be much wanting as to the duty I owe my Neighbour, if I should not out of a like motive of charity give her some advice suitable to the present posture of her affairs. They are indeed, added he, turning towards Mendez, in a much worse condition than you haply imagine; recommend yourself therefore earnestly to the goodness of God, though it be the first time you ever did it: let your many wrinkles be as many remembrancers of the decays of your Microcosm, and your inability to overcome this days persecution; were it the pleasure of Heaven you might have a Confessor as easily as it is certain you stand in need of one. Not but that you may derive much quiet of thought and conscience from the exemplary life you have led; since you have always been so excessively charitable, that, instead of repining at the imperfections and miscarriages of others, you have repaired those of an infinite number of young Maids. Besides, shall there be no account made for the pains you have taken in studying the most occult Science●? 'Tis true, the Inquisition loved you never the better for it, nay, bestowed on you some public marks of its disaffection; but you know, it consists of knowing men, and that there is ever an envy and emulation between persons of the same profession. Nay, they do much more, that is, they are far from any confidence of your salvation; but it matters not, Custom makes all things tolerable, even in Hell itself, where it cannot be but that you must expect much kindness from the Inhabitants of the place, as having held a great correspondence with them during your living here. I have but a word more to tell you, which is, that I might have chastised you much after another manner; but it came into my thoughts, that it is ordinary with old people to become children again; that you are old enough to be returned to your first state of innocence, and consequently that a Rod was a more proper instrument to punish you for the rascally childish trick you put upon me, than any other: and so I take my leave, recommending the care of your persons to your own dear selves.  
Having thus had the satisfaction to return their abuses, he went his ways, and left them rather dead than living, not so much through the grievousness of the chastisement they had received, as that he had carried with him all they had, and left them alone, bound to their good behaviour in a place, where, for aught they knew, they might become food for the Wolves.  
They were very mournfully looking one upon the other, without saying any thing, when there passes by between them a Hare, which had not gone far ere they perceived a Dog in pursuit of her, and at some distance after the Dog, a Gentleman on Horseback, and that no other than Don Sancho of Villefagnan, who was come to Burgos, to see his Brother, whom he heard to have lain sick, and with whom he then sojourned at a Country house he had not far off thence, whither he was come to take the air. He thought it a strange spectacle to see two Women bound in that manner to Trees, and was much surprised when he finds in the countenance of one of them, that of the beautiful Stranger he had seen at Toledo, whom he had made so much enquiry after at Madrid, and who was perpetually present to his imagination. But whereas he had, upon the first sight of her, conceived a strong impression that she was a Woman of quality and married, he continued for a while in some doubt whether it were she, as finding it a hard matter to be convinced, that she durst presume to come so far in so poor an equipage, as he might perceive by her clothes: but the countenance of Helenilla, which, though cast down and betraying a certain fright, had lost nothing of its beauty, satisfied him at length that he had found what had cost him so many desires and disturbances. He lifted himself up upon the stirrups, and looked all about him to see if he were all alone, and he was simple enough to fear it was some diabolical illusion (God so permitting it) sent to punish him for his debauches and sensuality. Helenilla for her part had a reflection that was not much better, and was no less in fear, that Heaven had made choice of that day, to bring about her all those who had any thing to call her to an account for. Don Sancho beheld Helenilla with much astonishment; she him with much distraction, each of them expecting the other should first speak; and Don Sancho was at last going to fall into some discourse with her, when he perceives one of the Pages coming in full speed towards him, whereupon advancing to know what the matter was, the other told him, that the young Gentlemen, his Cousins, were together by the ears ready to kill one another. He made all the haste he could, followed by the Page, to the place where he had left his company, and finds four or five of them in the heat of their drink railing one at another with their swords drawn, and, at some distance, employing their drunken valour in cuts and slashes, which cost some of the adjacent Trees the loss of many a fair and hopeful branch.  
Don Sancho, enraged at his being deprived the pleasant vision he had lost, upon so frivolous an occasion, did what he could to appease those irreconcilable, yet not very dreadful, enemies; but his arguments, his entreaties, and his menaces had prevailed but little with them, if the weariness they were in, and the wine which disturbed their brains had not laid them so often on the ground, as at last to fasten them to it, and set them a snoring as peaceably as they had at first with too much violence fallen out.  
Leaving them so quieted of themselves, Don Sancho took his way back again towards the happy Tree, unto which he had left the Idol of his heart in a manner metamorphosed; but his astonishment not to find there what he sought for, was greater than it had been upon the sight of her before. He road about it several times to see if with earnest looking he might find what was not there; and not satisfied with that, looked all about him, yet could discover nothing but a sad Wilderness▪ he road up and down to all the places thereabouts, and returns again to the Tree, which, dull Plant as it was, never stirred for all the trouble he put himself to.  
Don Sancho, as I told you, had such a devotion for the female sex, that he could love any Woman at the first sight: but to compass his desires, if money would not do, he would spare no courtship, no addresses, no submissions, no services, no importunity to do it. This you'll say was the only way to make a man a Poet, if he were capable of it. Don Sancho indeed could do pretty well at it, and was very happy in the humouring of any accident good or bad: and whereas the odness of the subject given a Poet heightens his fancy, if he have it any thing strong, he thought the adventure had happened to him so strange, that it would have been insensibility in him, great as that of the Tree itself, not to say something to it. Having therefore alighted, he discovered his Poetry to it in these words, if it be true at least, that he was as great a Fool as I am told he was. O most happy, and most to be envied Tree! since thou hast been felicified with the embraces of her whom I love, though I have no great knowledge of her, and whom I would not know but to love her, may thy leaves be mingled among the Stars, may the sacrilegious Axe never offer the least violence to thy sacred and tender bark; may the Thunder bear a respect to thy ●oughes, and the worms of the earth to thy roots; may the harsh Winter spare thee, the Spring every thee, may the loftiest Pines envy thee; and, to conclude, may Heaven protect thee.  
While the virtuous Gentleman was exhausting himself in fruitless regrets, or, if you will, in bemoaning Poetical ejaculations, which are of greater importance th●n any other, and which it is too violent 〈◊〉 ●●●●cise for a man to make use of every day; his ●●●●●nts, who knew not what was become of him, after a good while's search, found him, and came about him. He returned to his Brother's very melancholy, and, if I am not mistaken in wh●● I have been told, he went to bed supperless.  
But 'tis not easily credible, how many irons one that tells a story, or writes a Novel, may have in the fire at once. He that tells the story, it being supposed he speaks to more than one, is troubled many times to guess at what circumstances of it the greatest part of his Auditory sticks, and is impatient to have it prosecuted: the other, though it may happen he hath to do but with one at a time (for, now the world grows more and more learned, people think it more edifying to read things of that nature themselves) is subject to the same inconveniences, not knowing where the Reader would have the design prosecuted, where interrupted by some unthought-of accident. This brought into my thoughts, that the Reader I have now to do with, may think I leave him too long in suspense, as being haply impatient to know, by what enchantment Helenilla and Mendez had been snatched away from the sight of the amorous DON SANCHO. Let him have but ever so little patience; I am just going to tell him.  
Montufar upon his departure from them was much pleased in himself at the piece of justice he had done; but as soon as the fury of his revenge began to admit remission, his Love was proportionably re-inflamed, and represented Helenilla to his imagination more beautiful than ever he had seen her. He concluded from her great patience in receiving so cruel a chastisement (when she saw there was no remedy but to endure it) that she must needs be of an excellent and tractable disposition, and much inclined to forget and forgive injuries. He considered with himself, that what he had taken away from them would be soon spent, and that her Beauty was a settled and constant revenue to him, while he continued in her favour, the want of whose company he already thought insupportable. Upon these considerations, he made all the haste he could back, and the same barbarous hands which had with so little remorse fastened to the Trees the two Fugitives, and had afterwards so unmercifully swept their backsides with good green Broom, knocked off their Chains, I would say, cut asunder, or untied their Cords, and se● them at liberty, while Don Sancho was Christianly employed in reconciling those of his Drunken company who were fallen out.  
Montufar, Helenilla, and Mendez, became good Friends again as they went along, and having reciprocally promised to forget all dissatisfactions and differences, embraced one another with as much tenderness for their reconciliation, as regret for what was passed; doing just as the Great ones do, who neither love nor hate any thing, and who accommodate those two contrary passions to their advantages, and the present state of their affairs. They held a Council concerning the way they should take. Their Politics advised them to forbear going to Burgos, where they might be in danger to meet with the Gentleman of Toledo: They therefore made choice of Sevil for their retreat, and it seemed to them that fortune seconded their design, since that, as they came into Madrid-Road, they met with a Mule-driver, who had three returned Mules he could dispose of, and which he was glad to let them have to carry them to Sevil, upon the first proposition made by Montufar to that purpose. He treated the Ladies upon the way very civilly, to make them forget the ill treatment they had received from him. They at first were somewhat distrustful of his insinuations, and resolved to be revenged on him upon the first opportunity: but at last, more out of policy than any consideration of virtue, they became greater friends than ever. They bethought themselves, that Discord had ruined the greatest Empires, and were convinced, that, in all appearance, they were born one for another. They played not any trick of their Profession in their journey to Sevil; for having their thoughts sufficiently taken up with their removal out of a Country where enquiry might be made after them, they were afraid to run themselves into new inconveniences, which might hinder their going to Sevil, where they had great designs to carry on.  
They alighted a League short of the City, and having satisfied the Mule-driver, made their entrance into it at the close of the Evening, and took up their Lodging in the first Inn they came to. Montufar took a House, furnished it, but meanly enough, and put himself into a black Suit, a Cassock, and a long Clo●k. Helenilla put herself into the habit of a Religious woman, having her hair so closely imprisoned, as there was not aught to be seen; and Mendez, clad like a devout Matron, got her a pair of Beads, of such bigness as might well serve as Case-shot for a small piece of Ordnance. For some days immediately after their arrival, Montufar walked up and down the Streets, habited, as I have described him, with his Arms across, and casting down his Eyes when ever he met with any of the female Sex. He cried out ever and anon, with a voice that would break the very stones: Blessed be the most blessed Sacrament of the Altar, and the ever-happy Conception of the immaculate Virgin, with several other exclamations of the same kind. He caused the same things to be repeated by the Children he met with in the Streets▪ and got them together many times to make them sing Hymns and godly Songs, and to teach them their Catechism. He often visited the Prisons, preached to the Prisoners, comforted some, ministered to others, bringing them Victuals, and many times carrying from the Market a heavy Basket filled with such things as he had either begged or provided for them. Oh detestable Rogue! it seems there wanted only thy turring Hypocrite, to make thee the most accomplished Villain the Earth ever groaned under!  
These virtuous actions, done by the greatest enemy to Virtue of all mankind, in a short time raised him into the reputation of a Saint. Helenilla and Mendez, for their parts, did such things as made people begin to talk of their Canonization. One pretended to be Mother, the other, Sister of the blessed Brother Martin. They went every day to the Hospitals; waited on the sick, made their beds, washed their Linen, and, if they wanted, accommodated them at their own charge.  
Thus were the three most vicious Persons in all Spain become the admiration of Sevil. Much about this time there happened to come thither a Gentleman of Madrid, about some occasions of his own. He had been one of the acquaintances of Helenilla; for such Women as turn common, supply many in their time: he knew Mendez to be no better than she should be, and had so much experience of Montufar, as to take him for no other th●n a dangerous cheat and a Pander. One day, as they were coming all three together from Church, followed by a great number of persons, who kissed their Vestments, and entreated them to be mindful of them in their Prayers, they were discovered by the Gentleman I spoke of; who, upon sight of them being inflamed with a Christian zeal, and not able to endure that three persons so transcendently wicked should abuse the credulity of a whole City, broke through the multitude, and coming up to Montufar gave him a hearty blow over the face. Abominable cheats! cries he to them! Do you neither fear God nor Man? He would have said something else: but his good intention met not with the success it deserved, it being not only imprudent, but dangerous, to be over-precipitate in the discovery of any thing. All the people fell upon him, looking on him as one that h●d committed Sacrilege in his incivility towards their Saint. He was soon laid on the ground, loaden with blows and kicks, and no doubt had lost his Life among them, if Montufar, through a miraculous readiness of wit, had not taken him into his protection, covering him with his body, thrusting away the most earnest to beat him, nay, exposing himself to their fury and blows. My dearest Brethren, Cries he as loud as he could, let him alone for the holy Jesus sake; for the B. Virgin's sake, be not so violent.  
These few words laid that great Tempest; and the people, as easily quieted as they had been stirred up, made way for B. Martin, who came up to the unfortunate Gentleman, glad in his Soul to see him so treated, but discovering in his countenance a great trouble thereat. He raised him up from the ground where he tumbled over and over, embraced him, and kissed him, though all blood and dirt, and reproved the people very sharply for their rudeness. I am indeed, the wicked wretch, said he to those who had any desire to hear him, I am the Sinner, I am he that never did any thing pleasing in the sight of God. Do you imagine, continued he, because you see me now clad like an honest Man, that I have not been all my Life a Thief? a scandal to others, and my own ruin? Let me be the object of your Injuries; 'tis at me you ought to cast Dirt and Stones, it is my Blood your Swords thirst after.  
Having said these words with a personated mildness, and thereby absolutely quieted the people, he went, with a zeal yet more counterfeit, and cast himself at the feet of his Enemy, and kissing them, he not only asked him pardon, but got him again his Sword, Cloak, and Hat, which had been lost in the Tumult. He put them about him, and having led him by the hand to the end of the Street parted from him, after he had bestowed on him many embraces, and as many benedictions.  
The poor Man was all this while as if he had been enchanted, so astonished was he at what he h●d seen, and what had been done to him, and conceived so much shame at the sadness of the adventure, that he was never seen in the Streets afterwards, though his business detained him in the City some time longer.  
In the mean time, Montufar, by this act of counterfeit humility had gained the hearts of the whole City. The people looked on him with admiration, many came the oftener to Church purposely to see him, and the Children cried after him a Saint, a Saint, as they would a Fox, a Fox, had they met his Enemy in the Streets. From this time he began to live the happiest Life of any Man alive. The great Lord, the Gentleman, the Magistrate, the Prelate courted him every day to their Tables, and, happy thought he himself, whom he honoured with an acceptance of his entertainment. If any one asked his Name, he made answer, that he was the Animal, the Beast, fit only to carry Burdens, the Common-shore of filthiness, the Vessel of iniquity, and such other attributes as his studied Devotion furnished him withal. He spent the day in some public places with the Ladies of the City, importuning them with perpetual complaints of his own lukewarmness: telling them that he was not sufficiently annihilated in Spirit, that he was guilty of too much Self-centreity, and wanted those recollections which should confine his thoughts to celestial contemplations, and divert them from being disordered by the vanities of this World; in a word, never entertaining them with any thing but what was wrapped up in this fustian Language: So great a Proficient had a short time made him in Sycophancy and hypocrisy!  
Of the great Alms daily bestowed in Sevil, there past most through his hands, or through those of Helenilla, and Mendez; who, as to what might be expected from them, acted their parts to the height, and whose names made no less haste to get into the Calendar, than did that of Montufar. A certain Widow, a Lady of quality, and inexpressibly besotted with Devotion, sent them every day two dishes of Meat for their Dinner, and as many for their Supper, and those such as had been ordered by one of the best Cooks about the City. At last, the House they lived in grew too little for the great number of presents that were brought in from all parts, and to entertain the Ladies that came to visit them. If a Woman was desirous to be with Child, her only way was to put her Petition into their hands, that they might present it at the Tribunal of God, and bring her a speedy and satisfactory answer of it. She that had a Son in the Indies, took the same course; and so did she also who had a Brother, Friend, or Cousin, in Slavery at Algiers. And the poor Widow, who had a cause depending before an ignorant Judge, against a powerful Adversary, doubted not of its going with her, since she had made them a present according to her ability. Some presented them with Sweetmeats, others with Pictures and Ornaments for their Oratory. Sometimes there were sent them in, all sorts of clean Linen and clothes for poor people that were ashamed of their necessities, and often, considerable sums of Money, to be distributed as they should think fitting. No body came empty handed to them, nor did any body doubt of their future Canonization. Nay it grew to that height, that some desired their advice in things doubtful, and to come. Helenilla, who had a Diabolical wit, managed the business of Answers; and the cunning Gipsy would be sure to deliver her Oracles, in few words, and in terms ambiguous and capable of several interpretations. Their Beds, simple in appearance were all the day covered with Mats, but at night with good Down-beds and Quilts, and good Coverlets; the House being full of all manner of Householdstuff, sent in by some or other, for a charitable supply of some Widow, whose Goods had been taken in Execution, or to furnish the House of a young Maid married without any Portion. Their doors, in Winter, were shut up at five of the clock, in Summer, at seven, as punctually as if their House had been a well regulated Convent; and then the Spits went, the House was perfumed, the Fowls went to the fire, the Tables were neatly covered, and the Hypocritical Triumvirate, fed without any remorse, and valiantly drank to their own good Healths, and sometimes remembered theirs whom they made such Fools. Montufar and Helenilla lay together, for fear of the Spirits; and their Man and their Maid, who were of the same Constitution, imitated them in their manner of passing away the night. But for the Matron Mendez, she always lay alone, and was more contemplative than active, ever since she had given her mind to the black Art.  
Thus did they spend their time, when the besotted Inhabitants of Sevil thought they were at their mental prayers, or disciplining themselves. It is not to be asked, whether they were in good case, as to the body, living at this rate. Every one blessed God for it, and it was in a manner the general wonder, that a sort of people who exercised so great austerities, were of a better complexion, than those who lived in the height of luxury and abundance. During the space of three years that they led all the people of Sevil by the noses, receiving presents from all parts, and converting most of the alms that passed through their hands to their own use, what a number of good yellow pieces they got together, will not easily be credited. What ever happened successfully, was attributed to the effect of their prayers. They stood for all the Children that were christened, they were the makers up of all Matches, and the adbitrators of all differences. At last, God grew weary of suffering their wicked kind of living. Montufar, who was much inclined to choler, used often to beat his man; he, on the other side, being high fed, and living at ease, received his chastisement with a great deal of indignation, and would many times have left his service upon it, if Helenilla, much more politic in that than her Gallant, h●d not ever and anon appeased him with kindnesses and presents. He one day corrected him a little too severely for a trivial fault. The young fellow got out of doors, and, blinded by his passion, went and gave notice to the Magistrates of Sevil of the hypocrisy of these three blessed persons. Some evil spirit suggested it into Helenilla, that the fellow would do the mischief she feared. She advised Montufar to take all the Gold, whereof they had a considerable quantity, and to avoid the tempest she was afraid would fall upon them. No sooner said than done. They took about them what they had of greatest value, and putting a good face on't in the streets, went out at one of the City gates, and came in again at another, to blind those that might follow them.  
Montufar had insinuated himself into the favour of a certain Widow, as lewd, and as very a hypocrite, as himself; He had made Helenilla acquainted with all that passed between them, who took not any thing amiss, no more than Montufar would have done at her familiarity with a Gallant that had been profitable to the Community. To her house they made their retreat, and there they were secretly kept, and entertained to their own wishes; the Widow having an affection for Montufar, for his own sake, and for Helenilla upon Montufar's account.  
In the mean time, the Magistrate, conducted by Montufar's revengeful servant, was gotten into the house of our Hypocrites, and made search for the blessed Children and their glorious Mother, and neither meeting with them nor any tidings of them, the servant-maid not knowing where they were nor whither they were gone, had c●us'd all the trunks to be sealed up, and an Inventory to he taken of all that was in the house. The officers found in the Kitchen what to entertain themselves withal for above one day, and left not in danger to be lost any thing they could handsomely make their own. While things were in this posture comes the old Mendez into the house, having not the least imagination of what they were doing there. The Officers laid hold on her, and hurried her to prison with a great concourse of people at her heels. The man and the maid were sent thither also to keep her company, and having spoke somewhat too much as well as she, where condemned as she was, to the embraces of the Whipping-post, and there to receive two hundred lashes. Mendez dies of it within three days after, as being too old to overcome so rigorous a chastisement, and the man and the maid were banished Sevil for their lives; so that the prudent Helenilla, by her foresight, kept her dear Montufar and herself out of the hands of the Magistrate, who sought after them, but in vain, both within and without the City. The people were ashamed they had been so abused; and the Ballad-singers, who were grown hoarse in celebrating their commendations at all corners of the streets, set their muddy Poets at work to write as much in dispraise of the counterfeit Saints. These Infects of Parnassus, exhausted, upon this occasion, their satirical vein; and the songs they made, to cry down those whom not long before the people had made their Idols, are to this day sung up and down at Sevil.  
Montufar and Helenilla reflecting on the sad Tragedy of Mendez, thought it their best course to take a countermarch to Madrid, which they did as soon as they durst venture with safety, bringing thither with them much wealth, and being also married together. They immediately made enquiry after what news there might be of Don Sancho o● Villefagnan, and having understood that he was not at Madrid, they appeared publicly; he, as well clothed as as any Gentleman about the Court, and she, after the rate of a Lady of quality, and beautiful as an Angel. Before the treaty of marriage was concluded between them, there were certain Articles drawn up, with a mutual promise for the punctual observance thereof; among others, these; That Montufar as a husband of much discretion and great patience, should not be any way troubled at such visits as upon the account of her beauty should be made to her; she on the other side being obliged not to entertain any but what were beneficial.  
They had not been there long, ere those Women, who between the sexes of Mankind are much of the same predicament with Horse-coursers in matter of Horses, such as many otherwise be called the Public Intelligencers in the affairs of Pleasure; otherwise, Haggler's, and Caterers in human flesh; in the vulgar language, Bawds; or, to speak more honourably of them, Women of Designs, began to beat the market about Helenilla. They made her appear one day at a Play, another in the Park, and sometimes in the great Street of Madrid, seated in the boot of a Coach, whence, looking on some, smiling on others, taking notice of all, she could on a sudden muster such a number of transported Lovers as might pass for a considerable Regiment. Her dear husband very punctually observed the articles agreed on at the Contract; such as were bashful in their addresses he, by his insinuating behaviour, encouraged into greater confidence, and did in a manner lead them by the hand to his wife, being so full of compliance and so ready to further their enjoyment, as never to want some urgent occasions, purposely to afford them the freedom of her company alone. He made acquaintances with none but such as had money enough, and cared as little how they spent it, and never came into his own house ere he had been assured by a signal that appeared in the window, when the Mistress of the house was busy, that he might come in without hindering any sport; and, if the signal were such as for●ad him entrance, he went his way as well satisfied as a person whose business is done in his absence, and passed away an hour or two in some Gaming-house, where all were glad to entertain him for his wife's sake.  
Among those whom Helenilla had made her tributary vassals, there was a certain Gentleman of Granada, who surpassed all his competitors both in the excess of his love and his expense. He was descended out of so noble a House, that the titles of his Nobility might be found among the Antiquities of the capital City of Judaea, and those who had a particular knowledge of his race, affirmed, that his Ancestors had kept the Books for arraignment of Malefactors at Jerusalem before and after the time of Caiaphas. The love he had to Helenilla made him in a short time release a great number of good Pieces which he had imprisoned haply one by one. By this means came Helenilla's house to be one of the best furnished about Madrid. A Coach, whereof she knew neither the price, nor was at the charge of maintaining the Horses that drew it, waited every morning at the door, to receive her commands, and rolled up and down till night, as she was pleased to order it. This prodigal Lover took a box for her at the Playhouse by the year, and there hardly passed a day but he entertained, with some magnificent Collation, her and some others of the sex, in the houses of recreation that are about the City. These entertainments were a certain Paradise to Montufar, who accordingly satiated his natural gluttony thereat; and being clothed like a Prince, and as full of c●sh as if he had been a Treasurer, he fed every day like a French-wan, and drank like a German. He had very great compliances for the liberal Granadine, and was not sparing of his acknowledgements to Fortune herself.  
But the wind turns of a sudden, and brings with it a horrible storm. Helenilla entertained the visits of a certain young Hector, one of the Dangerfields of the City; who never durst show their faces in the field; who live at the charge of some wretched Courtesan whom they tyrannize over; who go every day to Plays to make tumults and defeat poor Citizens of hats and cloaks; and who every night beat their innocent swords against the walls, that they may have some colour to swear in the morning, that they had a furious encounter with some enemies. Montufar▪ had many times given Helenilla notice, that he was not pleased with that unprofitable acquaintance of hers. Notwithstanding all his remonstrances, she still kept him company. Montufar was incensed thereat, insomuch that, to satisfy himself, he gave Helenilla the same chastisement, as the deceased Mendez, and she, had sometimes received from him in the mountains of Burgos. Helenilla pretended herself reconciled to him upon the first acknowledgements of his passion [but was resolved to be revenged.] The better to compass her design, she for eight days together treated him with such unusual kindnesses, that Montufar was absolutely satisfied: she was one of those Women, who adore their Tyrants, and exercise their cruelty on their adorers. One day, the Gentleman of Granada had ordered an excellent Supper to be provided, intending to make the third person at it himself; but some business so fell out, that he could not come. Montufar and Helenilla drank hand to hand to the health of their Benefactor. Montufar, according to his ordinary course, made a shift to get drunk, and as they were taking away the cloth would needs taste of a Bottle of perfumed Hippocras, which the Granadine had sent in, as a thing extraordinary. It was never discovered, whether Helenilla, who had opened it before supper, had put into the bottle a dram of something more than should be: This is certain, that not long after Montufar had taken it off, he felt a strange heat in his entrails, and, presently after, insupportable pains and gripe. He had some suspicion of his being poisoned, and ran to get his sword, which Helenilla perceiving, got in that interval out of the room to avoid his fury. Montufar went to her chamber whither he thought she had been gone to hide herself, and searching after her in the height of his fury, he discovers, as he took up a piece of Tapestry, Helenilla's young Gallant, who immediately run him with his sword through the body. Montufar, though halfdead, made a shift to get him by the throat. Upon the shrieks of the servants, who made a hellish noise, the Magistrate comes into the house, just as the Murderer was in hopes to make his escape, having put Montufar out of all pain with a sharp dagger he had.  
In the mean time Helenilla, who was got into the street, and knew not whether she went, enters the first door she met with open. She perceived a light in a low room, and a Gentleman walking up and down in it. She went and cast herself at his feet imploring his assistance and protection, and was much astonished to find him to be Don Sancho, of Villefagnan, who was no less surprised to meet with, in her, the Idol of his heart, which now appeared to him the fourth time. Don Sancho had, some time before, had some differences with his wife, and those were come to such height, as that they were thereupon absolutely parted, she finding it impossible to live with him, by reason of his ill treatments of her, and his debauches. He had procured from the Court a Commission to plant a new Colony in the Indies, and was within a short time to take shipping at Sevil. While Helenilla entertains him with a thousand forged stories, and that he is overjoyed to find her willing to accompany him in his voyage; the Magistrate condemns the young Gallant to be hanged for the murdering of Montufar, makes a search after Helenilla all over Madrid, and seized of all that was in the house. Don Sancho and Helenilla had a prosperous voyage to the Indies, where there have happened to them stranger adventures than any have been related yet. Some particulars have been brought over, but more are still expected. Those that are lately come out of those parts give an account of Helenilla as being yet alive, in great prosperity, and Governess of a vast Country; She and Don Sancho living as happily and as lovingly as any couple in the world. She engaged him to marry her ere he could have his desires of her; which when he made some difficulty to do; she satisfied him with this, that, in several worlds, it was lawful for a man to have several wives. There are several Booksellers, who with the last Ship that went into those parts, sent over a young man to get the Copy of her and her Indian husband's adventure, before it comes to my perusal; but though they do, I do hereby let them know, they must have my hand in it before it be printed, because I have all the stories wherewith she entertained Don Sancho at her so sudden meeting with him at Madrid ready for the Press, which, considering the surprise and confusion she mu●t needs be in at so fatal an accident, and the presence of spirit she had to invent them, will accordingly be thought the greatest miracle of female invention that ever was. I intent to put out all together, (not including what is already published) under the Title of THE COMPLETE COURTESAN, or THE MODERN LAIS, In the mean time, forbidding all manner of persons to trouble either Booksellers or Friends to send them Books under such names, till they find these Titles at the beginning of the Book which they now meet with at the end, or hear further from their humble Servant.   

THE INNOCENT ADULTERY.  
The Third Novel.  
THE Court of Spain was at Vailladolid, and consequently the inconveniences of those that were obliged to attend it, were the greater, (it being a place as famous for the dirtiness of it as Paris, if we may believe an eminent Spanish Poet, who hath given us that account thereof) when in one of the coldest Nights of a Winter that had been more sharp than ordinary, and about the hour that most of the Monasteries toll their Bell to Ma●ins, a young Gentleman, named Don Garcias, slipped out of a House where he had spent the day in some Company, or haply at Gaming, which, however we may be sensible of the other losses consequent thereto, makes us little mind th●t of our Time, though haply the greatest. Though the night were dark, yet had he not any light with him; whether his Lackey had through sleepiness lost his Link, or that his Master cared not much whether he had any; and was just passing into the street where his lodging was, when, at a door, opened of a sudden, a certain person was thrust out with such rudeness and violence, that the party fell at his feet, on the other side of the way, as he walked along.  
He was much startled at the strangeness of the adventure; much more, when going to give his hand to the person he thought so unworthily treated, he perceived, he was stripped to the Shirt, and heard him sighing and bemoaning himself, without endeavouring in the least to get up. Thence he inferred, he had hurt himself in his fall, and thereupon, having, with the help of his Lackey which was come up to him, set him on his feet, he asked him, Wherein he might do him any service. You may save my Life, and secure my Honour, replies the unknown Person, with a Voice interrupted with sighs, and which convinced him of the mistake he had been in all the while, and that it was a Woman he had found so barbarously forced out of doors at so unseasonable a time. I beseech you, added she, by the same generosity which makes you so ready to assist me in my misfortune, to dispose of me into some place, where I may remain concealed, provided none know of it but yourself, and such as you shall be confident of their fidelity.  
Don Garcias put his cloak about her, and commanding his Lackey to hold her by the arm on one side as he did on the other, he soon brought her to his Lodging, where all were in their Beds, but one Maid, who opened the door, cursing and bitterly railing at those who made her sit up so late. The Lackey, whether upon the directions of his Master, or the pleasure those of his quality take in the doing of mischief, made her no other answer than that of blowing out her candle, and while she was gone to light it again, calling him a hundred Rogues and Skip-kennels, Don Garcias, conducted, or indeed rather carried to his Chamber, (which was but one pair of Stairs) the distressed Lady, who with much ado kept on her feet.  
The Lackey having brought up a light, Don Garcias perceived he had met with a very extraordinary adventure, having brought into his Lodging one of the handsomest Women in all Spain, and one who immediately raised in him both Love and Compassion. Her hair was black, but withal of a brightness outvying that of Jet; her Complexion, a miraculous mixture of Lilies and Roses; her Eyes, to speak modestly of them, so many Suns; her Breast lovely, beyond all comparison; her Arms admirable; her Hands yet much more to be admired; and her Stature such as a Man that were a great Monarch should wish in her whom he called his Queen! But that delicate black Hair was all in disorder; that attractive Complexion was pale and discoloured; those sparkling Eyes were full of tears; that incomparable Breast all bruised; those Arms and Hands were not in a much better condition; in a word, that lovely Body, of so graceful a proportion, was full of black and bloody places, as if the owner had been beaten with Stirrup-leathers, a Girdle, or something else, no less unfit to be employed on so much tenderness and delicacy. If Don Garcias were infinitely pleased to look on so beautiful a person, the same beautiful person was no less troubled to see herself reduced to the condition she was in; at the disposal of a Man, she had not the least knowledge of, and one that seemed not to be five and twenty years of age. He took notice of her disturbance, and did all he could to persuade her, that she should be far from fearing any thing unhandsome from a Gentleman, who would think himself happy to serve her, though with the hazard of his Life.  
In the mean time, his Lackey kindled a little Char-coal fire; for in Spain there's but little other Fuel; but for that, all Countries must be content with what provision Nature hath been pleased to make them; though she be ever so much a Stepmother, there's no repining at her disposal of things. He also laid clean sheets, or should have done if he had any, on his Master's bed, who, having bidden the Lady good-night, left her in possession of his Chamber, double-locking the door upon her, and went to Bed, I know not upon what pretence, to a Gentleman of his acquaintance that had a Chamber in the same House. He slept in all likelihood better in his Friend's, than the Lady he had recommended to his own Bed did in his; he never drew bit, till the cries about the Streets awoke him; she ceased not weeping and bewailing herself all night long. Don Garcias got up, rubbed and powdered, and made himself as spruce and as youthful as he could. Being come to his own Chamber-door, he laid his Ear to the Keyhole, and having heard the poor Lady still bemoaning herself, he made no difficulty to go in to her. His presence heightened the violence of her affliction, and not able to look on him with any command of her grief; You see, said she to him, a woman, who was, no longer since than yesterday, the most esteemed of any in Vailladolid, but at present the most despicable, and most infamous, and in a condition now much more likely to raise compassion, than she hath sometime been to cause envy. But how great soever the misfortune may be whereto I am reduced, the seasonable kindness I received from you, may yet in some measure remedy it, if after you have afforded me the Sanctuary of your Chamber till night, you get me conveyed thence, either in a Sedan or Coach, to a Convent which I shall name to you. But may I, added she, after all the Obligations you have cast on me, entreat you to be at the trouble to go to my House, to inquire what is said and done there; and, in fine, to inform yourself, what discourse there is about the Court and City, concerning the unhappy Woman, whom you have so generously taken into your protection.  
Don Garcias proffered himself to go where ever she pleased to desire him, and received her commands, with that earnestness and alacrity, as a person newly fallen in Love, would do those of the Beauty he was become an adorer of. She gave him such directions, as were necessary; he left her, upon engagement to make a speedy return, and she immediately fell to such lamentations, as if she had but newly begun. It was not an hour ere Don Garcias returned; and upon his coming into the room, perceiv●ng his fair Guest much alarmed, as if she had had a presentiment of the ill news he brought her; Madam, said he to her, if you are Eugenia, Wife of Don Sancho, I have somewhat to tell you which very much concerns you; Eugenia is not to be heard of, and Don Sancho in prison, charged with the death of his Brother, Don Lewis. Don Sancho, is innocent, said she, I am the unfortunate Eugenia, and Don Lewis was the lewdest Man in the world.  
Her tears, which thereupon broke their way with too much violence, and her sobs admitting very little intermission, suffered her not to speak any more; and I think Don Garcias was not in the mean time a little troubled to compose himself to sadness, and to express how sensible he was of her affliction. At last, as we find that violent things are seldom of long continuance, Eugenias' grief admitted some moderation; she wiped her eyes and face, and went on with the discourse, which, as I said, her tears and sighs had interrupted. It amounts not to much, said she to him, that you know the name and quality of the unfortunate Wom●n, you have in so short a time so highly obliged; you may well expect she should acquaint you with the particulars of her Life, and by that confidence reposed in you, make some kind of acknowledgement of the extraordinary obligation you have cast on her. I am come out of one of the best houses in Vailladolid. I was born to a great fortune, and Nature hath been so indulgent to me, as to matter of Beauty, that, had I been proud of it, I needed not to have feared the checks and censures of any: The accomplishments of my person brought me more Gallants than the greatness of my Estate; and the reputation of both together raised me Adorers in the most remote Cities of Spain. Among those who proposed to themselves the felicity of my enjoyments, Don Sancho, and Don Lewis, two Brothers, equal both as to the goods of Fortune and Nature, were the most remarkable, as well for the violence of their passion, as the emulation they expressed who should do me the most, and most considerable services. My Friends countenanced the pretensions of Don Sancho, who was the elder of the two, and my Inclinations were consonant to their choice, and disposed me to a m●n turned of forty years of age, who, by the mildness and compliance of his disposition, and the extraordinary care he took to please me, got a greater Interest in my soul, than would haply have done a person whose age had been more suitable to mine. The two Brothers, though they had been Rivals, had nevertheless lived so friendly together as never to have any difference; and Don Sancho, upon his gaining of me, lost not the friendship of his Brother Don Lewis. Their Houses joined together, or rather were but one House, since the common Wall that separated them, had a Door in it, which, by joint-consent was not locked of either side. Don Lewis was not shy, even before his Brother, to make the same addresses to me as he was used to do whilst he was his Rival; and Don Sancho, whose affection was heightened by his enjoyment, and who loved me beyond his own Life, looked on his Courtships as the expressions of an innocent gayness and civility. He called me himself his Brother's Mistress, who for his part palliated a real love with so much elusion and artifice, that I was not the only person deceived in it. In fine, having a while accustomed himself to entertain me publicly with his passion, not minding who were present, he came at last to make some discoveries of it to me in private, with so much importunity, and so little respect, that I was no longer to doubt of his unworthy designs upon me. Though I was but very young, yet had I prudence enough to put him off with such Retorts, as whence he might have taken occasion to let all things pass as if he still only personated the passionate Lover. I took in jest whatever he said to me seriously, and though to my remembrance I never was more angry than at that time, yet I never did myself greater violence, to forbear doing any thing inconsistent with the ordinary indifferency of my humour. This he was so far from making his advantage of, that it incensed him; and giving me a frightful look, wherein his wicked intentions were but too visible; No, no, Madam, said he to me, I am not so much a counterfeit since I lost you, as I was while I had yet hopes to gain you: and though your rigour be great enough soon to free you from a Love and Addresses which you think troublesome, you have so accustomed me to suffer, that it will be much better done of you to— Forbear ever being alone with you, said I, interrupting him. Upon which one of my Women, coming into my chamber, prevented him, from making further discoveries of his insolence, and me, from expressing my resentment thereof, as highly as the occasion required, and I found myself inclined to do. I was very glad since, I had not done it, upon this account of my Husband, and was in hope that wicked Brother would have afforded me less of his love and more of his esteem; but he still continued both his prevarications before people, and his importunities in private. To elude his Transportations and serious Addresses, I put on the greatest severity I could, so far as to threaten to give his Brother notice of his behaviour towards me. I made use of all the ways I could think on, to make him sensible of his miscarriage. I entreated, I wept, I promised to love him as a Brother; but he would needs have that place in my affection which Lovers only pretend to. In fine, sometimes born with, sometimes sharply treated, and still no less amorous than abhorred, he would have made me the most unfortunate Woman in Spain, if my conscience, which could not upbraid me with any thing, had not established and preserved the tranquillity of my mind. But at last my virtue, which had stood out the assaults of so dangerous an enemy, forsook me; and I became a prey to one I little thought of, because I forsook it. The Court came to Vailladolid, and brought with it that gallantry which makes Ladies that are unaccustomed to it, entertain other thoughts than they had before. There is somewhat more than ordinary pleasing in all new things; our Ladies thought they saw something in the Courtiers which they observed not in those who amongst us went for the greatest Gallants; and the Courtiers on the other side endeavoured to please our Ladies, and to insinuate into their favou●, though they thought them little better than certain Conquests. Among the Gallants that followed the Court, in hopes of some preferment in time for their attendance: a Portuguez, named Andrado, was much taken notice of, for the sharpness of his wit, the gracefulness of his person and countenance, and more particularly for the greatness of his expenses, a charm that h●th a strange power upon unexperienced Ladies, who measure the excellency of the soul, by the magnificence of a man's retinue and his clothes. Wealth he had not much, but Gaming brought that, which was haply superfluous with others, to further his Accommodations; and the advantages he made of it were so considerable, that he lived at as high a rate as the richest and most sumptuous about the Court. I was so unhappy as to be thought worth his liking, and when, through my own vanity and his courtship, I was persuaded that he was taken with something in me, I thought myself the happiest woman of my quality in the world. I should find it no small difficulty to express what artifices he had to force himself into a woman's affections, and answerably thereto what an excessive love I had for him. That Husband, whom not long before I thought so kind, so dear, and so worthy my respects, was grown, in my apprehension, as despicable, as odious. For Don-Lewis I had a greater aversion than ever; nothing pleased me but Andrado; I could love no man but him, and wherever I came and had not the sight of him, I astonished all people with my distractions and disquiets. Nor was Andrado's affection to me less violent. His predominant passion of Gaming gave way to that of his Love; his presents gained my Women, his Letters and Sonnets took me infinitely, and the Music he was somewhat over-prodigal of, gave all the Husbands that lived in my street occasion to be thinking. In fine, he charged me so home, or I made such weak resistance, that I was wholly at his devotion. I promised him all he could desire, insomuch that all the trouble we were at, was about the place and the time. My Husband was to make one at a Hunting-match, which was to have kept him in the Country for several days together. I sent notice of it to my dear Portuguez, and we appointed the execution of our amorous designs to be the very night after my Husband's going out of Town. I was, at a certain hour agreed on between us, to leave the backdoor of our Garden open, and, under pretence of passing away some part of the night there, by reason of the extraordinary heat, to set up a field-bed in a little wainscot Bower, open of all sides, and surrounded with Orang-trees and Jessemine. In fine, my Husband left Vailladolid in the morning: but from that to night seemed to me the longest day of my life. Night came at last, and my Women having set up a bed in the Garden, I pretended before them an extraordinary sleepiness, so that as soon as they had undressed me, I bid them go to their beds, one only excepted who was privy to my design. I was hardly got into bed, and the maid that st●id with me, whose name was Marina, had but locked that door of the Garden which came from the house, and opened the backdoor; when my Women came in all haste to tell me that my Husband was returned. I had but so much time as to get that door locked, which I had caused to be opened to let in Andrado. My Husband came to me with his ordinary caresses, and I leave it to you to imagine how I entertained them. He told me the occasion of his so sudden return, was, that the Gentleman who had invited him to Hunting, had been thrown by his Horse and broke a Leg; and having added to that an account of what else had happened that day, he commended my ingenuity in making choice of a place to avoid the inconveniencies of the heat, and would needs pass away the night with me. He immediately put off his clothes and came into bed to me. All I could do was to put on the best countenance I could, and to smother the trouble I was in at his return, and to assure him, by some forced caresses of mine, that I was not insensible of his. Andrado, in the mean time, came according to the appointment, and finding that door locked which he should have found open, he with the assistance of his Lackey made a shift to get over the Garden wall, with hopes, notwithstanding that obstacle, to pass away the night with me. He hath avowed to me since, that his engaging himself in so presumptuous and dangerous a design proceeded merely from a motive of jealousy, as being in a manner confident, that some Rival, more in my favour than himself, was admitted to those enjoyments which he had been put into hopes of. The imagination he had, that haply I had put a trick upon him, put him into such a fury, that he was fully resolved to be even with me, in case what he suspected should prove true, and to exercise the greatest revenge he could think of, upon the Gallant he should find possessed of the place he had promised himself. He made his approaches to the Bower where we were a-bed, with as little noise as he could. 'Twas a clear Moonshine night, so that I both perceived him coming in, and knew him. He saw I was frightened, and observed the signs I made to him to withdraw. He could not of a sudden discern whether the person who lay by me was my Husband or some other; but perceiving in my countenance no less astonishment, than confusion and shame, and finding upon the Table the clothes and Plume of Feathers, which he had seen my Husband in, that morning, he was satisfied it could be no other than Don Sancho who was a-bed with me, and further confirmed in that belief, by finding him sleeping more securely than a Gallant could have done, had any been in his place. However he would needs come to that side of the bed which I lay on, and give me a kiss, which I durst not deny him for fear of awaking my Husband. He forbore putting me into any further fright, but went away, lifting up his eyes, shrinking up his shoulders, and doing such actions as betrayed the regret he conceived at his being so unhappily disappointed, and immediately got out of the Garden with the same facility as he had got into it.  
The next morning betimes, I received a Letter from him, the most passionate I had ever read, and an excellent Paper of Verses upon the tyranny of Husbands. He had spent in composing them the remainder of the night after he had left me; and for the whole day after I had received them, I did nothing almost but read them over and over, when I could do it without any body's observing it; nay, so far were we either of us from reflecting on the danger we had been in, that our thoughts were busied to contrive how we might run into the same hazard again. And for my part, though I had not of myself been sufficiently inclined to grant him any thing he desired of me, nor loved Andrado so much as I did, or had ●ot yielded myself up to the charms of his Letters; yet could I not have withstood the persuasions of my Woman, who perpetually solicited me on his behalf. She reproached me, that, since I had so little confidence, it argued I had but little Love for Andrado, and entertained me with stories of the passion he had for me, with no less earnestness than if she had been to represent to some Gallant of her own what she herself had for him. I understood by that carriage of hers, that she was as perfect as needed in the part she was to act, and withal of what importance it was to be careful in the choice of such persons as are placed about those of my age and quality. But I had resolved to ruin myself; and if she had been more virtuous than she was, I should not have trusted her so far. In fine, she got me to consent, that she should receive Andrado into a Wardrobe adjoining to my Chamber where she lay alone: and we had ordered things so, as that as soon as my Husband were fallen asleep, she should go into my bed to supply my plac●, while I passed away the night with Andrado. He was accordingly hid in my Wardrobe, my Husband fell asleep, and I was preparing myself to go to him, with the earnestness usual in persons who are violent in their desires, yet have much to fear; when a horrid confusion of Voices dolefully crying out fire, fire, struck my ear, and awakened my Husband; and immediately my Chamber was full of smoke, and looking towards the Window, methought the Air was all in a flame. A Negro wench that belonged to the Kitchen had in her drink set the House on fire, and being fallen asleep it was not perceived, till that, having made its way to some dry Wood, and thence fastening on certain Stables, it began to break through the floor of my Lodging. My Husband was a Man very much beloved. Of a sudden, the House was full of Neighbours, who came to do what good they could. My Brother-in-law, Don Lewis, whom the common danger made more diligent than any other, came immediately in to our assistance with all his people, and, animated by his passion, makes a shift to come to my Chamber, even through the flames: which had already taken hold of the Staircase. He had made such haste that he had nothing about him but his Nightgown, which having wrapped me in, he took me up in his arms, rather dead than living; but more out of a reflection on the danger Andrado was exposed to, than what I was in myself; carried me to his own House through the door that was common between us, and having put me into his own Bed, left me with some of my Women to keep me company. In the mean time, my Husband, with their assistance, who concerned themselves in the accident happened to us, ordered things so well, that the fire was extinguished after it had done much mischif. Andrado found it no hard matter to make his escape amidst the confusion and thronging of those who were come either to help us, or to steal; and you may imagine to yourself, how joyfully I received that good news from Marina. He writ to me the next day some things that were infinitely ingenious and handsome, upon the strangeness of our disappointment, which I answered as I could, and so we alleviated, by mutual Lette●s, the trouble we both equally conceived, not to see one another.  
The mischief which the fire had done, being in some measure repaired, so that it was thought fit I should remove from Don Lewis' Lodgings to my own; it proved no hard matter for Andrado to gain my consent to try the same way once more, as being confident it would then have taken its effect, if by so extraordinary an accident it had not been prevented. But it so happened, that that very night wherein we had appointed to recover what such unfore-seen emergencies had deprived us of, a Gentleman of my Husband's acquaintance, being in some trouble about a Duel he had been engaged in, and thinking himself not safe at an Ambassadour's where he had taken refuge, was forced to bethink him of some place where he might be in less danger of falling into the hands of Justice. My Husband brought him secretly to our House, and commanded the Keys to be carried up to his own Chamber after he had caused the doors to be locked in his presence, for fear some treacherous or careless Servant might prove the occasion of his Friend's discovery.  
This order, whereat I was both surprised and extremely troubled, was but just put in execution, when Andrado gave the signal agreed on between him and Marina, to let her know he waited in the street for admission. She, much at a loss what to do with him, made a shift to signify to him that he should stay a little. We consulted together, she and I, and not finding any possibility to get him into the house at the door, she went to the window, and speaking as low as that he could but hear her, acquainted him with the new obstacle that had intervened, and proposed it to him, as the best expedient she could think on, to expect till all were a-bed, and then to get in at a little window in the Kitchen, which she would open for him. Andrado, to satisfy his love, thought nothing too hazardous to attempt. My Husband saw his Friend a-bed, and upon my persuasion went in very good time to his own; all the Servants did the like, and Marina, when she thought all out of the way, set open the little window for Andrado, who immediately got half way in; but with so little care, and so unfortunately to himself, that after much striving, which rather hindered than furthered his getting in, he was so locked in about the middle between the Iron bars of the window, that he could get neither forwards nor backwards. His man, who stood all the while in the Street, could do him no service; Marina from the place she stood in, as little, without the help of some other person. She went and got out of her Bed one of the Maids whom she was very intimate with, telling her, that being to receive a kindness that night from a Sweetheart of hers, one she loved very well, and was shortly to be married to, she had endeavoured to get him in at the Kitchen window, and that he had fastened himself between two Barrs so strangely, that it was impossible to get him out without either filing them off, or removing them out of their places. She desired her to come and help her, which the other was soon persuaded to; but wanting a Hammer or some other Iron-tool fit for such a purpose, the assistance of those two maids had done Andrado but little good, if he had not himself bethought him of his Dagger, which they made use of so effectually, that, after abundance of pains, the bars were got loose out of the wall, and the bold adventurer put out of the fear he was in of being found so shamefully fastened in a place; where, to escape best, he could have been looked on no otherwise than as a Breaker of Houses. This could not be done with so little noise, but that some of our Servants overheard it, and thereupon were looking into the street▪ when Andrado, carrying along with him that piece of the Grate into which his Body had entered with some violence, was running away as fast as he could, followed by his man. The Neighbours, and our people cried out, Thief's, and it was taken for granted, that it was only some Rogues that would have broken into Don Sancho's House where they perceived the Grate broken. Andrado in the mean time being come to his Lodging, was forced to get the Iron grate which he had carried away about him, filled off; he and his man, with all their striving and endeavours, being not able otherwise to shift him of that troublesome girdle.  
This third accident put him out of humour extremely, as I have understood since: but for my part, I entertained it otherwise, and while Marina, almost frighted out of her little wits, gave me the relation of it, I thought I should have burst with Laughing. Yet upon second thoughts could I not be less troubled than Andrado was, at the ill success of our enterprises: but so far were our desires from being cooled thereby, that they grew the more violent, and permitted us not to delay the satisfaction thereof, any longer than to the next day after this pleasant and unhappy adventure. My Husband was gone into the City, to compose the affairs of his Friend about the Duel, and, in all likelihood, to have been employed the remainder of that day. I sent Marina to Andrado's Lodging; which was not far from my House. She found him a-bed, having not yet o'ercome the weariness of his night-adventure, and so discouraged at the disappointments of his love, that Marina was not a little troubled to see, with what indifference he entertained my furtherance of his desires, and the little impatience he expressed to come to me; though she sufficiently represented to him the opportunity which then presented itself, and was not to be slighted. At last, after much persuasion and many remonstrances he came to me, and I received him with that excess of joy and satisfaction, a person absolutely at the command of her passion could be guilty of. I was so blinded therewith, that I observed not so much as Marina with what coldness he took my kindnesses, though it were but too too remarkable. At last the importunity of my caresses forced from him some discoveries of his. Our mutual joy was grown to that height, as not to be expressed otherwise than by our silence; and the very thought of what we both desired with equal earnestness, had raised in me a bashfulness which made me avoid the looks of Andrado, and might have given him a confidence to do what he pleased with me, when Marina, who was gone out of the room, as well to stand Sentinel without, as to leave us to the privacy of our enjoyments, comes in with a sudden alarm that my Husband was in the House. She dragged Andrado, rather dead than living, into my wardrobe, as being, upon a sudden reflection on the precedent dangers he had so narrowly escaped, at a greater loss than I was who had most reason to be frighted. My Husband had some business to put his Servants upon, before he came up into my chamber. The time that took him up below afforded me the leisure to put myself into order, while Marina was busied in emptying a great trunk to make a lodging for Andrado. She had hardly locked it by that time my Husband was come into my Chamber, who, having only kissed me at his coming in, without making any stay with me, went strait into my wardrobe, and lighting on a Playbook there, sat down and fell a reading. He pitched upon some passage he thought pleasant, and consequently would have kept him reading a long time (for he was very Bookish) if, by the advice of Marina, I had not gone into the wardrobe, and, obliging him to lay aside his Book, brought him thence into my own Chamber. My misfortune was not an end with this; Don Sancho taking notice of my being melancholy and troubled in mind, as indeed I had reason to be, endeavoured to put me into a better humour by the most divertive discourses he could think on. He never made it so earnestly his business to please me, and never displeased me more, nor was more burdensome to me. I entreated him to leave my Chamber, pretending an extraordinary inclination to sleep: but he, on the other side, out of an excessive desire to see me out of the sadness he thought me burdened with, kept me company, much against my will, longer than I could have wished; and though he were naturally a person the most complaisant of any in the Wo●ld, I thought him so importunate then, that I was forced to hunt him out of the room. He would, out of his kindness, have returned into my wardrobe, that he might be near me, but, upon some private reason I gave him why it was not convenient, he was persuaded to go to his Chamber. As soon as I had locked my door, I ran to my Wardrobe to deliver Andrado out of his close imprisonment. Marina made all the haste she could to open the trunk, and was little better than dead, as well as myself; when we found him in a manner breathless, not discovering either by pulse or stirring any sign, whence we might think he was alive. Do but imagine what a terrible loss I must be at, and what I could bethink myself to do in such an extremity! I did as women do in such occurences; I wept, I tore my hair, I grew desperate, and I think I should not have wanted courage enough to run Andrado's dagger into my breast, if the greatness of my affliction had not reduced me to such weakness as that I was forced to lay myself down on Marina's bed. She for her part, though troubled as much as any could be, had a greater command of her judgement in our common misfortune, and endeavoured to find out those remedies, which, weak as I was, I should never have made use of, though I should have kept so much discretion about me as to do it. She told me, that Andrado might only be in a sound, and that a Chirurgeon, either by letting him blood, or some other way, might recover him into the life he seemed to have lost. I looked on her without making any answer, my grief having reduced me to senselessness and stupidity. Marina lost no more time in consulting me any further; she went to put in execution wha● she had proposed to me; but as she opened the doo● to get out, who should meet her but my Brother-in-Law Don Lewis, coming, after he had looked for me in my chamber, to the Wardrobe, where he concluded I must be, having been told by my husband that I was in no good humour. This second misfortune we thought more terrible than the former. Had not Andrado's body been exposed to his sight, as it unhappily was, there needed no more than the confusion and astonishment which he might have observed in our countenances, to raise in him a suspicion that we were upon some strange design, which no doubt but he would have discovered, as one that concerned himself much in my actions, not only as a Brother-in-law, but also as a Lover. Unavoidable therefore it was that I should cast myself at the feet of a person, whom I had so often seen prostrate at my own; and that, deriving a confidence from the affection he had for me, and that generosity which ought to be inseparable from the quality of a Gentleman, recommend to his absolute disposal what was dearest to me. He did what he could to raise me up; but I, on the other side, resolved not to stir off my knees, with all sincerity, as well as my tears and sobs would give me leave, gave him an account of the cruel accident that had befallen me, whereat I doubt not but in his soul he conceived an extraordinary satisfaction. Don Lewis, said I to him, I do not implore thy generosity to prolong my life for some few days; no, my misfortunes render it so contemptible to me, that I should not want the courage to be my executioner, did I not fear my despair would cast some blemish on my honour, from which that of Don Sancho, nay indeed, his life, are haply inseparable. Thou mayst haply think the disdains I have had for thee, were the effects of my aversion rather than my virtue; thou may'st rejoice at my disgrace, nay haply make it contribute to thy revenge: but wilt thou have the presumption to impute the crime to me which thou wouldst have taught me, or wilt thou be so ungrateful as not to express some indulgence towards one that hath had so much for thee? Don Lewis not suffering me to proceed any further, You see, Madam said he to me, how just Heaven is in punishing you, for having been so indiscreet in the choice of what you should have loved and what you ought to hate: but I have nothing to lose, as being to make it appear, by my freeing you out of the present trouble you are in, that you have not a better friend in the world than Don Lewis. He thereupon left me, and returns presently again, with two Porters, whom he had sent one of his servants for. Marina and I in the interim had made a shift to get Andrado's body into the Trunk again: Don Lewis himself helped the two fellows to get it on their shoulders between them, and caused it to be carried to a friend of his, whom he acquainted with the adventure, having already made him privy to the love he had for me.  
Having, as soon it was brought in, taken Andrado's body out of the Trunk, Don Lewis caused it to be laid all along upon a Table, and as they were pulling off his clothes, feeling his pulse, and laying his hand upon that part of the body where the beating of the heart is felt, he found him to be not quite dead. With all expedition a Chirurgeon was sent for, while in the mean time they put him into bed, and used all the means they could think on to bring him to life. At last, he came to himself; he was let blood; a Lackey was left to wait on him; and the room was cleared, that so nature and rest might perfect what art and industry had begun.  
You may well imagine what astonishment Andrado was in, when, after this long Trance, he found himself in a bed, not able to call any thing to mind but the fear he had been in, and that he had been put into a Trunk, not knowing where he was, nor what he had either to hope or fear. He was in this terrible distraction when he heard the chamber door open, and after the curtains were drawn, by the light of the torches that had been brought in, perceived Don Lewis, whom he knew to be my Brother-in-law, and who having taken a chair spoke to him in these terms: Do you know me, Signior Andrado, said he to him? And do you not withal know I am Brother ●o Don Sancho? I do indeed know you, replied Andrado, and withal to be Brother to Don Sa●cho. And have you any remembrance, says Don Lewis, of what happened to you this day at his house? But whether you do or no continued he, assure yourself, that if ever I hea●, of any further designs you have upon my Sister, or are so much as seen in the street where she lives, I shall be indebted to you a mischief, and will be sure to pay it, notwithstanding all your caution; and know, you had been ere this among your acquaintances in the other World, had I not too much pity and compliance for an impudent and unfortunate woman, who hath reposed this confidence in me; and were not assured, that the criminal designs you have laid together against my Brother's honour, had not their effect. I advise you therefore to change your lodging, and flatter not yourself with any hope you can elude my resentment, if you perform not the promise I expect you should make me to do it. Andrado would gladly have engaged himself to much more. He made the most unworthy submissions to him he could think on, and acknowledged he ought him a life which it was in his power to have taken away from him. His weakness was such as might well confine him to his bed; but the cruel fear he had been in, strengthened him to get up. He thereupon conceived an aversion for me, greater than the love he had sometimes born me, insomuch, that it was a horror to him but to hear me named. I was in the mean time in no small trouble, to know what was become of him, yet had not the confidence to make any enquiry after him of Don Lewis, nor indeed to look with any assurance upon him. I sent Marina to Andrado's lodging, whither she came, not long after he had got thither himself, and while he was packing up his things to be gone to a lodging he had taken in another quarter of the City. As soon as ever he saw her, he told her that if she had any message from me, she might carry it to some body else, and having given her a short account of what had passed between him and Don Lewis, he closed his relation with this character of me, that I was the most ungrateful, and most perfidious woman in the world; that he looked on me no otherwise than as one that had plotted his ruin, and that I should no more think of him, than as if I had never seen him.  
With these words he dismissed Marina; but notwithstanding the astonishment she was in at such a sharp entertainment, she had the wit to follow him at a distance, and to observe the place where his things were carried, and by that means discovered the new lodging he had taken. The trouble it was to me to be charged with an act of malice I was no way guilty of, and to be hated by a person I loved so well, and for whose sake I had hazarded my life and my honour, suffered me not to give way to all the joy which I should have conceived at his being out of danger. I fell into a deep melancholy, which soon turned to a sickness, and that being such as the Physicians could not well give any account of, my husband was extremely troubled thereat. To heighten my misfortune, Don Lewis began to press, and make his advantages of the extraordinary service he had done me, incessantly importuning me to grant him that which I was content Andrado should have had, and reproaching me with the love I had for my Gallant, when ever I represented to him the duty I ought a Husband, and what he ought a Brother. Thus, hated by what I loved, loved by what I hated; deprived of the sight of Andrado, too often troubled with that of Don Lewis, and tormented with perpetual reflections on my ingratitude to the best Husband in the world, who thought nothing too much to please me, and was more troubled at my indisposition than I was myself, when, had he known the truth, he might justly have taken away my life; incessantly baited with the insupportable remonstrances of my conscience, and racked between the two most contrary passions, Love and Hatred; I kept my bed for two months, expecting death with gladness: but it was Heaven's pleasure to reserve me to greater misfortunes. The strength of my age, much against my will, overcame and dispelled the sadness which I thought only death could have put a period to. I recovered my health, and Don Lewis renewed his prosecutions with greater insolence than before. I had given my women order, and particularly Marina, that they should never leave me alone with him. Being enraged at that obstacle, and wearied out with my perpetual resistances, he resolved to obtain, by the most horrid piece of treachery, that ever came into the mind of a person consummately wicked, what I had denied him with so much constancy.  
I have already told you that between his house and ours there was a door, seldom locked of either side. Having set a night wherein he though: to put his damnable design in execution, and staying till all, as well at our house as his, were a-bed, he comes in at the door; opened that of our house which was to the street, and going to our stable let lose all the horses, whereof there was a considerable number, and drove them into the court, whence they got into the street. The noise they made soon awakened those who had the care of them, and their bustling about the house awakened my husband. He was a great lover of Horses; and had no sooner heard that his own were gotten into the streets, but putting on his nightgown, he runs out after them, very much incensed at his Grooms, and the Porter, for being so careless as not to make fast the great gate. Don Lewis, who had hid himself in the room next my chamber, and had seen my husband when he went out, slipped down into the court some time after him, and having made fast the street door, and expected some little while to avoid my suspicion had he come immediately upon me, he came at last and laid himself down by me, acting the part of my husband in every thing so well, that it is not much to be wondered at, if I were mistaken in him. His standing so long in his sh●rt, had made him very cold; so that as he came into bed: Good Lord, sweetheart, said I to him, how cold you are! How can I be otherwise, replied he, counterfeiting his voice; 'tis cold standing in the streets. And for your horses, said I, are they taken? My people are gone after them, replied he. And thereupon coming close to me, as it were to warm himself; amidst his embraces and kindnesses, he had his design upon me, and dishonoured his Brother. That Heaven was pleased to permit it, might haply be, that I should be a future instrument to punish so enormous a crime, that my honour might be re-established by myself, and my innocence publicly acknowledged.  
Having ●one what he came for, he pretended to be much troubled about his horses; he got up from me, went and opened the street door, and withdrew to his own lodgings: not a little elevated at the crime he had committed, and hugging himself haply in the reflection of what was to prove the occasion of his ruin. My husband comes in presently after, and having cast himself into bed, turned to me, frozen as he was, and obliged me by caresses, which I thought extraordinary, to beg of him, that he would let me sleep. He thought it very strange; I wondered much he should; and thereupon made no further doubt of my being betrayed. The very thought of it would not suffer me to close my eyes till it was day. I got up much earlier than I was used to do. I went to Mass, and there met with Don Lewis dressed as if he had been for some extraordinary entertainment, with a countenance as cheerful as mine was sad and dejected. He presented me with holy Water; I received it with much indifference at his hands, which he observing, and looking on me with a malicious smile: Good Lord, Madam, said he, how cold you are? At these words, being the same I had said to him, and enough to satisfy me who was the Author of my misfortune, I grew pale, and immediately blushed, upon thought that I had grown pale. He might have observed in my eyes, and by the disorder into which those words had put me, how highly I was offended at his insolence. I went away without so much as looking on him. What distractions I was in all Mass-time, you may easily imagine; as also how infinitely my husband must needs be troubled, when he observed that all dinner time, and all day after, I minded not what was said or done, and could not forbear sighing and discovering the disturbance of my mind, though I endeavoured all I could to smother it. I withdrew to my chamber sooner than I was used to do, pretending to be somewhat indisposed. I bethought myself of a hundred several ways to be revenged; but at last my fury suggested one to me which I fixed upon. When bedtime was come I went to bed at the same time with my Husband. I pretended to be asleep, to oblige him to do the like; and finding him fast enough, and confident all the servants were no less, I got up, took his dagger, and (besotted and blinded as I was by my passion) it proved nevertheless so sure a guide to me, that through the same door, and by the same way that my enemy got into my bed; I got to the side of his. My fury, though violent, made me not do any thing precipitately; with the hand I had free I felt for his heart, and when by the beating thereof I had discovered it, the fear of missing my blow made not that hand to tremble which held the Dagger; but, with all the circumspection imaginable, I thrust it twice into the heart of the detestable Don Lewis, and so punished him with a gentler death than he had deserved. And doubting those two might not do my work, I gave him five or six stabs more, and so returned to my chamber, with a tranquillity; whence I inferred myself, that I had never done any thing, from the doing whereof I should derive greater satisfaction. I returned my husband's Dagger, all bloody as it was, into the sheath; I put on my clothes with as much haste and as little noise as I could: I took along with me what Jewels and Money I had: and, no less distracted by my love than troubled at what I had done, I left a husband who loved me beyond his own life, to cast myself upon the courtesy of a young man, who not long before had sent me word that he had not the least respect for me. The fearfulness incident to my sex, was so strangely fortified by the impetuous passions I was hurried withal: that, all alone, and in the night time, I walked from my own house to Andrado's lodgings, with as much confidence, as if I had done a good action, at noon day. I knocked at the door, and was answered, that Andrado was not within, being engaged at a Play at a friend's not far off▪ His servants who knew me, and were not a little surprised to see me, entertained me with much respect, and got me a fire in their Master's chamber. It was not long ere he came in himself, and I believe it was the least of his thoughts to find me waiting for him in his chamber. He no sooner cast his eye on me, but betraying his astonishment in the wildness of his looks: Madam Eugenia, saith he, what business hath brought you hither? What can you expect more from a person, you would have sacrificed to the jealousy of a Brother-in-law you are desperately in love with? Ah Andrado! replied I, do you make that construction of an unavoidable accident, which forced me to make submissions to that man whom of all the world I was most afraid of being obliged to? And should you pass so disadvantageous a judgement on a person that hath given you such extraordinary demonstrations of her affection? I expected something else than reproaches at your hands. If I am guilty of any crime, it is not against you that I have committed it, but against a Husband that should have been dear to me; proving ungrateful to him because I would not be so to you, and forsaking him to come to a cruel man whose entertainment of me is as unworthy as my kindnesses to him are great. When your death, which I thought really so, had put me into that despair, wherein a woman, perpetually expecting the minute of being surprised by her husband, might be; and when thereupon Don Lewis came upon me in that deplorable condition, what could I do less than trust myself to his generosity and the love he had for me? He hath treacherously made his advantages of the confidence, to the loss of my honour; but 'tis my satisfaction, that he hath bought his enjoyments with the price of his life, which I have now taken away from him; and that, my dear Andrado, is the occasion of my coming hither. I must keep out of the hands of Justice, till such time as it be known, what crime Don Lewis is guilty of, and what misfortune hath befallen me. I have money and Jewels good store, upon which you may live handsomely in any part of Spain, whither you shall think fit to accompany my misfortune; while Time shall make all the world sensible, that I am much more to be pitied than blamed, and my future carriage satisfy you in particular, that it was not without reason I did what I have done. Very likely, interrupted he, you have great Apologies to make for yourself, and I shall supply the place of Don Lewis, till thou art weary of me, and then be killed, as he was, to make way for another. Ah Woman insatiably lustful! continued he: What could I expect more than this last wickedness of thine to be confirmed in the persuasion I had, that it was thy design to sacrifice me to thy Gallant? But thou must not think to escape with bare reproaches; no, I will rather be the Executioner to punish thy crime, than be thy Complice in it.  
With those words he violently tore off my clothes, and, with a cruelty, which raised horror even in his own servants, gave me a hundred blows, naked as I was, and having satiated his rage, till that he was grown weary, he thrust me out into the street, where if you had not fortunately lighted upon me, I should either have been dead, or in their hands who haply are searching after me.  
Having given over speaking, she showed Don Garcias her arms all black and blue, as also her breast, and what other parts of her body civility permitted her to discover, which were in the same condition. Whereupon reassuming her discourse: Thus have you heard, generous Don Garcias, said she to him, the deplorable History of the unfortunate Eugenia. Let me beg your advice; if so there be any for an inexpressibly-unhappy woman, that hath been the occasion of so many fatal accidents. Ah Ma●am, replies Don Garcias, were it but as easy for me to advise you what is to be done, as it will be to punish. Andrado, if you give me leave! Deny me not the honour to be the Revenger of your quarrel; and be not shy in employing upon any design you would have to be undertaken, a person who is no less sensible of your misfortune, than of the injury hath been done you.  
Don Garcias said this to her, with an earnestness, which satisfied Eugenia, that the Compassion was not so great as the Love he seemed to have for her. She made the most obliging acknowledgements of his kindnesses which her civility and gratitude could inspire her with: and further entreated him to take the pains to go once more to her house to be more particularly informed of what was said concerning her departure and the death of Don Lewis.  
He got thither, as they were carrying to prison Don Sancho, his servants, and those of Don Lewis, who had taken their oaths that their Master had been in love with Eugenia. The common door, which was found open, and Don Sancho's dagger still bloody, gave much suspicion of his being guilty of his brother's death, whereof he was no less innocent than troubled at it. The sudden departure of his wife, and her taking away her Jewels and money, put him into such an amazement, as out of which he could not recover himself, and troubled him more than his imprisonment and the proceedings of Justice against him. Don Garcias was in much impatience to give Eugenia an account of these things: but it so happened he could not do it so soon as he wished. Meeting in the street with a friend who had some business with him, he kept him a good while in discourse not far from his own lodging: and, as unlucky fortune would have it, over against that of Andrado, whence he saw coming out a servant, booted, carrying a Portmanteau. He followed him at a distance accompanied by his friend; and having observed his going to the Posthouse, he went in after him, and found him taking up three horses, to be made ready within half an hour. Don Garcias suffered him to go his ways, and bespoke the same number of horses to be ready at the same time. His friend asked him what he meant to do with them? he promised to tell him if he would go along with him: whereto the other consented, without troubling himself any further what his design might be. Don Garcias entreated him to go and put on his Boots, and expect him at the Posthouse, while he took a turn to his lodging.  
They thereupon parted, and Don Garcias went to Eugenia, to acquaint her with what he knew of her affairs, and to give his Landlady, a woman that might safely be trusted with a secret of that importance, order to get Eugenia clothes and all things necessary, that she might be conveyed that very night into a Convent, whereof the Abbess was her kinswoman and very much her friend. Having so done, he whispered his Lackey in the ear, and bid him carry to that friend's lodging whom he a little before parted with, his riding suit and boots: and having entreated his Landlady to be very careful of Eugenia, and to keep her from the sight of all people, he went to his friend, and soon after along with him to the Posthouse, where they had not been long ere Andrado came also. Don Garcias asked him which way he travelled? he made answer, to Sevil. Then one Post-boy will serve us both, says Don Garcias to him. Andrado was content, and haply looked on Don Garcias and his friend, no otherwise th●n as two simple Cullies, whose money he thought so far due to him, as that he would not have given much to ensure it. They left Vailladolid all together, and ro●e on a good while not thinking of any thing but riding, there being indeed but little conversation between people that ride Post. At last coming into a Champion far from any Houses, Don Garcias thought it a place fit for his Design. He rid a little before, and turning about of a sudden, he bid Andrado stand. Andrado asked him his meaning. My intentions are, replied Don Garcias, to fight with you, to revenge, if I can, the quarrel of Eugenia, whom you have injured beyond all hope of forgiveness, in treating her after the basest and most unworthy manner, that could possibly fall into the imagination of a person of quality. I am not sorry for what I have done, replies Andrado with much confidence, not seeming to be in the least surprised at the accident; but you may haply repent your forwardness to do what you are now engaged in. He was a person that had Valour; he alighted at the same time with Don Garcias, there having no more words passed between them; and they had their Swords ready to fall on: when Don Garcias' Friend tells them, they should not fight without him, and proffered to measure his Weapon with Andrado's man, who was a fellow whom his countenance and proportion would not have betrayed for a Coward. Andrado protested, that though he had to his Second the greatest Gladiator in all Spain, he would not fight otherwise than singly one to one. His man not much minding the protestation of his Master, protested for his own part, that he would not fight with any man upon any terms at all. So that Don Garcia's Friend was forced to be only a Spectator, or Godfather to the Combatants, which is no new thing in Spain. The Duel lasted not long: Heaven was pleased to favour the just Cause Don Garcias was engaged in, so far, as that his Adversary making at him with greater violence than skill, run upon his Weapon, and fell at his feet with loss of blood and life. Andrado's man, and the Post-boy, as fearful one as the other, cast themselves at Don Garcias' feet, who intended them not any hurt. He commanded Andrado's man to open the Portmanteau, and to take out of it all his Master had taken from Eugenia. He immediately obeyed, and delivered to Don Garcias, a Mantle, a Gown, and Coat, all very rich, and a little Cabinet, whereof, the weight discovered it was not empty. The fellow found the Key of it in his Master's Pocket, and gave it Don Garcias, who thereupon dismissing him, told him he might dispose of his Master's body as he pleased, and threatened he would be the death of him, if ever he were seen at Vailladolid. He commanded the Post-boy not to come into the City till after night, and promised him he should find at the Posthouse the two Horses he and his Friend had taken up. I am apt to believe he was punctually obeyed by these two persons: who thought themselves very much obliged to him, that he had not killed them as he had done Andrado. It was never heard what his man did with his body; and for his clothes, and what else he had, there is but too much probability, he became Master thereof. Nor was it ever known how the Post-boy behaved himself in the business.  
Don Garcias and his Friend made all the speed they could to Vailladolid. They alighted at an Ambassadors of the Emperor, where they had Friends, and continued there till after night. Don Garcias sent for his man, who told him that Eugenia was much troubled she could not see him. The Horses were sent to the Posthouse by an unknown person, who having delivered them to one that belonged to the Stable, immediately slunk away. There was no more talk in Vailladolid of the death of Andr●do than as of a thing which it was uncertain whether it were so or not; or if any spoke of him, 'twas only as of a Gentleman killed by some secret Enemy, or by High-way-men. Don Garcias went to his Lodging, where he found Eugenia put into such clothes as his Landlady had provided for her; such I believe as were taken up at the Brokers; for in Spain persons of very good quality think it no disparagement to take up clothes, and to furnish their Houses that way, no more than other people of less account. He secretly returned Eugenia her own clothes and Jewels, and gave her an account after what manner he was revenged of Andrado. The Relation he made to her wrought in her a compassion for the unfortunate end of a person whom she had dearly loved; and, the thought of her being the occasion of so many Tragical accidents, causing in her no less affliction than the remembrance of her own misfortunes, she fell a weeping as bitterly as at any time before.  
But what added not a little to her affliction, was, that Proclamation had been made that day all over Vailladolid, prohibiting all persons to entertain Eugenia, and that whoever brought tidings of her should have two hundred Crowns. This made her resolve to get into a Convent so soon as she could. She passed away that night in Don Garcia's Chamber with as little tranquillity as the precedent. The next morning at break of day he went to that Superior of the Covenant, who was a Kinswoman of Eugenia's: who, notwithstanding the Proclamation, promised to receive her, and to keep her undiscovered as much as lay in her power. Having left her, he went and took up a Coach, and ordered it to wait for him at a place not much frequented near his Lodging, whither he conducted Eugenia, accompanied by his Landlady. The Coach brought them to a place they had appointed the Coachman to stop at, where they alighted, that he might have no knowledge of the Convent, whither Eugenia was to retire. She was kindly entertained by the Kinswoman; Don Garcias' Landlady took leave of her, and went to inform herself what posture the affairs of Don Sancho were in. She understood it went hard with him, and that there was some talk of putting him to the Rack. Don Garcias gave an account of all passages to Eugenia, who was so troubled to see her Husband in danger to suffer for a crime he had not committed, that she took a resolution to cast herself into the hands of Justice. Don Garcias persuaded her to forbear a while, and advised her rather to write to the Judge, to acquaint him that she only could give an account of the murder of Don Lewis. The Judge, by good fortune chanced to be of some Kin to her, came to speak with her, together with others that were to be his Assistants in the trial of Don Sancho. Eugenia confessed that she had killed Don Lewis: gave them a particular relation of the just motive she had to engage herself in an action that seemed so violent in a Woman, omitting nothing of what had passed between Don Lewis and herself; what concerned the love of Andrado, only excepted. Her confession was written down, and a report thereof was made to his Catholic Majesty; who, taking into consideration the greatness of Don Lewis' crime, the just resentment of Eugenia, her courage and procedure thereupon, the innocence of Don Sancho and his Servants, set them at liberty; and, upon the entreaties of the whole Court mediating on her behalf, granted Eugenia her pardon. Her Husband was not displeased at her for the death of his Brother, and, it may be, loved her the better for what she had done. He went to see her as soon as he got out of Prison, and used all the entreaties and persuasions he could to get her home again; but all proved ineffectual. She doubted not but that he had conceived such a resentment for the death of Don Lewis as he ought to have done; that he had made some discoveries of what had passed between her and the Portugueze; and thence concluded, that the least suspicion a Woman gives in point of honour may soon be heightened into a jealousy in the apprehensions of a Husband, and will sooner or later dissolve the strictest ties of conjugal Love.  
While things stood thus, poor Don Sancho visited her often: and, by the tenderest demonstrations of an excessive Love, endeavoured to get her out of the Convent, to be once more the absolute Mistress of his estate and himself. But she on the other side continued constant to her resolution. She got him to allow her a Pension proportionable to her quality, and the fortune she brought; and, abating only her obstinacy in denying to live with him, she behaved herself so obligingly towards that kind Husband, that he had all the reason in the world to be satisfied with her.  
But all she did in the Convent to please and humour him, heightened the regret he conceived that he could not get her thence. He at last took it so much to heart that it brought him into a Sickness, and that sickness proved such, as more than threatened the shortening of his days. He sent to Eugenia, begging the satisfaction to see her once at his House before he took his final leave of her. She could not deny that fatal kindness to a Husband that had been so dear to her, and whose affection towards her was then no less violent than it had ever been. She went to see him expire, and had almost, out of very grief, died with him, seeing him discover no less satisfaction that he had had but a sight of her, than if she had restored him the Life he was upon the point to quit: Nor did this goodness of Eugenia go unrewarded; he left her his whole Estate, and consequently, one of the most beautiful and richest Widows in Spain, after her so near being one of the most unfortunate Women in the World. The affliction she conceived at the death of her Husband, was great, and not personated: She gave order for his Funeral Solemnities, possessed herself of his Estate, and returned to her Convent, resolved to spend the remainder of her Life there. Her Friends proposed to her the best matches in all Spain: She preferred her own quiet before their ambition, and troubled no less at their importunate remonstrances than persecuted with the addresses of no small number of Pretenders, which her Beauty and Wealth drew daily to the outer-room of the Convent where she was; She at last would not be seen, nor speak with any but Don Garcias. This young Gentleman had done her so seasonable a service, in an emergency so important, and with such earnestness, that she could not see him, without bethinking herself, that she ought him somewhat beyond civilities and acknowledgements. She had observed by his Retinue and Equipage, that he was not rich, and she was generous enough to proffer him the assistances which a necessitous person may without shame receive from another that is more wealthy: but in that small time she had spent in his Lodging, and by the frequent discourses he had with her, he had discovered a Noble soul elevated above the common, and absolutely disengaged from all manner of Interests, those only of honour excepted. This raised a fear in her he might take it unkindly, if she made him a Present not suitable to the greatness of her estate and mind; and she was afraid, on the other side, he should think her wanting in point of gratitude, if she made not some discoveries of her liberality.  
But if her thoughts were in this distraction for Don Garcias, his were in no less, as to what concerned her. He was insensibly fallen in love with her; but though the respect he had for her, and the lowness of his Fortunes should not have deterred him from making any such proposal; what presumption would it have been in him to speak of love to a Woman, whom only Love had exposed to so great misfortunes? and that while the sadness of her countenance, and her frequent weeping, argued her soul too full of grief to be capable of any other passion.  
Among those who visited Eugenia, as her most humble Slaves, with design to become afterwards her Masters, and those not easy to please, among those, I mean, who made their addresses to her, and whom she shook off with absolute denial, one Don Diego was remarkable for his obstinacy, as having not any thing else in him worth notice. He was as arrant a Coxcomb, as it was possible a young man could be; and, what is consequent to that, fantastic, and, what to that, insufferably humoursome. Besides all this, the imperfections of his body were suitable to those of his mind; and as to the goods of fortune, he was as poor, as greedy of them: but descending out of one of the best Houses in Spain, and being of near Kin to one of the principal Ministers of State, which only made him so much the more insolent, there was a certain compliance had for him where ever he came, upon the account of his quality, though it had not the least recommendation of any thing of worth.  
This same Don Diego, such as I have described him, thought he had found in Eugenia, all he could have wished in a Wife, and imagined it no hard matter to obtain her, by the assistances of his Friends at Court, whose encouragements put him into great hopes of it. But Eugenia was not so easily persuaded to a business of that importance, as they had flattered themselves she would have been, and the Court would not, to favour a private person, do a violence that should be of ill example to the public. Eugenia's retiring into a Convent, her resolution to continue there, her avoiding of all visits, and the backwardness of those who had encouraged Don Diego in his applications to her, blasted the hopes he had conceived of obtaining her without trouble. He therefore resolved to force the Convent, and to carry her away, an attempt the most highly criminal in Spain, and such as wherein only an extravagant fool, such as he was, would engage himself in. He found, for money, people as mad as himself; he gave order for the laying of Horses at several places, between Vailladolid and a certain Seaport, where a Vessel was to expect him ready to set Sail. He forced the Convent; carried away Eugenia; and that unfortunate Lady was to become the prey of the most worthless person in the World, if Heaven had not strangely relieved her, when she lest looked for it. One single person, who, upon the cries of Eugenia, met the Ravishers, forced them to a sudden halt, and charged with so much valour, that, upon the first meeting, he wounded Don Diego and divers of his Complices, and kept them in ●otion till the Citizens making head, and seconded by the Officers of public Justice, had reduced Don Diego and his party to those extremities, that they must either be killed or taken.  
Thus was Eugenia rescued; but before she would be conducted back to her Convent, she would needs know who that gallant Person was, who had so generously exposed his Life to serve her. He was found, wounded in several places, and, through loss of abundance of blood, in a manner Dead. Eugenia desired to see him, and had no sooner cast her eyes on his countenance, but she knew him to be Don Garcias. Her compassion was great as her astonishment, and she made such passionate discoveries thereof as might have been interpreted to her disadvantage, if there had not been otherwise a just ground of her affliction. She prevailed so far, with much entreaty, as that they would n●● carry to Prison her generous Reliever, whom Don Diego expiring, and his complices, acknowledged not to be of their party, but the person who had opposed their design. He was carried to the next House, which by good fortune happened to be that which had some time been Don Sancho's was now Eugenia's, and where she had left all her Householdstuff and some Servants. He was recommended to the care of the best Surgeons of both Court and City. Eugenia returned into the Convent, and the next day was forced to leave it; and come to her own House, upon the publishing of a Proclamation, that no secular persons should be entertained into Nunneries. The next day Don Diego dies, and his Friends had much ado to hinder a Trial to pass upon him, though Dead▪ but his Complices were punished according to their deserts. Eugenia in the mean time was almost out of herself to see so little hopes of Don Garcias' recovery; she implored the assistances of Heaven; She proffered the Surgeons to reward them beyond what they would have asked her; but their Art was at a loss, and all their hope was in God and the Youthful constitution of the sick person. Eugenia stirred not from his Bedside, and her attendances on him day and night were so assiduous, that they might at last have reduced her to a necessity of having others besides herself. She often heard him pronounce her name in the transportations of his Fever, and among things incoherent, which his distracted imagination made him speak, he was often heard talking of Love, and discoursing with himself, as one that were fight or quarrelling. At last, Nature, fortified by remedies, overcame the violence of his disease; his Fever remitted; his wounds appeared in a better condition; and the Surgeons as●●r'd Eugenia of his recovery, provided no other accident happened to him. She made them very great presents, and caused him to be prayed for, in all the Churches of Vailladolid. Then was it that Don Garcias understood from Eugenia, that it was she whom he had rescued, and she was told by him how it came to pass, that he happened to relieve her so seasonably, being upon his return into the City after he had been to see a friend of his out of Town. She could not, even in his presence, forbear acknowledging how highly she thought herself obliged to him; and he could as little smother the extraordinary satisfaction he conceived to have done her so considerable a service: but there was yet another thing of greater importance he had to acquaint her withal.  
One day, she being alone with him, and entreating him not to suffer her to be any longer ungrateful, but to make use of her in something of consequence, he took that opportunity to discover to her the true sentiments he had for her. The very thought of what he was about to do, made him sign; he grew pale; and the disturbance of his mind was so visible in his countenance, that Eugenia was afraid he was in some great torment. She asked him what posture his Wounds were in. Ah Madam! replied he, my wounds are not my greatest affliction. What is it then that troubles you, said she to him much frighted. A misfortune, says he, incapable of any remedy. It was indeed, replies Eugenia, a great misfortune to be so dangerously Wounded for a person you neither knew, nor deserved you should hazard your Life for her; but this is not beyond remedy, since your Surgeons doubt not but you will soon recover it. And that is it I am to complain of, cries Don Garcias: Had I lost my Life in your service, continued he, I had brought it to a glorious period, whereas I must now live against my will, and be a long time the most unfortunate man in the world. Being a person so excellently qualified as you are, I think you not so unfortunate as you would make yourself, replies Eugenia. How Madam, said he, do you not account that man unfortunate, who being satisfied of your worth, having a greater esteem for you than any other whatever, loving you beyond his own Life, must nevertheless come short of deserving you, though Fortune should prove as indulgent to him as she hath ever been malicious? You strangely surprise me, said she blushing: but the obligations you have cast upon me, give you a privilege, which, in the condition I am in, I should not grant any other. I pray you above all things endeavour your own recovery, and assure yourself, your misfortunes shall not continue long, when it shall come into the power of Eugenia to put a period thereto.  
She stayed not to hear what Reply he would make, and by that means spared him abundance of compliments, which haply he would but poorly have acquitted himself of, because he would have overstrained himself to make them very good ones. She called those Servants of hers who were to attend him, and went out of the room just as the Surgeons were coming in to visit him. The satisfaction of the mind is the sovereign remedy to recover a sick body. Don Garcias derived such hopes of the advancement of his Love, from what Eugenia had said to him, that his soul, which before, as that of a Lover without hope, was orepressed with sadness, dilated itself for the entertainment of joy, and that joy contributed more to his recovery than all the remedies of Chirurgery. He came to perfect health. He out of civility went from Eugenia's house, but carried with him, and continued, the pretensions he had to her affection. She had promised to love him, provided he made no public discoveries thereof, and it may be she loved him no less than he loved her: but having so lately lost a Husband, and been engaged in adventures, which had made her the Table-talk of all Companies in Court and City, she thought it no prudence so soon to expose herself to rash censures, by running upon a marriage with too much precipitation. At last Don Garcias, by the excess of his merit and constancy, overcame all these difficulties. He was, as to his person, so accomplished, as might make a Rival run mad to think on't. He was a younger Brother of one of the best Houses of Arragon, and though he had done no great things in the Wars, he might justly, from the long services his Father had done Spain, derive some hopes of a recompense from the Court, as advantageous as honourable. Eugenia could no longer hold out against so many excellent qualities, nor be longer obliged to him for all he had done and suffered upon her account. She was married to him. Court and City approved her choice; and that she might not have the least occasion to repent her of it, it happened, that, not long after their marriage, the King of Spain bestowed on Don Garcias one of the Commanderies of St. James. Another thing which had already happened, was, that he had satisfied his dear Eugenia the very first night of their marriage, that he was much another Bed-fellow than Don Sancho, and that she had found in him, what she would not have met with in the Portuguez Andrado. Children they had many, because they took more than ordinary pains to get them; and the History of their Loves and Adventures is to this day related at Vailladolid, not only among those that knew them, but to Strangers who occasionally Travel that way. For my part, I traveled not thither for it, but finding it Printed, made no doubt of the Truth of it, and expect the same confidence in those who shall receive it from me.  
FINIS.   

SCARRON's NOVELS.  
The Judge in his own Cause.  
The Fourth Novel.  
PRince Mulei, son to the King of Morocco, having lost the company with whom he had spent the day in hunting, was got alone, and that in the nighttime, among certain rocks on the Seaside, not above an hours gentle walking from the City of Fez. The sky was not overcast with the least cloud; the Sea glazed up in an undisturbed calm, and so might serve for a Mirror to the Moon and Stars, which 〈◊〉 to sparkle no less there, than in their proper Element: in fine, it was one of the pleasantest nights of those warmer Countries, which exceed the fairest days of our colder Regions. The Prince galloping gently along the River side, diverted himself in considering the emulation between the Constellations above in the Firmament, and those which seemed to be on the surface of the Water, when the sad accents of some doleful shrieking piercing his ears, raised in him a curiosity to go to the place whence he conceived it might proceed. After a little riding, he found, among the rocks, a woman, who, as much as her strength would permit, made her party good against a man, who violently endeavoured to bind her hands, while another woman was employed to stop her mouth with a linen cloth.  
The arrival of the young Prince prevented the Actors of that violence to proceed any further therein, and gave her a little respite, whom they intended to treat so unworthily. Mulei asked her, what might occasion her crying out, and the others, what they would have done to her? But instead of any reply, the man comes up to him with his Cimitar drawn, and would have dangerously wounded him, had he not, by the nimbleness of his ●orse, avoided the blow. How now, impious ●retch, says Mulei to him, darest thou offer violence to the Prince of Fez? I knew thee very well to be my Prince, replies the Moor: nay it is because thou art my Prince, and that it is in thy power to punish me, that I must either have thy life, or lose my own.  
With those words he made at Mulei with such a desperate fury, that the Prince, though much famed for his valour, was reduced to a necessity not so much of assaulting, as securing himself against so dangerous an enemy. The two women in the mean time were very seriously engaged, and she who a little before gave herself over for lost, kept the other from running away, as if she doubted not but her Champion would obtain the victory. Despair sometimes heightens a man's courage, nay sometimes derives it to those who have least of it. Though the Prince's valour was incomparably beyond that of his Adversary, and maintained by a more than ordinary skill and vigour; yet the punishment, which the Moor's crime deserved, made him hazard all, and gave him so much courage and force, that the victory was a great while in suspense between the Prince and him: but Heaven, which commonly protects those it raises above others, fortunately directed the Prince's retinue, which he had lost the evening before, to pass so near the place, as to hear the noise of the Combatants, and the cries of the women. They make all the speed they could thither, and came in just as their Master having worsted his bold Adversary, had laid him on the ground, where he would not kill him, but reserve him for a more exemplary punishment. He thereupon ordered some of his people to bind him to a horse-tail, so as that he might not attempt aught against himself or any other. Two Gentlemen took up the two women behind them, and so Mulei and his retinue got to Fez, just with the break of day. This young Prince governed as absolutely in Fez, as if he had been already King of it. He ordered the Moor to be brought before him, his name was Amet, and he was son to one of the wealthiest Inhabitants of Fez. The two women were not known by any, in regard the Moors, the most jealous of all mankind, are extremely careful in keeping their wives and slaves from the sight of all others.  
The woman, whom the Prince had relieved, surprised both him and all his Court with the transcendency of her beauty, which was such as had not been seen before in afric, and also with a Majestic air, which the wretched habit of a slave could not hide from their eyes who admired her. The other was clad as those women of the country are, whose quality is somewhat above the ordinary rate, and might pass for handsome, though much less than the former. But though she might enter into competition with her as to beauty, yet the paleness which through a certain Fear had settled in her countenance deprived it of so much of its lustre, as that of the former received advantage from that lively redness, which a modest blush had gently spread over it. The Moor appeared before Mulei with the countenance and deportment of a Criminal, having his eyes continually fastened on the ground. Mulei commanded him to acknowledge his crime, or expect to die in the greatest torments. I know well enough what is prepared for me, and what I have deserved, replies the undaunted Moor, and as it will be of little advantage to me to confess any thing, so are there not any torments that shall make me do it. I cannot avoid death, since I would have given it thee, I would have thee know, that the rage I am in, that I could not dispatch thee, torments me beyond all that can be inflicted on me by the most inventive executioners. These women, Spaniards by descent, were my Slaves; one of them hath done as I wished her, and complied with her fortune, by marrying my Brother Zaides; the other would never change her Religion, nor make the least kind return to the love I had for her.  
This was all could be gotten out of him. Mulei ordered him to be put into a Dungeon loaden with chains; The Renegado wife of Zaides was disposed into another prison, and the beautiful Slave was conducted to a Moor's house named Zulema, a person of quality, originally a Spaniard, who had left Spain, because he could not find in his conscience to embrace the Christian Religion. He was descended of the illustrious House of Zegris, heretofore so famous in Granada, and his wife Zoraida, who was of the same House, had the reputation to be the fairest, and withal, the wittiest woman in Fez. She was immediately taken with the beauty of the Christian Slave, and, upon the first conversation they had together, was no less with her ingenuity. Had this fair Christian been capable of consolation, she would have found it in the caresses of Zoraida; but as if she purposely avoided whatever might alleviate her grief, she endeavoured as much as she could to be alone, that she might afflict herself the more, insomuch that, when she was in company with Zoraida, she did herself no small violence, to smother her sighs, and keep in her tears before her.  
Prince Mulie in the mean time was extremely desirous to have an account of her adventures. He had discovered so much to Zulema, who being a person he much confided in, he withal acknowledged, that he had some inclinations for that fair Christian, and that he had made a discovery thereof to her, had he not inferred, from her extraordinary affliction, that he might have an unknown Rival in Spain, who, though at a great distance, might prevent his being happy, even in that Country where he was an absolute Prince. Zulema thereupon gave his wife order to inquire of the Christian the particulars of her life, and by what accident she came to be Slave to Amet. Zoraida was as desirous to do it as the Prince, and found it no hard matter to induce the Spanish Slave to satisfy her; the other not knowing how to refuse any thing to a person, from whom she had received so many assurances of tenderness and friendship. She told Zoraida, that she would satisfy her curiosity when she pleased, but that, having only misfortunes to acquaint her with, she feared the account thereof would be very tedious to her. You will find it otherwise, replies Zoraida, by the attention I shall give you, and my concerns therein will satisfy you, that you may safely entrust the secret thereof to a person who infinitely loves you. Embracing her with these words, she entreated her not to put off any longer the satisfaction she desired of her. They were all alone, and the fair Slave, having wiped off the tears which the memory of her misfortunes drew into her eyes, she thus beg●n ●he relation thereof.  
My name is Sophia, said she, I am a Spaniard, born at Valentia, and brought up with all the care and tenderness which persons of quality, such as were my Father and Mother, could express towards a Daughter who was the first fruits of their marriage, and soon appeared worthy of their affection. I had a Brother, younger than myself by a year, as lovely a child as could be seen; he loved me as much as I loved him, and our mutual friendship grew up to such a height, that when we were not together, there might be observed in our countenances, such a sadness and disquiet, as the most pleasant divertisements of persons of our age were not able to disperse. Order was thereupon taken that we should not be asunder: we learned together whatever is commonly taught children, well descended, of both sexes, ●nd so it happened, to the great astonishment of all, that I came to be as skilful and dextrous as he, in all the violent exercises of a Cavalier, and he as ingenious in whatever is performed by young Gentlewomen. This extraordinary kind of education took so much with a Gentleman, an intimate acquaintance of my Father's, that he desired his children might be brought up with us. The business was proposed to my Friends, who approved thereof, and the nearness of their houses promoted the design of both parties. That Gentleman was not inferior to my Father, either as to quality or wealth. He had also only a Son and a Daughter, much about my Brother's age and mine, insomuch that it was not doubted, but the two Houses would be united one day by a double marriage. Don Carlos and Lucia (so were the Brother and Sister called) were equally amiable: my Brother loved Lucia, and she him; Don Carlos loved me; I, him, as much. Our Parents knew it, and were so far from being displeased thereat, that had we not been too young, they would then have seen us married together.  
But the happy state of our innocent Loves was disturbed by the death of my lovely Brother; a violent Fever snatched him from hence in eight days, and this was the first of my misfortunes. Lucia was so troubled thereat, that no persuasions could keep her from embracing a Religious life. I was sick to death, and Don Carlos was so far given over, as that his Father began to fear he should see himself without issue, so great a grief did he conceive, at the loss of my Brother, whom he loved, the danger I was in, and his Sister's resolution. Don Carlos' Father died soon after, leaving his Son a vast estate. Now was he in a condition to discover the nobleness of his nature; the gallantries he invented to please me prevailed on my vanity, made his love more public, and added much to mine. Don Carlos often addressed himself to my Parents, desiring them to consummate his happiness by bestowing their Daughter on him. He in the mean time continued his extraordinary expenses, which my Father perceiving, and considering his estate could not hold out long at that rate, resolved we should be married. He therefore put Don Carlos in hope, that he should ere long be his Son-in-law, at which News he discovered such an extraordinary joy, as would have persuaded me that he loved me above his own life, though I had not been so fully assured of it as I was. He appointed a Ball for me, and invited all the Gallantry of the City to it: but to his misfortune and mine, there happened to be at it a Neapolitan Count, whom some affairs of importance had brought into Spain. He thought me handsome enough to fall in love with, and having enquired what quality my Father was of, he went, and, without any other ceremony, demanded me of him in marriage. My Father, dazzled at the wealth and quality of this Stranger, promised him what he desired, and that very day sent Don Carlos word, that he might forbear all further addresses to his Daughter, forbade me to receive his visits, and commanded me to look on the Italian Count, as the person I should be married to, as soon as he we●e returned from Madrid. I dissembled my affliction before my Father; but as soon as I was got alone, Don Carlos presented himself to my imagination, as the most aimable person in the world. I reflected on all could be quarrelled at in the Italian Count; I conceived an implacable aversion against him, and I felt myself so possessed with the love of Don Carlos, that it was equally impossible for me to live without him, and to be happy with his Rival. My recourse was to my tears, but what remedy were they in so great a misfortune.  
While I was in this distraction, Don Carlos comes into my chamber, without first demanding my permission, as he was wont to do. He found me as it were dissolved into tears, nor could he forbear his, though he seemed willing to conceal what lay heavy on his soul, till he had discovered the true sentiments of mine. He cast himself at my feet, and taking me by the hands, which he bedewed with his tears, I must then lose you Sophia! and a stranger, whom you hardly know, shall be happier than I, because he is somewhat richer. He will be possessed of you, Sophia! and you consent thereto; you, whom I have so infinitely loved; you, who would persuade me that you loved me, and were promised me by a Father, but alas! an unjust Father, an interested Father, and one that hath basely recoiled from his word! If you are, continued he, a Jewel that may be set at any price, 'tis only my fidelity that can purchase you, and it is upon the account of that, you should be yet mine rather than any Man's; if you have not forgotten that you have promised me the like. But, cries he, do you imagine that a person who had the courage to raise his desires to you, wants it to be revenged of one you prefer before him; or will you think it strange, that a Wretch who hath lost all should not undertake any thing? If you are content that I alone should perish, this fortunate Rival shall live, since he is so happy as to please you, and you think him worthy your protection: but Don Carlos, who is now become odious to you, and whom you have given over to his despair, will die of a Death cruel enough, to satiate the hatred you have for him.  
Don Carlos, replied I, do you join forces with an unjust Father, and a person whom I never could fancy, to persecute me, and impute ●o me, as a particular crime, a misfortune which is common to us both? You may rather bemoan than accuse me, and bethink yourself of the means to preserve me yours, than pierce my soul with undeserved reproaches. I could make more just ones to you, and force you to acknowledge, that you never sufficiently loved me, since you never sufficiently knew me. But we have no time to lose in fruitless remonstances. Carry me where you please, I'll follow you, and therefore I give you leave to attempt any thing, and promise to second you in it, so that I may ever be yours.  
Don Carlos was so revived at these words, that he was as much transported with joy, as he had been before with grief. He begged a thousand pardons for his having charged me with the injustice he thought done him, and having satisfied me, that unless I were removed thence, it was impossible I should avoid complying with my Father's will, I referred myself wholly to his disposal, and promised him, that the second night after, I would be ready to go along with him. Don Carlos spent the next day in setting his affairs in order, made provision of Money, and a Bark, which was to set sail, whenever he sent orders to that purpose. In the mean time I made up all my Jewels, and what Money I had, and, being a person so young as I was, so well dissembled my design, that no body had the least suspicion of it. I was not observed by any, so that I might safely take my way out at the Garden-door, where I found Claudio, a Page, whom Don Carlos had a kind of fondness for, upon the account of his skill in Singing, which was as excellent as his Voice, and that in his manner of speaking, and all his actions, he discovered a greater pitch of ingenuity, understanding, and gentileness of carriage, than the condition of a Page is commonly observed to have. He told me, that his Master had sent him before, to conduct me to the Bark, and that he could not come himself, for some reasons I should know when I saw him. A Slave of Don Carlos, whom I also knew very well, soon after came to us. We got out of the City without any trouble, and were not gone far from it ere we perceived a Vessel in the Road, and soon after a Shallop that waited for us at the Waterside. They told me, that my dear Don Carlos would come very suddenly, and that in the mean time, I should go to the Vessel. The Slave carried me into the Shallop, and several Men, whom I had observed on the shore, and took for Mariners, forced Claudio also to get into the Shallop, who seemed to make some resistance, to avoid coming into it. This added to the trouble I was already in, for the absence of Don Carlos. I asked the Slave where he was; he roundly answered, I was not to expect any Don Carlos there.  
In the mean time, I could hear Claudio crying out as loud as he could, and bursting forth into tears, saying to the Slave, Treacherous Amet! is it thus thou keep'st thy promise with me, and, by removing my Rival out of the way, leav'st me with my Lover? Imprudent Claudio! replies the Slave, is a Man obliged to keep his word with a perfidious person, or could I expect, that one that hath betrayed his own Master, should not serve me the like trick, by giving notice to those who have the oversight of the Coasts, to make out after me, and deprive me of Sophia, whom I love beyond my own Life?  
These words spoken to a Woman, whom I took all the while to be a Man, and whereof I could not understand the meaning, caused me so great an affliction, that, I fell down in a manner dead in the arms of the perfidious Moor, who had not stirred from me. I continued a good while in the swoon, which, when I had recovered, I found myself in one of the Cabins of the Vessel, which was now got a good way to Sea. Imagine to yourself what despair I must be in, finding myself without my Don Carlos, and among the professed enemies of my Religion, for I soon perceived that I was in the power of the Moors; that the Slave Amet had absolute power over them, and that his Brother Zaides was Master of the Vessel. The insolent Villain no sooner saw me in a condition to hear what he might say, but, in few words he told me, that he had a long time had an affection for me, and that his passion forced him to carry me thus away by violence, and to bring me to Fez, where it should be my own fault, if I were not as happy as I might be in Spain, as it should be his, if I there had any occasion to regret the loss of Don Carlos. I made a shift to close with him, notwithstanding the weakness I was in by reason of my former swooning, and, by a vigorous attempt, which he thought not off, and which, as I told you before, I had learned when I was a child, I drew out his Scimitar, and had punished him for his perfidiousness, if his Brother Zaides had not seasonably laid hold on my arm, and so saved his Life. It was no hard matter to disarm me, for, having missed my blow, I forbore making any further vain attempts, against so great a number of enemies. Amet, who had been frighted at my resolution, ordered all to withdraw out of the room where he had disposed me, and left me in an affliction not easily to be imagined, after the cruel change which had happened in my fortunes. I spent the whose night in bemoaning myself, nor did the next day bring any remission of my grief. Time, which m●ny times alleviates such troubles, could do nothing on mine, insomuch that the second day after our setting out to Sea, I was in a greater distraction, than I had been that unlucky night, when, with my liberty, I lost the hope of ever seeing Don Carlos again, and ever having a minute of enjoyment while I lived. Amet had found me so terrible, when ever he presumed to appear before me, that he came no more into my sight. At certain times, somewhat w●s brought me to eat, but I so obstinately refused it, that the barbarous Moor began to fear he had brought me away to no purpose.  
In the interim, the Vessel had passed the Straight, and was not far from the Coast of Fez when Claudio comes into my cabin. As soon as I perceived him, unhappy miscreant, who hast thus betrayed me, said I to him, what had I done to thee, that thou shouldst make me the most wretched person in the world, and deprive me of Don Carlos? You were too much beloved of him, replies he, and since I loved him as well as you did, I have committed no great crime, in endeavouring to remove a Rival, as far as I could from him: but if I have betrayed you, Amet hath also betrayed me, and I should haply be no less troubled than you are, did I not find some comfort in this consideration, that I am not miserable alone. Prithee, let me understand these riddles, said I to him, and know who thou art, and, consequently, whether I have, in thee, a Friend or an Enemy.  
Know then, Sophia, said he to me, that I am of the same Sex as yourself, and, as well as you, I have also been in love with Don Carlos; but if we have suffered by the same flame, it hath not been with the same success. Don Carlos hath ever loved you, and hath ever believed, that you loved him; whereas, on the contrary, he never loved me, nor could ever imagine that I should love him, as having not known me to be what I truly was. I am of Valentia, as you are, and my quality and fortunes are such, that if Don Carlos had married me, he needed not to have feared the reproaches made to those who under-ally themselves. But the affection he had for you wholly took him up, and it seems he had eyes only for you. Not but that mine did what they could, to save my mouth the labour of making a shameful discovery of my weakness. I went to all places where I thought to meet him; I placed myself where he might see me, and I did all things for him, which he should have done for me, had he loved me, as I loved him. I had the disposal of myself and estate, as having been left an Orphan while I was yet very young; and there were often proposed to me matches equal to my condition, but the hope I still cherished, that I might at length engage Don Carlos to love me, hindered me from complying with any. Instead of being discouraged by the unhappy fate of my love, as any other would, who, as I, had sufficient perfections not to be slighted, I was the rather excited to the Love of Don Carlos, by the difficulty I found to insinuate myself into his affections. In fine, to avoid the self-reproach, that I should neglect any thing which might promote my design, I caused my hair to be cut, and having disguised myself in Man's clothes, I got myself presented to Don Carlos by an old menial Servant of my own, who went under the name of my Father, a poor Gentleman of the Mountains of Toledo. My countenance and Mien your Lover liked so well, that he was soon induced to take me into his service. He knew me not again, though he had seen me so many times, and he was as soon satisfied with my ingenuity as taken with my voice, and my skill in singing, and playing on all those instruments, on which persons of Quality may, without disparagement, divert themselves. He soon found in me those endowments which are not commonly seen in Pages, and I gave him so many demonstrations of my fidelity and discretion, that he treated me rather as a Confident, than a Domestic servant. You know best of any, whether I am to be credited in what I say. You have a hundred times commended me to Don Carlos, even in my presence, and done many good offices, but what vexed me to the heart, was, that I received them from a Rival, and while they made me more acceptable to Don Carlos, they rendered you the more hateful to the unhappy Claudia, (for so I am called.) In the mean time, the treaty of your marriage went forward, my hopes backward; that was concluded, these were lost. The Italian Count, who, about that time, fell in love with you, and whose Titles and Estate as much dazzled your Father's eyes, as his warped countenance and his imperfections gave you occasion to slight him, procured me at least the pleasure, to see you a little traversed in your loves, and my soul began to flatter itself with those fond hopes, which the unfortunate are over-apt to derive from vicissitude. In fine, your Father preferred the Stranger, whom you fancied not, before Don Carlos whom you did. So I saw her, who caused my unhappiness, in her turn, unhappy herself, and a Rival whom I hated, more unfortunate than myself, since I lost nothing in a man, who had never been mine, whereas you lost Don Carlos, who was wholly yours, and yet that loss, how great soever it might be, was haply to you a lesser misfortune, than to have, for your perpetual Tyrant, a man, whom you could not love.  
But my prosperity, or, to say better, my hope, proved not long-lived. I understood from Don Carlos, that you were resolved to follow him, and I was employed to set things in order to the design he had to carry you to Barcelona, and thence to cross over into some part of France or Italy. All the force I had had till then to endure my cross fortune, left me upon this so sharp an assault, it being a resolution I was the more surprised with, the less I had apprehended ●ny such misfortune. The trouble I conceived thereat cast me into a sickness, and that confined me to my bed. One day, as I was bemoaning my sad destiny, and that my presumption of not being overheard by any made me break forth into as loud expostulations, as if I had spoken to some Confident, who knew the secret of my loves, I perceived standing before me the Moor, Amet, who had heard me. Having recovered the trouble his unexpected presence had put me into, head-dressed himself to me in these words.  
I know thee very well, Claudia, and that even before thou hadst disguised thy sex, to become a Page to Don Carlos; and that I never discovered this my knowledge of thee, proceeded hence, that I had a design as well as thou hadst. I have heard what desperate resolutions thou art ready to take; thou wilt discover thyself to thy Master to be young Maid deeply in love with him, and yet hopest not any from him, and then thou wilt kill thyself in his presence, so to deserve the regrets of him, whose love thou couldst not gain. Wretched Lass! what will be the effect of thy own self-murder, but to give Sophia a further assurance of her Don Carlos? I have a better advice for thee, if thou art able to to take it. Deprive thy Rival of her Servant; it may easily be done, if thou credit me, and though it requires much resolution, yet no more than thou hast already expressed, in putting on man's habit, and hazarding thy honour, to satisfy thy love. Hear me then attentively, continued the Moor, I will acquaint thee with a secret, which I never discovered to any, and if thou likest not what I shall propose to thee, it will be at thy own choice, whether thou follow it or not. I am of Fez, a person of quality in my Country; my misfortune made me slave to Don Carlos, and Sophia's beauty, hers. I have told thee much in few words. Thou think'st thy misery remediless, because thy Lover carries away his Mistress, and is bound for Barcelona. 'Tis both thy happiness and mine, if thou canst make thy advantage of the opportunity. I have treated about my ransom, and paid it. A Galeot of afric waits for me in the road, not far from the place where Don Carlos hath one ready for the execution of his design. He hath put it off for one day; let us prevent him with as much diligence as subtlety. Go and tell Sophia from thy Master, that she should make ready to come away this night, at the time thou shalt come for her; conduct her to my Vessel; I will carry her into afric, and thou shalt continue alone at Valentia, to enjoy thy Lover, who haply would have loved thee as soon as Sophia, had he but known that thou hadst loved him.  
At these last words of Claudia, I was so overcome with grief, that with a deep sigh, I fell into another swoon, without any signs of life. The out-cries of Claudia, who haply then began to repent her that she had made me so unfortunate, yet was nevertheless such, brought Amet and his Brother into the room where I was. They applied all the remedies they could, till at last I recovered, and might hear Claudia still reproaching the Moor with his perfidiousness. Infidel Dog! said she to him, why hast thou advised me to reduce this Beauty to the deplorable condition thou seest her in, if thou hadst no mind to leave me with the person I loved? And why hast thou caused me to commit against a person so dear to me, a treachery which proves as hurtful to me as to him? How dar'st thou say thou art of noble birth in thy Country, when thou art the most perfidious and basest of all men? Hold thy peace, simple Maid, replies Amet, reproach me not with a crime, wherein thou art my Complice. I have already told thee, that he, who could betray a Master as thou hast done, very well deserved to be betrayed, and that taking thee along with me, I only secure my own life, and haply Sophia's, since she might have died of pure grief, upon the knowledge of thy staying behind with Don Carlos.  
At these words, the noise made by the Mariners, who were ready to enter into the Port of Salley, and the shooting off of some Guns, which were answered by the Artillery of the Port, interrupted the reproaches reciprocally made to one the other, by Amet and Claudia, and for a while eased me of the sight of those two odious persons. We got ashore; Claudia and I had veils put over our faces, and we were lodged with the perfidious Amet, at a Moor's, one of his kindred. The next day, we were disposed into a close Chariot, and conducted to Fez, where, if Amet were received by his Father with much joy, I came in, the most afflicted and most desperate person in the world. For Claudia, she soon provided for herself, renouncing Christianity, and marrying Zaides, brother to the treacherous Amet. The wicked woman used all the artifices imaginable to induce me to change my Religion, and to marry Amet, as she had done Zaides, and so she became the most cruel of my Tyrants, even while, after they had in vain tried to draw me in by kindness, fair promises, and treatments, Amet and all his people exercised on me all the barbarism they could. My constancy was sufficiently exercised against so many enemies, and I was more able to endure my troubles than I could have wished myself, when I began to imagine that Claudia repented her, that she had been so wicked. Before others she seemed to persecute me with greater animosity than any, but privately she did me some good offices, which made me look on her as a person who might have been virtuous, had her education been accordingly.  
For one day, while all the rest of the women were gone to the public Baths, as you Mahumetans are wont to do, she came to me, and finding me very sad, she spoke to me to this purpose. Fairest Sophia! I have heretofore thought I had some reason to hate you, but now that hatred is at an end, since I have lost the hope of ever enjoying him, who loved not me enough, because he loved you too much. It grieves me to the soul, that I have occasioned your misfortune, and forsaken my God, for fear of men. The least of these stings were enough to make me undertake things beyond my sex. I can no longer live at this distance from Spain, and all the Christian part of the world, with these Infidels, among whom I know it is impossible I should ever work out my salvation either here or hereafter. You may assure yourself of my repentance by the secret I shall acquaint you with, which putting my life at your disposal, you may revenge yourself of all the mischiefs I have been forced to do you. I have corrupted fifty Christian Slaves, most Spaniards, and all persons fit to undertake some great enterprise. With the money I have secretly given them, they have secured a Bark ready to waft us over into Spain, if it please God to favour so so good a design. All you have to do is to join fortunes with me, and so escape if I do, or, perishing with me, get out of the hands of your cruel enemies, and put a period to so unfortunate a life as yours is. Resolve therefore, Sophia, and while we cannot be suspected guilty of any design, let us, without loss of any time, consider of the most important action of your life and mine.  
I cast myself at Claudia's feet, and measuring her by myself, I never questioned her sincerity. I was at a little loss to give her sufficient thanks, and assure her of the great resentments I had of the favour which I conceived she would do me. We appointed a day for our escape, towards a place on the Seaside, where she told me that our Bark lay, under certain Rocks. The day, which I thought would prove so happy, came; we very happily got out of the house and City. I admired the goodness of Heaven in the easiness we found in compassing our design, and I incessantly blessed God for it. But the end of my misfortunes was not so near as I thought it. Claudia did all this by order from the perfidious Amet; nay, exceeding him in perfidiousness, the end of her bringing me to such a solitary place, and that in the night time, was only to leave me to the violence of the Moor, who durst not have attempted aught against my chastity in his Father's house, who, though a Mahometan, was yet a morally honest man. I innocently followed her, who led me to destruction, and I thought I should never be sufficiently thankful to her, for the liberty I was in hope ere long to obtain by her means. I could not be weary of giving her thanks, not yet of going a good pace, in rough ways encompassed with rocks, where she told me that her people expected her, when hearing a certain noise behind me, and turning my head, I perceived Amet with his Scimitar drawn. You infamous Slaves, said he, is it thus you run away from your Master? I had not the leisure to answer him. Claudia held my hands fast behind, and Amet letting fall his Scimitar, came up to the Renegado, and both of them together did what they could to bind my hands with cords, which they had provided for that purpose. Having a greater strength and activity than women commonly have, I a good while resisted the attempts of those two wicked persons: but at length I grew weak, and my only recourse was to my cries, which might draw some passenger into that solitary place, where I rather hoped not for any relief, when Prince Mulei came in to my rescue. You have heard how he saved my honour, nay I may say my life, since I had assuredly died of grief, if the detestable Amet had had his desires on me.  
Thus did Sophia conclude the relation of her adventures, and the amiable Zoraida encouraged her to expect from the generosity of the Prince, that some course would be taken for her return into Spain; whereupon she acquainted her Husband with all she had heard from Sophia, whereof he afterwards gave Prince Mulei an account. Though all that had been related to him of the fortunes of the fair Christian, flattered not the passion he had for her, yet was he glad, being a person nobly inclined to virtue, to receive some knowledge thereof, and find that her affection was engaged in her own Country, that so he might not attempt a censurable action out of a vain hope of finding it easily compassed. He had an esteem for the virtue of Sophia, and was inclined, by his own, to endeavour a remission of her misfortune. He sent her word by Zoraida, that he would give order for her return into Spain, when she pleased, and, having once taken that resolution, he forbore to visit her, out of a distrust of his own virtue, and the beauty of that amiable person. She was not a little troubled to find out a secure way for her return. 'Twas somewhat a tedious voyage into Spain, whose Merchants traded not to Fez, and though she might have met with a Christian vessel, yet being fair and young, as she was, she might find, among those of her own Religion, what she had been afraid to meet with among the Moors. Honesty is not often found aboard a Ship; sincerity is as little observed there as in War, and wherever beauty and innocence are at the weakest, the insolence of the wicked will not fail to take its advantage to thrust them to the wall. Zaraida advised Sophia to put on Man's clothes, since her advantageous Stature, beyond that of other Women much furthered her disguise. She told her it was the advice of Prince Mulei, who knew not any person at Fez, to whom he might safely trust her, and she told her withal, that he had had the goodness to provide for the safety of her Sex, by assigning her a companion of the same, of her own faith, and disguised as herself, and that so she might avoid the disquiet it would be to her, to see herself alone, aboard a Vessel, among Soldiers and Mariners.  
Prince Mulei had bought of a Pirate a Prize which he had taken at Sea; 'twas a Vessel belonging to the Governor of Oran, which had aboard her the whole family of a Spanish Gentleman, whom the Governor, upon some disgust, sent over a Prisoner into Spain. Mulei had heard that the said Gentleman was one of the best Huntsmen in the world, and Hunting being an exercise the Prince was most of any inclined to, he would needs have him to be his Slave, and to make the more sure of him, would not have him separated from his Wife, his Son, and Daughter. In the space of two years that he lived at Fez, in the Prince's service, he taught him how he might take any thing with a Gun, whether it were on the Earth, or in the Air, and showed him several other Games unknown to the Moors. By these ways, he had so insinuated himself into the Prince's favour, and was become so necessary in his divertisements, that he would not hear of any Ransom for him, but endeavoured by all the obligations he could lay on him, to make him forget his own Country. But the regret he conceived, that he should not once more see it, put him into a melancholy, which soon after ended in his Death, to which it was not long ere his Wife followed him. Mulei felt a certain remorse, that he had not set him at Liberty, together with his relations, since they had by their Services deserved it, and so resolved to repair, towards their Children, the injury he thought he had done the Parents. The Daughter was named Dorotea, much about the same Age with Sophia, handsome and witty. Her Brother was not above fifteen years of Age, and his name Sancho. Mulei pitched on them to accompany Sophia, and took that opportunity to send them together into Spain. The business was kept very secret. Men's clothes, according to the Spanish mode were made for the two Gentlewomen, and little Sancho. Mulei showed his magnificence in the great quantity of Jewels he bestowed on Sophia. He also bestowed very noble Presents on Dorotea, which, added to those her Father had received from the Prince's liberality, made her a very considerable fortune.  
About this time, Charles the fifth was engaged in a war in afric, and had besieged the City of Tunis. He had sent an Ambassador to Mulei to treat about the ransom of certain Spaniards, persons of Quality, who had been cast away on the Coast of Morocco. To this Ambassador did Mulei recommend Sophia, under the name of Don Fernand, a Gentleman of quality, who desired not to be known by his own name; and Dorotea and her Brother were to be his retinue, one as a Gentleman waiting on him, the other as Page. Sophia and Zoraida could not part without regret, and many tears were shed on both sides. Zoraida bestowed on the fair Christian a Necklace of Pearl, so rich, that she would not have received it, if the obliging Moor, and her Husband Zulema, who had as great a kindness for Sophia as his Wife, had not assured her, that she could not disoblige them in any thing so much, as the refusal of that pledge of their friendship. Zoraida made Sophia promise, that she should hear from her, by the way of Tangiers, Oran, or some other places which the Emperor was possessed of in afric.  
The Christian Ambassador took Shipping at Salley, having along with him Sophia, whom we must henceforth call Don Fernand. He came to the Emperor's Army, while it was yet before Tunis. Our disguised Spanish Lady was presented to him as a Gentleman of Andalusia, who had some time been a Slave to the Prince of Fez. She had no great reason to be so fond of her Life, as to be afraid of engaging in the War, and being now to act the part of a Cavalier, she could not, in honour, avoid the performance of duty, as other gallant Persons did, whereof the Emperor's army was full. She thereupon listed herself among the Volunteers, missed no design that was undertaken, and signalised herself upon all occasions, so as the Emperor came to hear much of the counterfeit Don Fernand. Nay, such was her good Fortune, that she happened to be near him, when, in the heat of an engagement, wherein the disadvantage was on the Christian side, he fell into an ambuscado of Moors, was forsaken by his party, and encompassed by the Infidels, and in all probability he had been killed there, his Horse having already received that fate under him, if our Amazon had not mounted him on hers, and, seconding his Valour with unexpressible efforts, given the Christians time to see their error, and to come into the relief of the Valiant Emperor. So signal an action was not unrecompensed; the Emperor bestowed on the unknown Don Fernand a Commandery of Saint James, of a vast Revenue, and the Regiment of Horse of a certain Spanish Lord, who had been killed in the last engagement. He also bestowed on him the equipage of a person of Quality, and from thenceforward, there was not a Person in the whole Army more highly esteemed or more considerable than this Valiant Virago. All the actions of Man were so natural to her; her Countenance was so fair, and made her seem so young; her Valour was so admirable, considering her youth; and her Prudence and Conduct so remarkable, that there was not any Person of quality or command in the Army, but courted her Friendship. It is not therefore much to be admired, if, all pleading for her, but especially her noble and heroic Actions, she came in a short time to be her Master's greatest Favourite.  
About this time, there came over some Recruits from Spain, in those Vessels which brought over Money and Ammunition for the Army. The Emperor would needs see them himself in their Arms, accompanied by the chiefest Commanders, among whom was our Amazon. Looking very earnestly on these Recruits, she imagined that she had seen Don Carlos, nor was she mistaken. She could not be at rest all that day; she sent to find him out among the new Levies, but he could not be found, in regard he had changed his name. She slept not all night, got up with the Sun, to find out, herself, that dear Lover which had cost her so many tears. She found him, and was not known by him, she being grown somewhat Taller, and the sultry heat of afric having a little changed the Complexion of her Countenance. She pretended to take him for another of her acquaintance, and asked him what news from Sevil, and how such a person did, naming the first came into her mind. Don Carlos told her she had mistaken him, that he had never been at Sevil, and that he was of Valentia. You are extremely like a person I loved very well, says Sophia, I would say Don Fernand, and for that resemblance I will be your friend, if you find in yourself no aversion to become mine. The same reason, replies Don Carlos, which obliges you to proffer me your friendship, had already insured mine to you, if it be worth your acceptance. You are somewhat like a person I have a long time been in love with; you have her Countenance and Voice, but you are not of the same Sex, and certainly, added he, with a deep sigh, you are not of her Humour. Sophia could not forbear blushing at those words of Don Carlos, which he took no notice of, haply by reason his eyes, which began to be moistened with tears, could not well perceive the alterations of Sophia's countenance. She was troubled, and not able at the present to dissemble it, she desired Don Carlos to come to her Tent, where she would expect him, and so left him, after he had described his Quarter, and told him that he was known in the Army by the name of Don Fernand, one of the  
At the hearing of that, Don Carlos was afraid he had not rendered him the respect due to his Quality. He had already heard what esteem he was in with the Emperor, and that he was as much in favour with him as any about the Court. He soon found out his Quarter and Tent, which any one could direct him to, and he was as well received by him, as a simple Cavalier could expect to be, by one of the chiefest Field-Officers. He again imagined he discovered Sophia's countenance, in that of Don Fernand; was more astonished at it, than he had been before, and that much more at the sound of his Voice, which entered into his very Soul, and there renewed the remembrance of that person, for whom, of all the world, he had had the greatest affection.  
In the mean time, Sophia, undiscovered by her Lover, entertains him at dinner, which done, she commands all the Servants to withdraw, and, having given order that none should visit her, was told a second time, by that Gentleman, that he was of Valentia, and afterwards very patiently heard him relate what she knew as well as himself of their common adventures, to the day that he intended to have carried her away. Could you imagine, Sir, said Don Carlos to her, that a Gentlewoman of such Quality, who had received so many assurances of my Love, and had given me as many of hers, should be wanting in point of fidelity and honour; should have the subtlety to smother such great failings, and be so blinded in her choice, as to prefer, before me, a young Page I had, who carried her away from me, the day before I should have done it. But are you fully convinced it is so, says Sophia to him. All things are in the disposal of Chance, which sometimes is in an humour to confound our ratiocinations, by such effects, as we least expect. 'Tis possible, your Mistress may have been forced to that separation from you, and, it may be, is rather unfortunate, than chargeable with any miscarriage. O that it were the pleasure of the Gods, replies Don Carlos, I could make the least question of it, I should comfortably endure all the losses and misfortunes it hath caused me; nay, I should not think myself unfortunate, could I but imagine that she were still faithful to me; but she is only such to the perfidious Claudio, and never pretended love to the wretched Don Carlos, but to ruin him. Methinks, it may be inferred from what you say, replies Sophia, that you never had any great affection for her, when your charge against her is without your hearing what she may have to allege for herself, and you represent her, not only as an unconstant, but also as a wicked person. And could any one have been more wicked than she hath proved, cries Don Carlos, when, to elude the suspicion of having been carried away by the Page, she left in her Chamber, the very night she vanished from her Father's, a Letter, writ with the greatest malice imaginable, which hath reduced me to more sensible miseries, than that it should ever get out of my memory. When you have heard it, you will haply be able to judge what Sycophancy so young a Thing could be guilty of.  
THE LETTER.  
Sir,  
YOu should not have forbidden me to love Don Carlos, after you had once laid your commands on me to do it. A merit so great as his must needs have raised in me an affection for him proportionable thereto, and when the mind of a young Person is prepossessed with such a passion, it is so filled, that there is no place for interest. Know then, that I go hence with him, whom you were pleased I should affect, even from my Infancy, and without whom it were as impossible for me to live, as it would be, not to die a thousand times a day, with a Stranger, whom I cannot any way fancy, even though he were much richer than he is. Our offence, if it be any, deserves your pardon; which if you grant us, we will return to receive it, with greater speed, than we are now forced to, to avoid the unjust violence you would do us.  
SOPHIA.  
You may easily imagine, continued Don Carlos, the extreme grief which Sophia's Parents conceived at the reading of this Letter. They were in hopes I might be still with their Daughter, either in Valentia, or not far from it. They discovered not their loss to any but the Viceroy, who was their kinsman, and it was hardly light the next morning, when some Officers coming into my room found me asleep. I was, as well I might, very much startled at such a visit, and when, after they had asked me where Sophia was, I also made the same question to them, my adversaries were incensed, and violently dragged me to prison. I was examined, and could make no plea for myself against Sophia's Letter. It was clear, that I had a design to have carried her away; but it appeared withal, that my Page had vanished at the same time with her. Sophia's Parents sent people to find her out, and my friends, on the other side, made diligent search where the Page might dispose of her. This was the only means to clear me; but we never could hear any thing of these fugitive Lovers, whereupon my enemies charged me with the death of them both. At last, injustice, backed with power, carried it against oppressed innocence. Notice was given me that I should soon receive my sentence, and that it would be that of death. I hoped not that Heaven would do any miracles on my accounted, and so I thought it my best way to endeavour the recovery of my liberty by an act of despair. I joined myself to certain Bandits, who were prisoners as well as myself, and all persons of resolution. We forced the Prison-doors, and, assisted by our friends, got into the Mountains about Valentia, ere the Viceroy had any notice of our escape. We continued a long time Masters of the Field. Sophia's inconstancy, the prosecution of her friends, the injustice I thought done me by the Viceroy, and, in fine, the loss of my estate, put me into such despair, that I hazarded my life in all the engagements wherein my Comrades and myself met with any resistance, and by that means I got into such reputation with them, that they made me their Chief. I behaved myself in that charge so successfully, that our Party became dreadful to the Kingdoms of Arragon and Valentia, and we grew so insolent, as to impose a Contribution on those Countries. I here make a dangerous discovery to you, but the honour you do me, and my own inclination do so far enslave me to you, that I am willing to put my life into your hands, by acquainting you with the greatest secrets of it. At last, I grew weary of that lewd course of life; I got away from my Comrades, when they least suspected I should, and took my way to Barcelona, where I was entertained only as a private Gentleman, in the Recruits ready to be transported into afric, which have since joined with the Army. I have no great reason to be in love with my life, and having been guilty of such a mis-expense thereof, I cannot employ it better than against the enemies of my Religion, and to serve you, since the goodness you are pleased to express towards me, hath given me the only joy, my soul hath been capable of, ever since the most ungrateful woman in the world hath made me the most unhappy of all men.  
Sophia, undiscovered, took the part of Sophia unjustly accused, and omitted nothing that might induce her Lover to forbear judging his Mistress so rigorously, till he were more fully satisfied of her offence. She told the unfortunate Cavalier, that she concerned herself very much in his misfortunes; that she wished it in her power to alleviate them, and to give greater expressions thereof than words; that she desired him to accept of a relation to her, and when occasion served, she would employ all the credit she had with the Emperor, and the interest of all her friends, to rescue him from the prosecution of Sophia's, and the Viceroy of Valentia.  
Don Carlos would not admit of any thing urged by the counterfeit Don Fernand, in the vindication of Sophia, but accepted of the entertainment he proffered him. That very day, that constant Mistress spoke to the Commander, under whom Don Carlos was, that, being a kinsman of hers, he might be under her command. Thus is our unfortunate Lover received into the service of his Mistress, whom he thought, either dead, or had forsaken him. He finds himself, as soon as entertained, very highly in his favour whom he thought his Master, and wonders how he comes, so suddenly, to be so much loved. He is immediately made his Treasurer, Secretary, and Confident. The rest of the servants respect him little less than Don Fernand himself, and no doubt he might be happy, in the love of a Master that seems so amiable to him, and whom a secret instinct forces him to love, if lost Sophia, if unconstant Sophia, did not perpetually present herself to his imagination, and gave him a sadness, which the caresses of so dear a Master and his bettered fortune were not able to smother. Though Sophia had a tenderness for him, yet was she not displeased to see him troubled, not doubting but she was the cause of his affliction. She often discoursed with him concerning Sophia, and sometimes with so much earnestness, nay indignation and bitterness, vindicated her whom Don Carlos charged with no less a crime than a forfeiture of faith and honour, that at last he imagined, that Don Fernand, who would be still harping on the same string, had sometime been a Servant to Sophia, and haply was still.  
The war in afric came to the period mentioned in the History thereof. The Emperor carried it on afterwards in Germany, Italy, Flanders, and other places. Our Female Warrior, under the name of Don Fernand, added to the reputation she had before of a valiant and experienced Commander, by many gallant encounters, wherein she showed no less valour than conduct, though the latter of those qualities be seldom found in a person so young, as her sex made her appear. The Emperor was obliged to go into Flanders, and, to that end, to desire the King of France to give him passage through his Countries. The great Monarch who then reigned, would needs, in generosity and confidence, surpass a mortal enemy, who had ever surpassed him in good fortune, whereof he had not at all times made good use. Charles the Fifth was received into Paris, as if he had been King of France. The fair Don Fernand w●s one of the small number of persons of quality, who accompanied him; and if his Master had made a longer stay in that gallant Court, the beautiful Spanish Lady, taken for a man, had raised love in many of the French Ladies, and jealousy in some of the most accomplished Courtiers.  
In the mean time, the Viceroy of Valentia dies in Spain. Don Fernand, encouraged by the affection his Master bore him, and the services he had done, presumed to demand that important charge, and obtained it, without much envy. He soon acquainted Don Carlos with the good success, and put him in hopes, that, as soon as he had taken possession of the Government of Valentia, he would accommodate the difference between him and the Relations of Sophia; procure his pardon from the Emperor for having been chief Commander among the Bandits, and endeavour to put him into possession of his Estate.  
Don Carlos might have derived some comfort from all these noble promises, had not the misfortune of his Love made him absolutely disconsolate. The Emperor came into Spain, and went straight to Madrid, and Don Fernand went to take possession of his Government. The next day after his arrival at Valentia, Sophia's Relations presented a Petition against Don Carlos, who was Steward and Secretary to the Viceroy. The Viceroy promised them justice, and Don Carlos, that he would protect his innocence. A new Indictment was put in against him; the Witnesses were examined a second time, and, in fine, Sophia ' Relations, exasperated at the loss of her, and out of a desire of revenge, which they conceived just, solicited the business so earnestly, that, in five or six days, it was ready for judgement. They desired that the person indicted might be sent to prison; the Viceroy gave them his word, that he should not stir out of his house, and set down a day to pass judgement on him.  
The eve of that fatal day, which held the whole City of Valentia in suspense, Don Carlos desired a private audience of the Viceroy, which was granted him. Casting himself at his feet, May it please your Highness, said he to him, to morrow is the time, that you are to satisfy all the world of my innocency. Though the witnesses I have produced absolutely clear me of the crime laid to my charge, yet I now come to assure your Highness with as much sincerity, as if I were in the presence of God, that I had not only no hand in the carrying away of Sophia, but withal, that, the day before she was carried away, I did not so much as see her, nor ever heard of her since. True it is, that I should have carried her away, but a misfortune, to me yet unknown, removed her hence, either to my ruin, or her own.  
No more, no more, Don Carlos, says the Viceroy to him, go thy ways, and take thy rest securely; I am thy Master and Friend, and better informed of thy innocence than thou dost imagine; nay, though I might doubt of it, yet should I not be obliged to be too exact to satisfy myself, since thou art in my house, and of my house, and that thou camest not hither with me, but upon the promise I made to protect thee. Don Carlos rendered his thanks to so obliging a Master with all the eloquence he was master of. He went to bed, and the impatience he was in to see himself cleared, would not suffer him to sleep. He got up at the break of day, and having dressed himself somewhat above his ordinary gath, waited at the rising of his Master. But hold a little, I am mistaken, he went not into his chamber till all his clothes were on; for from the time that Sophia had disguised her sex, only Dorotea, the confident of her disguise, lay in her chamber, and did all those services, which done by another might have discovered what she would have kept concealed. Don Carlos therefore entered into the Viceroy's chamber, as soon as Dorotea had opened it for all visitants; and the Viceroy no sooner saw him, but he reproached him with his early rising, being a person accused, who would have himself thought innocent, and told him, that a person who could not sleep betrayed something that lay heavy on his conscience. Don Carlos a little troubled, made him answer, that it was not so much the fear of being found guilty, as the hope of defying the further prosecutions of his enemies, by the justice he expected from his Highness, that had hindered him from sleeping. But you are very nearly dressed, and gallant, says the Viceroy to him, and I find you very calm, considering your life is in so great a hazard. I am now at a loss what to think of the crime wherewith you stand charged. As often as we fall into discourse concerning Sophia, you speak of her with less earnestness and more indifference than I do; and yet I am not charged, as you are, to have ever been loved by her, and to have murdered her, and possibly young Claudio too, on whom you would cast the charge of her conveyance away. You affirmed that you have loved her, continued the Viceroy, and yet you live after you had lost her, and you have omitted nothing that could be done in order to your discharge and quiet, you, who should rather be weary of your life, and hate whatever might tend to the preservation of it. Ah! unconstant Don Carlos, it must needs be that some other Love hath induced you to forget the inclinations you had for lost Sophia, if so be you ever truly loved her, when she was wholly yours, and durst do any thing for your s●ke.  
Don Carlos, half dead at these words of the Viceroy's, would have made some reply thereto, but he would by no means permit him, Come, come, hold your peace, said he to him, with a severe countenance, and reserve your eloquence for your Judges; for my part, I shall not be surprised therewith, nor, on the account of one of my menial servants, raise in the Emperor an ill opinion of my integrity. And therefore in the mean time, added the Viceroy, turning to the Captain of the Guard, let him be secured; he, who broke prison, may much rather his promise, when he finds there are no other hopes of impunity, than what may be had by an escape.  
Immediately Don Carlos' Sword was taken from him, which raised a great compassion in all those who saw him encompassed by the Guards, cast down and discouraged, and having much ado to keep in his tears. While the poor Gentleman was repenting himself, that he had not been sufficiently distrustful of the unconstant humour of Grandees: the Judges, before whom he was to be tried, entered the room, and took their places, after the Viceroy had taken his. The Italian Count, who had continued all this time at Valentia, and the Father and Mother of Sophia appeared, and produced their witnesses against the Prisoner, who was now at such a loss, that he hardly had the courage to plead for himself. They showed him the Letters which he had sometimes written to Sophia; the Neighbours were brought in, and the Domestics of Sophia's house, and at last there was produced against him the Letter she had left in her Chamber, the day he had designed to carry her away. The Prisoner brought in his Domestics, who deposed, that they had seen their Master in Bed; but he might have got up after he had made them believe he was asleep. For his own part, he swore very liberally, that he had not carried away Sophia, and represented it to the Judges, that it was the most improbable thing in the world, that he should carry her away, soon after to be separated from her: but a further charge against him was, that he had murdered her, and also the Page, the confident of his Loves. There remained only to pass the Sentence, and no doubt it would have been that of death, when the Viceroy ordered him to approach, and spoke to him in these words.  
Unfortunate Don Carlos! Thou mayst well conclude, after all the demonstrations of affection thou hast received from me, that, if I could have but suspected thee guilty of the crime laid to thy charge, I should not have brought thee to Valentia. There's no way for me but to condemn thee, unless I would begin the exercise of my charge by an Injustice, and thou mayst judge how much I am troubled at thy misfortune, by the tears I shed for thee. 'Twere possible thy adversaries might be satisfied, were they of a lower quality, or less resolved upon thy destruction. In a word, if Sophia appears not herself to vindicate thee, prepare thyself for death.  
Don Carlos, at this, despairing of all safety, cast himself at the Viceroy's feet, and said to him, Your Highness may be pleased to remember, that, in afric, even from the first time I had the honour to be entertained into your service, and whenever your Highness engaged me in the tedious relation of my misfortunes, I ever related them in the same manner, and you might presume, that, in those Countries, and all other places, I should not have affirmed to a Master, who so highly honoured me with his affection, what I should here deny before a Judge. I ever told your Highness the naked Truth, as sincerely as to my God, and I tell you still, that I loved, that I adored Sophia; How! say that thou adorest her, ungrateful Man? says the Viceroy to him, surprising all the Assembly by his Action. Yes, I do adore her, replies Don Carlos, very much astonished at what the Viceroy had spoken. I promised to marry her, continued he, and we agreed together, that I should carry her away to Barcelona. But if I did effectually convey her hence, if I know where she is, let me be put to the most cruel death can be imagined. I cannot avoid it; but I shall die innocently, unless it may be said I have deserved death, for loving, even beyond my own Life, an unconstant and perfidious creature. But what is become of this perfidious Creature and thy Page, cries the Viceroy, with a furious countenance? Are they gone up into Heaven? Are they sunk down under the Earth? The Page was a Gallant; replies Don Carlos, she was handsome; he was a Man, she was a Woman. Ah Traitor! said the Viceroy to him, how hast thou now discovered thy base suspicions, and the little esteem thou hadst for the unfortunate Sophia! Cursed be the Woman that suffers herself to be cajoled by the promises of Men, and comes afterwards to be slighted for her credulity! Neither was Sophia a Woman of ordinary virtue, wicked Man! nor thy Page Claudio a Man. Sophia was constant to thee; and thy Page was a distracted Woman in love with thee, and robbed thee of Sophia, whom she betrayed as a Rival. I am Sophia, unworthy, ungrateful Lover! I am Sophia, who have suffered unimaginable miseries, for a Man, that deserved not to be loved, and one who thought me guilty of the greatest infamy I could fall into.  
Sophia could say no more, her Father, who knew her, took her into his arms. Her Mother fell into a swound, on the one side; and Don Carlos on the other. Sophia disengaged herself from her Father, to go to the relief of the two persons who had swooned, but soon recovered themselves, while she was in suspense to whether of the two she should run. Her Mother wept over her, she did the like over her Mother. She embraced, with all the tenderness imaginable, her dear Don Carlos, who had almost fallen into another swound. But with much ●do he kept upon his feet, and not presuming yet to kiss Sophia's lips, as he could have wished, he revenged himself on her hands, which h● kissed a thousand times one after another. Sophia was hardly able to return all the embraces she received, and all the compliments that were made to her. The Italian Count, making his among the rest, would have entertained her with the pretensions he had to her, as having been promised him by her Father and Mother. Don Carlos, who heard him, quitted one of Sophia's hands, which he was then greedily kissing, and drawing his Sword, which had been delivered to him, set himself into such a posture, as put the whole assembly into a fright, and swearing after the rate of millions, made it appear, that no human force should deprive him of Sophia, if she herself forbade him not to think of her. But she declared, that she would never have any other Husband than her dear Don Carlos, and entreated her Father and Mother to consent thereto, or resolve to see her shut up in a Monastery for the remainder of her Life. Her Parents gave her liberty to make her own choice, and the Italian Count took Post that very day, for Italy, or some other place where he had a mind to go.  
Sophia dismissed not the Assembly, till she had g●●●●hem a relation of her adventure●, which w●●●●dmir'd by all. A person was dispatched awa● express to carry the news of this miracle to the emperor, who continued to Don Carlos, after he ● married. Sophia, the Vice-royalty and Government of Valentia, and all the kindnesses which that Virago had deserved under the name of Don Fernand, and bestowed on that happy Lover a Principality, which his Posterity enjoys to this day. The solemnities of the Nuptials were extraordinary, discharged by the City of Valentia; and D●rotea, who put on Man's clothes at the same time as Sophia, was also, at the same time, married, to a Cavalier, a near Kinsman to Don Carlos.   

SCARRON's NOVELS.  
The Rival-Brothers.  
The Fifth Novel.  
DOrothea and Feliciana were the two most beautiful and most amiable Ladies of any about the famous City of Sevil; but though they had not been such, their quality and great fortunes were so considerable as might well engage all those, who were desirous to be advantageously matched, to make their addresses to them. It is not then to be doubted, but that, of Suitors, there was a pretty Catalogue, yet had not Don Manuel, their Father, declared himself in favour of any man's pretensions, and Dorothea, who, being the elder, should, by the course of the Cards, be married first, had, as well as her sister, been so reserved in her demeanour and actions, that the most presumptuous of her humble Servants were in some doubt, whether their services were kindly or unkindly received. These two Beauties never went publicly to Mass, but they were attended by a number of the greatest Gallants about the City, wherein the Miracle was, that so many different pretensions should agree so well, and that in a superstitious Country young Gentlemen should be guilty of any devotion, besides what they have for their Mistresses. Before they could get off their gloves to take a little Holywater, other hands, some fair, some otherwise, bestowed on them more than they needed. Their fair eyes were no sooner off their Prayer-books, but they were the centre of I know not how many immodest looks: and every step, as they went out of the Church, they had salutations to return.  
But if they were thus importuned with courtship in Churches, and public places, where people conceive themselves obliged to observe some reservedness, they wanted it not at home. For, their Father's house being in the midst of a spacious plain, there passed not a day without some of those divertisements, whereby Lovers would insinuate themselves into the favour of their Mistresses. And these our young Ladies took the more kindly, in that they made that restraint, which the tyrannical custom of the Country imposes on their sex, the more supportable to them. In the day time, Cavalcades, Tilting, and such exercises were their entertainment, every night several sorts of Music. One d●y above the rest, there came in an unknown Person who did such things as astonished all the beholders, and had been particularly observed by the two fair Sisters, to be one so neatly made, as if nature had intended him for a pattern. Several Gentlemen of Sevil, who had known him in Flanders, where he had the command of a Regiment of Horse, invited him to make one at their sport of Tilting, which he did, habited as a Soldier.  
Not long after, there happened to be at Sevil, the ceremony of the Consecration of a Bishop. The Stranger we spoke of before, who went under the name of Don Sancho de Sylva, came into that Church where it was to be performed, with several others the greatest Gallants about the City, and the two fair Sisters Dorothea and Feliciana de Monsalvo were also there among divers Ladies, all disguised, according to the mode of Sevil, with mantles of a thick stuff, and hats with plumes of feathers in them. It was Don Sancho's fortune to stand between the two Sisters, and another Lady, with whom he would have entered into some discourse, but she civilly entreated him, to forbear speaking to her, and to resign the place he was in, to a person she expected, to meet her there. Don Sancho complied with her desires, and thereupon turning about, he makes towards Dorothea d● Monsalvo▪ who stood nearer him than her Sister; and had observed what compliments had passed between him and the other Lady. I was in hopes, Madam, said he, addressing himself to her, that, being a stranger in this place, the Lady to whom I would have spoken, would have vouchsafed me her conversation; but she hath punished the confidence I had to think that mine was not to be slighted. I acknowledge my oversight, and I shall be more distrustful of myself another time. And therefore, be you pleased, Madam, to express less rigour towards a Stranger, whom you have seen treated with so much disrespect, and, for the honour of the Sevillian Ladies, to give him occasion to make some acknowledgement of their kindness. You rather give me occasion to treat you with as much contempt as the other Lady did, replies Dorothea, since your applications to me are the effects of her refusal of them: but that you may not have too great cause to complain of the Ladies of this Country, I am content to discourse only with you, as long as this Ceremony shall last, and thence, besides the kindness you may conceive done to yourself, you may infer, that I have not appointed any one to meet me here. Being so excellent a person as I imagine you to be, says Don Sancho, I cannot forbear wondering at it, but must withal conclude, that you are much to be feared, or that the Gallants of this City are very timorous, or rather that he, whose place I have taken up, may be absent. And do you think, Sir, says Dorothea to him, that I am so ignorant in the matter of loving, that, in the absence of a Gallant, I could not forbea● going to an Assembly, where I should not ●ail meeting with some other? Take heed another time how you pass so rash a censure, of a person you know not. You would find, Madam, replies Don Sancho, that what you call my Censure is more to your advantage than you think, if you permit me to serve you answerably to the inclinations I have for you. Our first motions are violent, and therefore not always to be followed, says Dorothea to him; besides there is a great difficulty in what you propose to me. Not any so great, replies Don Sancho, but I shall be able to overcome, when the reward of it is to become your Servant. 'Tis not a design to be compassed in few days, says Dorothea; I find you a person will be easily transported, in that you seem to have forgotten, that you only take Sevil in your way to some other place, and perhaps are yet to learn, that I should not take it kindly any man loved me, en passant, that is, by the way. Be you but pleased, Madam, said he, to grant me what I desire, and I promise you not to go any further than Sevil while I live. There is a great deal of spirit and gallantry in what you say, replies Dorothea, and thence I wonder much, that a person who is able to say such things, hath not already made choice of a Lady, on whom he might bestow his gallantries. Proceeds it hence that he thinks them not worth his trouble? No, but rather out of a distrust of his own strength, says Don Sancho. Answer me precisely to what I ask you, says Dorothea, and confidently tell me, which of our Ladies is Mistress of those charms that might force your stay at Sevil. I have already told you, that it is in your power to do it if you please, replies Don Sancho. You never saw me, says Dorothea; it must needs be some one that you have seen, therefore name some other. Since you press so much upon me, says Don Sancho to her, I must acknowledge, Madam, that if the Lady Dorothea Monsalvo were as ingenious as you are, I should account that man happy, whose merit she might value, and whose services she might allow of. There are in Sevil many Ladies as handsome as she is, nay many exceed her, says Dorothea, both in beauty and wit; but since you are pleased to pitch upon her, pray tell me seriously, did you never hear it reported, that she favoured any one of her Gallants particularly above all the rest? Finding myself at a great distance from deserving her, says Don Sancho, I never made it my business to inquire. And why do you think you might not deserve her as well as another, says Dorothea? I took you to be a person of greater courage than to betray so great a distrust of yourself. Had you studied Ladies as much as I imagined you might have done, you would have found them mighty humoursome and fantastic, and that many times the first onset of a new comer makes a greater progress in their affections, than several years of services rendered by those Gallants, who are never out of their sight. From the character you give those Ladies, Madam, says Don Sancho, I may infer you would be loath to be included in the number, and so you take an ingenious way to rid your hands of me, by encouraging me to love some other Lady, and I clearly see, you would have but little regard for the services of a fresh Gallant, to the prejudice of one to whom you had been long before engaged, though 'twere out of no other reason than that you would not be thought humorous or fantastic. Take heed how you entertain any such thing in your imagination, replies Dorothea, but rather persuade yourself, that I am not so easily induced to receive a witty compliment for an assurance of a growing inclination towards me, from a person who never saw me. If there wants only that to make way for the amorous inclination I have for you, replies Don Sancho, conceal not yourself any longer, from a person, who, though a stranger to you, is already infinitely taken with your wit. It's possible you might not be so much with my countenance, says the Lady. Ah Madam, says Don Sancho, it's impossible you should be otherwise than very beautiful, when you so ingeniously acknowledge that you are not; and now I am fully satisfied you would be rid of me, either, because you think me troublesome, or that your heart is already taken up. 'Twere therefore unjust, the goodness obliged you to bear with me thus far, should be any longer pressed upon, only be pleased to assure yourself, that what I have said was not merely to pass away the time with you, but to make a sincere proffer of that of my whole life to serve you. To satisfy you, Sir, replies Dorothea, that I would not have that thought lost which I have spent in discoursing with you, I shall be glad, ere we part, to know who you are. I can do no less than obey you, replies he; know then, Madam, whom I think so amiable, though I have not seen, that I am known by the name of Sylva; that my Father is Governor of Quitto in Peru; that by order from him I am come to Sevil; and that I have spent most part of my Life in Flanders, where I have, by my Services, attained to the highest Commands in the Army, and gotten a Commandery of Saint James. This is a short account of what I now am, what I would be while I live, it lies on you, Madam, to give me leave, in some less public place than this is, to assure you. That shall be as soon as I may conveniently do it, replies Dorothea; in the mean time, trouble not yourself to get any further knowledge of me, unless you will run the hazard of never knowing me for your friend: only take this for your present satisfaction, that I am a person of quality, and that my face is such as will not frighten any body.  
Don Sancho was satisfied, and having, with a low Congee, taken his leave of her, he thrust himself in among a great number of fine Gallants, who were very seriously discoursing together. There are a sort of severe Ladies, who may be more particularly known by the character I shall here give of them, to wit, such as extremely concern themselves in the conduct and demeanour of others, and are very secure as to their own; who imagine themselves the only fit Judges of what is well or ill done, though there may be good wagers laid of their virtue, as a thing whereof there is no great certainty, and think that upon the discovery of a little brutish rudeness, they m●y pretend to supererogation in point of Honour, though the miscarriages of their greener years gave more scandal, than their wrinkles will ever good example; these Ladies, I say, who are very unbiased in the ordinary occurrences of humane Life, will take occasion to quarrel at the Author, and affirm, that Madam Dorothea was guilty of a great want of reservedness, and indiscretion, not only in being so overfree to favour a person whom she only knew by sight, but also in permitting him to speak to her of Love, and that if a young Gentlewoman, over whom they had any power, had done as much, she should make no long abode in this world. But let these yet-to-be-taught Ladies learn from me, that every Country hath its particular customs, and that if in France, England, and some other parts, married Women and Maids, who are trusted to go any where upon the security of their own good behaviour, are offended, or at least should be so, at any the least expression of Love; in Spain, where they are kept in as Nuns, they take it not amiss that any one should tell them they love them, though the person that should tell them so, had not any thing for which he might expect a return of his Love. Nay, they do much more, they are the Ladies commonly that make the first overtures, and are first taken, inasmuch as they are the last seen, by their Gallants, whom they have the advantage to see daily, in Churches, and other public places, and sometimes from their Balconies and Chamber-windows.  
Dorothea acquainted her Sister Feliciana with the discourse had passed between her and Don Sancho, and made no difficulty to tell her, that she was more taken with that Stranger, than with all the Gallants of Sevil, and her Sister approved the design she had upon her Liberty. Thereupon the two fair Sisters had a great deal of serious discourse together, concerning the advantageous privileges which the Men have above the Women, who were seldom married without the consent of their Friends, which many times happened contrary to their liking, whereas the Men were at liberty to make choice, where they best fancied. For my part, says Dorothea to her Sister, I am confident, Love shall never be able to make me do any thing contrary to my duty; but I am on the other side fully resolved never to be married to a Man, who shall not alone be possessed of whatever I could wish in several others, and I had rather spend my Life in a Monastery, than in the company of a Husband I could not affect. Feliciana told her Sister, that she had taken the same resolution, and they confirmed one the other therein, with all the fine arguments, which their ingenuity could furnish them with, upon that occasion. Dorothea found it some difficulty to make good the promise she had made Don Sancho, of discovering herself to him, and acquainted her Sister how much she was troubled thereat: but Feliciana, who was very fortunate in finding out expedients, put her Sister in mind, that a certain Lady, a Kinswoman of theirs, and one of their most intimate friends (for all of ones Kindred are not such) would do her all the service lay in her power, in a business wherein her quiet was so much concerned. You know, says this best-natured Sister in the world, that Marina, who hath lived with us so ma●● years, is now married to a Surgeon, who hath taken of our Kinswoman a little House adjoining to her own, and that there is a common Entry between both. The place where they stand is a remote street not much frequented, and though it should be observed, that we visited our Kinswoman oftener than we had been wont, there would be no notice taken of Don Sancho's going into a Surgeons, besides that the business may be so contrived, that he may come thither only in the night, and disguised.  
While Dorothea, with the assistance of her Sister, was contriving how to compass this amorous interview; while she was disposing her Kinswoman to serve her, and preparing Instructions for Marina, Don Sancho's thoughts were wholly taken up with the unknown Lady. One while he is in suspense whether the promise she had made him, that he should hear from her, were not an abuse; another, he imagined, that there was somewhat in her last words which discovered a certain kindness towards him. He saw her every day, though he knew her not, in the Churches or some other public places, receiving the adorations of her Gallants, who were all his intimate acquaintances, and the greatest friends he had in Sevil. He was one morning putting on his clothes, his thoughts full of his unknown Mistress, when a message was brought, that there was a woman desired to speak with him. Being conducted to his chamber, he received from her, this  
LETTER.  
THat you heard not sooner from me, attribute not to any remission of that kindness I expressed to you at our first meeting, but purely to want of convenience. If you still persist in a desire to be better known to me, receive directions from the Bearer, where you are to meet her in the evening, and she will conduct you to the place, where I shall be ready to receive you.  
It may be easily imagined how gladly he entertained this message, His transportation was such, that he could not forbear embracing that happy Ambassadress, and he presented her with a Gold chain, which, after some ceremony, she received from him. She appointed him to meet her at a certain place in the dusk of the Evening, leaving him the most satisfied, but withal the most impatient man in the world. At last night came; he went to the place where the morning Ambassadress expected him, tricked up and perfumed as if he had spent the whole day about it. He was conducted by her to a little obscure House, which looked somewhat suspiciously, and thence into a noble large Room, where he found three Ladies, all veiled. He discovered his unknown Mistress by her Stature, and immediately broke forth into complaints, that she would not vouchsafe to unveil herself. She stayed not for any further entreaties, whereupon she and her Sister uncovering their faces, Don Sancho knew them to be the fair Sisters, Dorothea and Feliciana de Monsalvo. You are now convinced, says the Elder to him, taking off her Veil, that I told you but truth, when I assured you, that a Stranger might sometimes obtain that in a minute, which those Gallants whom a Lady sees every day should not deserve in many years: but I would have you withal consider with yourself, that you will be the most ungrateful of all Men, if you do not highly esteem the favour I show you, or pass any censure of it to my disadvantage, though I told you such things might be the effect of a fantastic humour. I shall ever value what I receive from you, as if it were sent me from Heaven, says the passionate Don Sancho, and you shall find, by the care I shall take to preserve the kindness you do me, that if I ever lose it, it will not be my negligence, but my misfortune.  
This sharp onset was as eagerly pursued on both sides, to the mutual satisfaction of the two Lovers; which the Mistress of the house and Feliciana perceiving, took occasion to stand at a considerable distance from them, and so they had all the convenience they could have wished, to counter-charge one the other with amorous compliments, and heighten the flames they had already raised in each other; nay, though the Love there was between them, might be accounted, considering the little time of their acquaintance, very great, yet would they appoint another day, to make some additionals thereto, if any might be admitted. Dorothea promised Don Sancho that she would endeavour to see him as often as she could: he returned her his most humble thanks, with all the Rhetoric he was master of.  
Upon this cessation of discourse, the two other Ladies came up to them, and they fell into it afresh, and continued the kind engagement, so long, that Marina thought it time to mind them of their departure. Dorothea was troubled at that alarm, and Don Sancho grew pale and silent; but there was a necessity of parting. The transported Cavalier took occasion the next day, to write a Letter to his Mistress, and sent it by the common Ambassadress Marina, and she returned him such an Answer thereto, as he could have wished. I shall forbear inserting their amorous Epistles here, because there never came any of them to my hands, and I am loath to foist in any of my own dressing, out of a fear they might not prove as good as theirs. They had many interviews afterwards at the same place, and they spent the time, as they had done at the first, and so by a continued progress, their Loves came up to that fervency, that, abating their not shedding their blood as Pyramus and Thisbe are recorded to have done, they were not behind them▪ as to a violent tenderness one for another. 'Tis commonly said, that Love, Fire, and Money cannot be long concealed. Dorothea, who was in a manner transported with continual thoughts of her lovely Stranger, could not speak of him with any moderation, nay, she commended him so highly beyond all the Gentlemen of Sevil, that some Ladies, who would have carried on their designs secretly as she did, hearing her incessantly speaking of Don Sancho, and preferring him so as to cast a certain contempt on those they fancied, took-notice of it, and were offended. Feliciana had often privately advised her, to speak of him with more caution and reservedness; nay, many times, in company, when she saw her transported with the pleasure she took in discoursing of her Gallant, had trod on her foot so hard as to make her cry out, and find somewhat else to talk of.  
These discoveries were at last so observed, that a certain Cavalier, a Suitor of Dorothea's, had notice given him thereof, by a Lady he was intimately acquainted with. He was the more easily induced to believe, that Dorothea had a more than ordinary kindness for Don Sancho, when he considered, that ever since the coming of that Stranger to the City, those who accounted themselves the Slaves of that fair Lady, of which number he thought himself the most heavily chained, had not received the least favourable look from her. This Rival of Don Sancho's was a person of great wealth, descended of a noble House, and much in favour with Don Manuel, who yet was the more backward to press his Daughter to m●rry him, in regard that when ever he spoke to her of it, her answer was, that she wanted two or three years of being ripe for that state.  
This same young Gentleman (now his name comes into my head, Don Diego) before he engaged himself in an action which might be charged with imprudence, thought it requisite to be fully assured of a thing, which yet he did only suspect. He had a very spruce fellow that waited on him in his Chamber, one of those insolent attendants who think it is for their Master's credit that they wear as good Linen as themselves, or at least wear theirs; and all, that they may be the more gracious in the eyes of the waiting women. This Servant's name was Guzman; he pretended much to ingenuity, out of a conceit that it had been derived to him from that Countryman of his, whose adventures are so famous; but having, among other endowments, a smattering in Poetry, he employed his Talon in composing such Romances as in other Countries are known by the name of Ballads. He sung them playing on his Gitthar, but so wretchedly, that his wry mouths and the stretching out of his tongue, spoiled the discord, at least to those that looked on him. He had also the graceful knack of dancing a Saraband, and never went without his Castagnets. He had once some intentions to turn Comedian, but somewhat in his humour was not liked, for he was very much addicted to Vapouring and Hectorship, and to give you a true character of him, there was some suspicion of his nocturnal achievements, as being one who would bid people stand with as much confidence as a Constable, but with this greater civility, that he would dismiss their persons, and secure only what he found about them.  
All these excellent Talents, heightened by a little eloquence, which reached only so far as he had read, and what he heard from his Master, made all the Waiting-women, even those who pretended to somewhat of Beauty, look on him as the blank (if I may make that comparison) of their amorous desires. Don Diego gave him instructions to go and court Isabel, a young Maid who waited on the two beautiful Sisters. He went, and insinuated himself so far into Isabella's favour, that she thought herself the happiest creature in the world, to be loved by Guzman, nay, the kindness they had one for another grew to such a degree, that he became very earnest in the continuance of what he had begun only to obey his Master. Isabel had so well feathered her Nest in her service, that she might well be accounted a good fortune, for the proudest attendant of any in Spain. Her Mistresses treated her very kindly, and were very liberal to her, besides somewhat she had to expect from her Father, who was an honest Tradesman. In fine, Guzman thought it his best course to make sure of her, by proposing a match; she was as willing as he was, and took him at his word; they made one another mutual promises of marriage, and ever after lived together as if the ceremonies had passed between them.  
Things standing thus, Isabel began to conceive an extreme indignation against Marina, the Surgeon's wife, at whose house Don Sancho and Dorothea had their private meetings, and it troubled her much, that though she had lived with her Mistress before her, she should still be her Confident in a business of that nature, wherein the liberality of a favoured Lover is very considerable. She had heard of the Gold chain which Don Sancho had bestowed on Marina, as also of several other presents he had made her, and imagined she might have received many more, which she knew nothing of. This raised a deadly hatred in her against Marina, which makes me think, that the pretty Gentlewoman was not a little troubled. It is not therefore to be wondered, if, upon the first Interrogatories which Guzman made to her, and particularly this, whether it were true that Dorothea was in love with any one, she should discover the secrets of her Mistress, to a person, whom she looked on as part of herself. She acquainted him with all she knew of the designs of our young Lovers, Don Sancho's liberality to Marina, whom he enriched by his continual presents, till at last she broke forth into downright railing at her, as one that made those advantages, which should rather have been received by a Servant that lived in the house. Guzman entreated her to give him notice of the next meeting they were to have there. She did so, and he failed not to give his Master an account of it, as also of all had been told him by the perfidious Isabel.  
Upon this intelligence Don Diego put himself into the habit of a Beggar, and laid himself down in the street not far from Marina's door, into which he saw his Rival enter, and not long after came a Coach, out of which alighted Dorothea and her Sister, and went into the same House, leaving Don Diego in a great rage, to see what he could not then remedy. He went home, and resolved to rid himself of so formidable a Rival. Having hired some of those, whose profession it is to murder any they are set upon, (a sort of people may be as easily procured in Spain, as Porters in other places) he expected Don Sancho several nights together, and at last meeting with him, he set upon him, seconded by two of those mercenary Hectors, as well armed as himself. Don Sancho, on the other side, was reasonably well provided for them, as having about him, besides Sword and Poniard, a case of Pistols charged. He defended himself at first as a Lion, and found that his enemies had this advantage of him, that they defied any thing he could do with his Sword. Don Diego pressed upon him more than the others, who, being hired men, behaved themselves accordingly. He retreated still all he could, to remove the noise of the engagement farther from the house where his Dorothea was: but at last fearing to endanger himself too far, and finding Don Diego still violently pursuing him, he discharged one of his Pistols, upon which he fell down half dead, and called as loud as he could for a Confessor, and the two Hectors immediately vanished. Don Sancho got to his own lodging, and the neighbours came out into the street and found Don Diego, whom they knew, ready to depart this life, and charging Don Sancho with his death. He had soon notice of it by his friends, who told him, that though he might clear himself upon the judicial proceedings which might be brought against him, yet Don Diego's friends would be sure to revenge his death, and find out some way or other to kill him. He retired into a Monastery, whence he gave his Mistress an account how his affairs stood, and set all things in order to his departure from Sevil, as soon as he might do it safely. A strict search was made for Don Sancho, but he could not be found. The heat of it being over, and all persuaded that he had made an escape, Dorothea and her Sister, under pretence of some Devotion, were conducted by their Kinswoman, at whose house they had met, to the Monastery, where Don Sancho was, and there, by the means of one of the Religious men, the two Lovers had an interview in a private Chapel. After some discourse, they made mutual promises one to the other of a constant fidelity, and parted with so much regret, and such melting expressions, that her Sister, her Kinswoman, and the Religious man, who were witnesses thereof, not only wept then, but could never since think of it without tears.  
Having delivered certain Letters to his Father's factor, to be sent to him to the Indies, he left Sevil, in a disguise. In those Letters he acquainted him with the accident, which had occasioned his departure from Sevil, and that he intended for Naples. He got well thither, and was nobly entertained by the Viceroy, who, among the many favours he did him, honoured him with a near relation to his person. But the main satisfaction was wanting, that of hearing from his dear Dorothea, so that within a year he grew weary of the kindness of his entertainment, and wished for some oppotunity to leave Naples. He expected not long; for the Viceroy being to send out a small Squadron of six Galleys against the Turk, Don Sancho's courage would not let slip so fair an occasion to exercise itself. He was received, to the great satisfaction of the Commander, who was glad to have a person of his worth and quality abo●rd him. This Squadron of Naples met with eight Turkish G●llies, almost in sight of Messina, and engaged them. After a long sight, the Christian Galleys took three of the enemies, and sunk two. The Admiral of the Christian Galleys was engaged against that of the Turks, which being better armed and manned t●an any of the rest, had accordingly made the greater resistance. In the mean time, the wind began ●o rise, and the sea to grow rough, so that both Christians and Turks thought it concerned them more to secure themselves against the Tempest, than any further to prosecute the Engagement. They jointly loosed the Grapling-irons, whereby the two Galleys were fastened together, and the Turkish Admiral parted from the Christian, j●st ●s Don Sancho had cast himself into it, no● followed by any body. Finding himself all alone amongst his enemies, he thought death to be preferred before slavery, and, what ever might be the consequence of it, cast himself into the Sea, hoping to recover the Christian Galleys by swimming. But the weather proved such, that he could not be perceived, though the Christian General, who had been witness of Don Sancho's action, and was extremely enraged at his loss, which he thought unavoidable, caused the Galley to tack about towards the place where he had cast himself overboard. In the mean time Don Sancho made his way through the waves, and having swum a good way towards the shore, assisted by the wind and tide, he fortunately lighted on a plank of one of the Turkish Galleys, and with the help of it got to land on the co●st of Sicily. Having returned God his humble thanks for so great a deliverance, he made towards a little hamlet inhabited by some poor Fishermen, who gave him the best entertainment they could. The extraordinary actions he had done in the engagement, what he ●ad suffered in the Sea, and the cold he endured, and his walking afterwards in his wet clothes, brought him into a violent fever, which forced him to keep his bed for many days; yet at last, without any trouble of Physicians he recovered his former health. During his sickness, he made a resolution to continue the world in the persuasion of his death; as well that he might be in less fear of his enemies, the Relations of Don Diego, as make a further trial of the fidelity of his Dorothea.  
During the time of his abode in Flanders, he had contracted an intimate friendship with a Sicilian Marquis, of the house of Montalto, whose name was Fabiano. He sent one of the Fishermen to Messina, where he lived, to inquire whether he were then in the Country; and answer being brought him, that he was there, he went thither, habited as a Fisherman, and, in the night, goes to the Marquess' house, who, with all others to whom he was known, bewailed his death. The Marquis was overjoyed to meet with a friend, whom he had given over for lost. Don Sancho gave him an account how miraculously he had escaped, as also of his adventures at Sevil, and particularly the violent passion he had for the Lady Dorothea de Monsalvo. The Sicilian Marquis proffered to go along with him into Spain, and to bring away Dorothea, if she would consent, into Sicily. Don Sancho was extremely well pleased with the proposal, yet would not receive from his friend so dangerous demonstrations of his friendship, telling him, that he would be infinitely glad of his company into Spain, but for what might be the consequence of it, he would remit all to fortune.  
Don Sancho had a servant, of whose fidelity he ●ad had many years experience. This fellow, whose name was Sanchez, took his Master's loss so heavily, that when the Christian Galleys, which had been in the former Engagement against the Turks, put in at Messina, to refresh themselves, he came ashore and got into a Monastery, with a resolution to s●end the remainder of his days there. The Marque● Fabiano h●ving heard of the relation 〈◊〉 ●●●mes had to Don Sancho, sent to the Superior of the Monastery, (who indeed had entertained him upon the recommendation of that Sicilian Lord) desiring he might be dismissed, which was easily granted, in regard he had not yet put on the habit of the Religion▪ Sanchez not knowing what might be the occasion of his dismission, made some difficulty to come out; but when he was brought into the presence of his dear Master, his soul was too narrow for his joy, for having cast himself at his feet, there was a necessity of some assistance to help him up again.  
Some days after, he was sent by Don Sancho into Spain, to make preparations for his coming thither, and particularly to give him an account of Doro●hea, who, in the mean time, was persuaded, with all others, that Don Sancho was dead. Nay the report of his death soon flew into the Indies. Don Sancho's father died out of grief, not long after he had received that sad news, and left another Son he had four hundred thousand Crowns, conditionally, that his Brother should have the one moiety of that sum, in case the news of his death should prove false. This Brother of Don Sancho's was called Don Juhan de Peralto. He took shipping for Spain, with this vast sum of money, besides abundance of rare Indian commodities, suitable to the magnificence of a person, who had been Governor of a considerable place in those parts, and arrived safely at Sevil, about a year after the accident, which had happened to Don Sancho. Going under a name much different from his Brother's, it was easy for him to conceal the relation he had to him, besides the particular concernment he had to keep it secret, by reason of the long stay his occasions might oblige him to make in a City, where his Brother had so many enemies. He chanced to have a sight of Dorothea, and fell in love with her, as his Brother had done, but with this difference, that she made him no return of his love. That afflicted Beauty could fancy nothing after the loss of her dear Don Sancho: whatever was done by Don Juhan de Peralto, instead of pleasing, was the greatest trouble in the wo●ld to her, nay she daily refused the best Matches about Sevil, which were earnestly proposed to her by her Father Don Manuel.  
Much about that time Sanchez comes to Sevil, and, according to the instructions he h●d received from his Master, secretly made the best enquiry he could, how the Lady Dorothea had behaved herself, since their departure thence. He was soon informed by common report, that a young Gentleman, of very great wealth, lately come from the Indies, was fallen in love with her, and made the most magnificent discoveries of his affection that a passionate Suitor could imagine. He writ to his Master, representing things much worse than they were, and his Master imagined them yet worse than his Man had represented them. He communicated the whole business to the Marquis, expressing so great a distraction at the account he received of his Mistress, that he was in some suspense whether he should see her any more. His friend comforted him the best he could, telling him, that it was not impossible but his man might be misinformed, and that the affairs of his love might be in a much better posture than he expected. The reasons urged by the Marquis, together with his own reflections on the mutual promises of fidelity that had passed between them, especially the endearing expressions at their parting, dispelled those clouds of suspicion, and represented his Dorothea as faithful and constant to him as she had engaged to be. They thereupon resolved for Spain, and embarked themselves at Messina in some Spanish Galleys, and in a short time happily arrived at St. Lucar's whence they took post for Sevil. They came into the City after night, and alighted at the house which Sanchez had taken for them. They stirred not out all the next day, but as soon as it was night, Don Sancho and the Marquis went their rounds, about the place where Don Manuel lived. They heard some people setting their Instruments in tune, under Dorothea's windows, and soon after very excellent Music, and that having ceased, a single Voice joined to a Theorboe, made heavy complaints of the cruelty of a Tygress disguised into an Angel. Don Sancho felt some temptations within himself to spoil all the harmony of the Serenade, and to send away the Musicians with fleas in their ears: but the Marquis prevailed with him to forbear, representing to him that he could have done no more, if his Mistress had appeared in the Balcony, to assure his Rival, that she was not displeased with his Courtship; or the words of the Air, which had been sung, were acknowledgements of kindnesses received, rather than complaints of a dissatisfied Lover. The Author of the Serenade, and his Company, went away, in all probability, not over-satisfied with what they had done, as having not so much as the stirring of a dog, to assure them that any body regarded their Music: and Don Sancho and the Marquis, finding the coast clear, returned to their quarters, where they had a long debate what construction they should make of the pretensions of this new Suitor. Don Sancho was inclined to a persuasion, that his Dorothea might have some secret kindness for him, though, for some reasons which hindered her from making any show of it at that time, she seemed to take no notice of his Courtship, especially when he considered, that she might, with all the others, be assured of his death. On the contrary, the Marquis entreated him to suspend his belief of her being engaged to any other, till he had made some fuller discoveries thereof.  
Don Sancho submitted to the remonstrances of his friend, and that the rather, when it came into his mind, that the greatest expressions of courtship made by one, whose person is not affected, are so much the more importunate. And indeed so were those of the Indian Cavalier, to the fair Dorothea, who was so far from giving him any encouragement by her acceptance, that he could not but perceive they were more and more troublesome to her. Her Father Don Manuel was extremely desirous to see her disposed in marriage, and she doubted not, but that if the Indian Cavalier, Don Juhan de Peralto, being a person so well descended, and so wealthy, should proffer himself for a Son-in-law, he would be preferred before all others, and she more earnestly pressed by her Father to accept of him than she had been.  
The next day after the Serenade, whereof the Marquis Fabiano and Don Sancho had had their part, Dorothea took occasion to confer notes with her Sister, concerning Don Juhan, and his courtship, and told her, that she could not brook the gallantries of that conceited Indian, and thought it the strangest thing in the world, he should make such public demonstrations of his love to her, before he had made any overtures thereof of her Father. 'Tis such a kind of procedure, says Feliciana to her, as I should never approve of, and if your case were mine, I should give him such an entertainment, upon the first opportunity that presented itself, as might immediately dash all the hopes, he had conceived of ever pleasing you. For my own part, continued she, I could never fancy his person; he has not that delicacy, and insinuation of carriage, which is acquirable only at Court, and the vast expenses he is at here in Sevil, argue not so much the nobleness of his disposition, as the extravagant and savage humour of that yet uncivilised part of the world whence he came. It is observed, that those parts of the world which supply us with gold and silver, are most barren as to the other productions of nature; so those people that inhabit them, think they need no other recommendation, than what they derive from the entrails of certain almost inaccessible Mountains, created only for the punishment of Slaves and Malefactors. All your Servant's actions smell so strongly of the Indian, that he must be allowed some years, to refine the barbarism of the Climate he hath lived in so long, before he can be reduced to the civility of this, wherein we have had our education. If ever you grant him the favour to speak to you, advise him to study the courting of a Lady after another manner than he hath been taught among the Topinambous, and then you may promise to hear what he shall have to say for himself.  
This was partly the character she gave Don Juhan de Peralto, which she delivered with such bitterness and derision, that Dorothea could do no less than wonder at it. It seems the scornful young Lady had clearly forgotten, that upon his first appearance at Sevil, she had confessed to her Sister, that she liked him well enough, and when ever she had occasion to speak of him, she was as liberal of her commendations, as she was now of her reproaches. Dorothea observing her Sister so much changed, or at least seeming to be, as to the sentiments she sometimes had for the Indian Cavalier, immediately imagined, that her inclination towards him might be the greater, the more earnest she seemed to have it thought, that she had not any. To be more fully assured of it, she told Feliciana, that she was not displeased with the gallantries of Don Juhan, out of any aversion she had for his person, nay, on the contrary, observing in his countenance somewhat of the air of Don Sancho's, she might prefer him before any other Cavalier about Sevil; besides she doubted not, but that, having all the advantages of birth and fortune, he would easily get her Father's consent. But to what end, continued she, should I fancy to myself these imaginary pleasures? I have lost Don Sancho, and since it was not my fortune to be his wife, I am resolved never to be any other man's, and therefore, to avoid all future addresses, my only course will be to spend the rest of my days in some Monastery. Ah Sister, says Feliciana, though you were not fully resolved upon so strange a design, yet could you not give me a stranger affliction than by telling me of it. That I am so resolved, Sister, you may be assured, replies Dorothea; but for your part, you have the less reason to be troubled at it, in regard it will be to your advantage, for, by that means, you will be the most considerable fortune about Sevil. Upon this account it was, that I had a desire to see Don Juhan, that I might persuade him, to address that courtship to you, which he vainly bestows on me, after I have convinced him of the impossibility there is, that we should ever be married together. What may be the consequences of his applications to you, Time only can discover; Love is full of vicissitudes, and there is not so great a distance between affection and aversion, but that one of them may tread on the heels of the other. Nay, to deal sisterly, that is, freely, with you, I am not a little troubled, to find you express so much of the latter, towards a person, who is so far from deserving it, that he might justly expect somewhat of kindness from you, both as a Stranger, and one that hath not run the the hazard of displeasing you, by any presumptuous demonstration of his love. Think what you please of my judgement in this case, but this it is, that I do not see any person about Sevil, with whom you might he more advantageously matched than with him. I must confess, I look on him, rather with a certain indifference than aversion, says Feliciana, and when I told you, that I could not fancy him, it was more out of complaisance to you, than any real prejudice I had against him. Nay if it be so, Sister, replies Dorothea, you are rather to acknowledge, that you deal not ingenuously with me, and that when you expressed the little esteem you had for Don Juhan, it was clearly out of your mind, that you had sometime very highly commended him to me; or I am to conclude, that what you have said since, betrayed not so much your own dislike of him, as your fear of his being too well liked by me.  
Feliciana blushed at these last words of her Sister, and was vexed to the heart. Her thoughts were in such a distraction, that she spoke abundance of things, which rather betrayed her guilt, then contributed aught to her vindication; so that at last she was forced to confess, that she had a more than ordinary kindness for Don Juhan. Dororothea encouraged her to continue it, and promised to assist her all she could in the prosecution of her love. Having thus brought her to acknowledge what she before but suspected, she took compassion of her, and forbore all further reproaches.  
That very day, Isabel, who had discarded her beloved Guzman, ever since the unhappy accident that had happened to Don Sancho, received orders from her Mistress Dorothea, to go to Don Juhan de Peralto, deliver him the key of one of the garden doors of Don Manuel, to tell him, that she and her Sister would expect him there, with a charge, that he should not fail to be at the place appointed, at midnight, before which time, it was likely their Father would be a-bed. Isabel, who had been already corrupted by Don Juhan, and done all lay in her power, to bring him into her Mistress' favour, but to no purpose, was extremely surprised to see her humour so changed, and not a little glad, to be the messenger of such good news to a person, of whom, though she had not brought him any before, she had yet received many great presents. No doubt then but she made all the haste she could to the lodgings of the amorous Cavalier, who had received so little encouragement before, that he could hardly have believed his own good fortune, had it not been for the convincing assurance of the key, which she delivered him. That key opened a place it was never intended it should, I mean the breast of the amorous Gallant, who presented his faithful Sollicitress with a perfumed purse lined with a hundred good yellow pieces, which glorious sight raised in her as much fatisfaction as she had brought him.  
Were there a constant current of good fortune, that is, no vicissitude in humane affairs, and that what ever were fortunately begun might, without any rub or disaster, be brought to its period of happiness, there should be much less work for those who write Romances and Novels, and so the world would be deprived of a great deal of that pleasure which is derived from endeavours of that kind. But their delight wholly consisting in a certain conflict, and interfering of unexpected accidents, 'tis likely there will be a constant supply of such things, as long as mortals shall walk on this Molehill, as on a Chessboard, perpetually contriving how to cross the designs of one another.  
Whoever shall seriously consider this grave advertisement, will not think it strange, that, the very same night, Don Juhan was to come into Don Manuel's Garden, to meet with the two Sisters, Don Sancho, accompanied by his friend, the Marquis, should be walking their rounds about Dorothea's Lodgings, to be more fully satisfied of the designs of his Rival. It was no otherwise, and it will ever be a maxim, That one man's misfortune makes another man's sport. About eleven that night, the Marquis and he being gotten into that street, where Dorothea lived, four men well armed came up and posted themselves close by them. The jealous Don Sancho presently imagined it was his Rival, whereupon coming nearer them, he told them that the Post they had taken up, was very convenient for him, in order to the compassing of a design he was then engaged in, and so desired them to quit it. We should do it, Sir, replied one of them, without much entreaty, if the s●me Post, you are so desirous of, were not absolutely necessary for the carrying on of a design th●t we also have, and will be so soon dispatched, that it will not much retard the execution of yours.  
Don Sancho was as much enraged at this, as if it had been the most uncivil answer that could have been given upon such an occasion: to draw therefore, and to charge persons, whom he thought so disobliging, was the same thing with him. That unexpected assault of Don Sancho's, surprised and put them into disorder, and the Marquis behaving himself no less gallantly than his Friend had done, they defended themselves so poorly, that they were in a trice beaten out of the street. Don Sancho received a slight wound in his arm, and run him who had given it him so heartily through the body, that it was a good while ere he could get out his Sword again, and doubted not but he had dispatched him. The Marquis in the mean time was in pursuit of the others, who ran away as fast as they could, as soon as they saw their Comrade laid on the ground.  
Having rid themselves of those spies, Don Sancho looked about him, and perceived at one end of the street some people with a Light, coming up towards them, upon the noise of their engagement. He was afraid it might be the Magistrate with his Officers, and it was no other. He made all the haste he could into the street, where they began to fight, and thence into another, in the midst whereof he met full but with an old Gentleman, who had a Lantern with him, and had drawn his Sword upon the noise which Don Sancho made by running towards him. The old Gentleman was Don Manuel, who had been at a Neighbour's house at play, as he was wont to do every day, and was then going to his own, by the Garden-door, which was not far from the place where he met Don Sancho. He called out to the amorous Cavalier, Who goes there? A man, replies Don Sancho, whom it concerns to make all the haste he can away, and therefore desires you would not hinder him. It may be, says Don Manuel, there is some accident happened, which obliges you to seek out for sanctuary; fear nothing, my House, which is here hard by, may serve your turn. 'Tis very true, replies Don Sancho, I am somewhat at a loss how to avoid the pursuit of the Magistrate, who it may be is now making a search for me; but since you are so generous as to proffer me, though a Stranger to you, a reception upon so dangerous a score as this, I accept of your kindness, and entrust you with my safety, with this promise, never to forget the favour you do me, and to press it no farther, than till such time as those who look after me are passed by.  
They were by this time come to the Garden-door; Don Manuel opened it with a Key he had about him, and having brought in Don Sancho, he disposed him into a close Arbour, while he went into the House to take order for his more secret retirement, so as that none might know of his being there. Don Sancho had not been long in the Arbour, when he perceives coming towards him a Woman, who approaching spoke softly to him, O Sir, are you come, my Mistress Dorothea stays for you. From that word Don Sancho imagined that he might be in the house of his Mistress, and that the old Gentleman, who had brought him in thither, was her Father. He presently suspected that Dorothea had appointed his Rival to meet her there, and followed Isabel, more tormented with jealousy, than troubled about the pursuit of the Magistrate.  
In the mean time Don Juhan came, according to his appointment, precisely at the hour assigned him, opened the Garden-door with the Key he had received from Isabel, and went into the same Arbour, out of which Don Sancho was but newly gone. He had not been there long, ere he perceives a Man coming straight towards him; he put himself into a posture of defence, for fear he might be assaulted, and was not a little surprised, when he found that Man to be Don Manuel, who bid him follow him, assuring him he should be so disposed of, as that he need not fear being discovered. Don Juhan concluded from Don Manuel's words, that he might possibly have received into his Garden some Gentleman pursued by the Officers of Justice. He could do no less than follow him, giving him thanks all along as they went for the favour he showed him: but it may be withal conjectured, that he was not so much troubled, at the hazard he was running into, as the obstruction whereby his amorous design was disappointed. Don Manuel brought him into his own Chamber, and, having left him there, went out, and ordered a Bed to be made for himself, in another room.  
We will leave him locked up where he is, extremely troubled, yet not daring to make the least discovery of it, and see, what is become of his Brother Don Sancho de Sylva. Isabel brought him into a Ground-room, which looked into the Garden, where the two Sisters Dorothea and Feliciana expected Don Juhan de Peralto; one, as a Lover, whom she was very desirous to please; the other, to assure him that she could not have any kindness for him, and to persuade him he would do better to make his applications to her Sister. Don Sancho enters the room where the two fair Sisters were; they were frighted at his appearance. Dorothea stood like a statue, as if she had not been able to stir from the place; but her Sister fearing she could not continue long in that posture, disposed her into a Chair, lest she might have fallen down all along. Don Sancho after he had fixed his Eyes on them, stuck to the place he was in: Isabel was ready to sink into the ground for fear, and imagined it might be the Ghost of Don Sancho, that appeared to them, to revenge the injury his Mistress did him. Feliciana, though much startled to see him risen from the dead, was yet more troubled at what had happened to her Sister, who being come to herself, Don Sancho took her by the hand, and made this discourse to her.  
Ungrateful Dorothea! if the Report which hath been spread of my death did not in some measure excuse your inconstancy, the affliction I conceive thereat would not allow me Life enough to make you the deserved reproaches of it. I was willing the world should be persuaded that I was dead, that I might be forgotten by my enemies, not by you, who had engaged yourself not to love any other besides me. But how have you broken that promise! I see there needs only but a common Report of some unfortunate accident, to make a Woman forget all engagements of fidelity, even to that person, whom, of all the world, she only pretended to fancy. I might easily be revenged, and make so great noise by my complaints and expostulations, as should awake your Father, and give him directions how to find out the favoured Gallant, whom you have disposed into some secret place about his House: but besotted Man that I am! I feel in myself still a certain fear to displease you, and am more troubled at the necessity you give me, not to love you any longer, than at the discovery I have made of your being in love with another. Make much of your dear Lover, O as false as fair Woman! make much of him I say, and fear no more disturbances in your enjoyments, for you shall ere long be rid of a Man, who might, while you lived, have reproached your proving treacherous to him, even while he hazarded his Life to wait on you.  
With these words Don Sancho would have quitted the room: but Dorothea stays him, and was going to vindicate herself, when Isabel comes running in to tell her, that her Master, Don Manuel, was coming after her. Don Sancho had only time enough to get behind the door, and, while the Old man was chiding his Daughters that they had not been a-bed, and had his back towards the Chamber-door, made a shift to get out, and going back the same way into the Garden, went into the same Arbour where he had been before, and were preparing himself for what ever might happen, he expected a favourable opportunity to make his escape thence.  
There are, no doubt, those, who think Love the pleasantest thing in the world. But far is it from their imagination, that a Lover's constant courtships and adorations may at last be requited with contempt, scorns, frowns, and elusions, which require an extraordinary measure of patience and good nature to endure them. Little do they apprehend, that a young Spark, after many years continued addresses, even when he thinks himself as it were within a bars length of felicity, may, by some unexpected obstructions and disappointments, be tumbled into eternal disgrace, and all this occasioned, not so much by any backwardness of his Mistress, as his own unhappy misapprehensions.  
These were the reflections of the unfortunate Don Sancho, while Don Manuel was gone into his Daughter's chamber to fetch a Light, to bring in the Officers who were imperiously knocking at the Garden-door, upon the information they had received, that Don Manuel had entertained into his House one of those who had been fight in the street. Don Manuel made no difficulty to let them in, to search his House, out of an assurance they would be so civil as not to look into his own Chamber, and that the Gentleman whom they expected to find, was safely locked in there. Don Sancho perceiving out of the Arbour, that it was impossible for him to escape the search of so many Officers as were scattered up and down the Garden, comes out to Don Manuel, and whispers him in the ear, that a person of Honour would be more tender of his promise then to abandon one whom he had taken into his protection. Don Manuel, who was much surprised to find him there, entreated the chief Officer, to leave Don Sancho, in his custody, till the next morning; which request was soon granted him, as well out of a respect to his quality, as for that the party, whom Don Sancho imagined he had killed, was not very dangerously wounded.  
The Officers, having received somewhat towards a morning's draught, took their leave, and departed; and Don Manuel, having discovered by the same discourse which had passed between him and Don Sancho, when he first met him, that he must needs be the person whom he had received into his Garden, doubted not, but that the other was some Gallant, brought into the House, either by Isabel, or his Daughters. To be more fully satisfied of it, he conducted Don Sancho de Sylva into a room by himself, and desired him to stay there till he returned again. He went to that place where he had left Don Juhan de Peralto, to whom he told a feigned story, that his man was come into the House along with the Officers, and waited below to speak with him. Don Juhan knew that his man lay very sick at that time, and not in a condition to come to him, though he had known where he was, which he did not. He was therefore somewhat troubled at what Don Manuel had said to him, and so he had no other answer to make him, than that his m●n should go and stay for him at his Lodging.  
By this discourse and some others Don Manuel found him to be that young Gentleman lately come from the Indies, who was so much talked of about Sevil, and, being sufficiently informed as to his quality and estate, resolved, he should not go out of the House ere he had married that Daughter of his, to whom he had ever so little addressed himself. He spent some further time in discourse with him, to be more fully satisfied as to some doubts, which then burdened his mind. Isabel stood all the while at the door, and overheard them, and gave an account of all to her Mistresses. Don Manuel had a glimpse of her, and imagined she was come with some message to Don Juhan, from one of his Daughters. He left him, to run after her, just as the Wax-light, which was in the room, being at an end, went out of itself. While the Old man is groping to find out Isabel, she acquaints Dorothea and Feliciana, that Don Sancho was in their Father's chamber, and that she had seen them talking together. The two Sisters ran thither upon her word, Dorothea being not afraid to find her dear Don Sancho with her Father, resolved, as she was, to acknowledge, that she loved him, and that she had been loved by him, and withal to tell him, upon what motives she had appointed Don Juhan to come thither that night. She therefore goes into the room, which was without any light, and having met with Don Juhan, just as he was coming out, she took him for Don Sancho, and having him fast by the arm, she thus expostulated with him. Why dost thou avoid me, tygre-hearted Don Sancho! and why wouldst thou not what answer I should make to the undeserved reproaches thou hast made me! I must confess, thou couldst not bethink thyself of any too great for me, if I were as guilty as thou hast some grounds to imagine: but thou art not to learn, that there are some false things, which have many times more likelihood of truth than truth itself, and that this latter is ever discovered by time. Allow me but so much, as may show thee that which will recover thee out of the confusion, in which thy own misfortune, and mine, and haply that of divers others, hath involved us both. Assist me to vindicate myself, and run not the hazard of being unjust, by an over-hastiness to condemn me, before thou hast found me really guilty. 'Tis possible thou mayst have heard, that a certain Gentleman loves me; but hast thou heard that I made any return to his love? Thou mayst have met him here; for it is true, that his coming hither was by my appointment; but when thou shalt understand what design I had in it, I am confident thou wilt have a cruel remorse, that thou shouldst injure me, while I give the greatest assurance of fidelity I could. O that this importunate and troublesome Servant of mine were here before thee! thou shouldst find by the treatment I gave him, whether he ever had any ground to affirm, that I loved him, nay, whether he could ever so much as tell me that he loved me, or that I ever vouchsafed even the reading of any Letter that came from him. But that misfortune of mine, which always procured me the sight of him, when it should prejudice me, will not permit me to see him, when he might help to undeceive thee.  
Don Juhan had the patience to suffer Dorothea to speak, without offering to interrupt her, that he might learn somewhat more than she had yet discovered to him. But perceiving she had given over, and expected some return from him, he was going to give her a sharp answer, when Don Sancho, who was looking for the way into the Garden, and heard Dorothea speaking to Don Juhan, comes up close to her, making the least noise he could, yet not so as but that he was perceived by Don Juhan and the two Sisters. They had not the time to speak one to another, ere Don Manuel comes into the room with a Light, which some of his Servants carried before him. The two Rival-Brothers looked one on the other, and were observed to be in a posture ready to fall one upon the other, as having their hands on the hilts of their Swords. Don Manuel steps in between them, and commanded his Daughter to make choice of one of them for her Husband, that he might fight with the other. Don Juhan told him, that for his part he was ready to quit all manner of pretensions, if he might have any, and submitted himself to the Cavalier he saw before him. Don Sancho said the same thing, with this addition, that since Don Juhan had been brought into Don Manuel's house by one of his Daughters, it was probable they had a mutual affection one for the other, and that for his part, he would rather die a thousand times, than enter into the state of Matrimony with the least scruple. Dorothea cast herself at her Father's feet, beseeching him to give her audience, and he should know how all things stood. She related to him all that past between her and Don Sancho de Sylva, before he had, in her quarrel, killed Don Diego. She acquainted him that Don Juhan de Peralto fell afterwards in love with her; as also with the design she had engaged herself in, to undeceive him, and to advise him to demand her Sister in marriage, and at last concluded her discourse with this protestation, that if she could not satisfy Don Sancho her innocency, and the continuance of her affection to him, she would that very day enter into a Monastery, whence no persuasions in the world should ever get her out again.  
Don Sancho was soon satisfied with the account Dorothea had given of her fidelity towards him, and immediately demanded her in marriage of Don Manuel. By some passages of her discourse concerning Don Juhan, particularly by the time of his first appearance at Sevil, the place whence he came in the Indies, and the Relations he had there, the two Rival-Brothers came to know one the other. Don Juhan finding also by some circumstances of Dorothea's discourse, the affection which her Sister Feliciana had for him, humbly addressed himself to her, assuring her that if she still persisted in the same sentiments, he should think himself the happiest man in the world. He thereupon demanded her in marriage of Don Manuel, who received them both for his Sons-in-law, with a satisfaction that cannot well be expressed.  
As soon as it was day, Don Sancho sent for the Marquis Fabiano, who came to participate of his friend's joy, after he had spent the night in distracted thoughts what should have become of him. The whole business was kept secret, till Don Manuel and the Marquis had disposed a Cousin of Don Diego, to whom his Estate, upon the other's Death, had fallen, to forget his Kinsman's misfortune, and accommodate himself with Don Sancho. During this negotiation, the Marquis fell in love with a Sister of that Gentleman's, and demanded her of him in marriage. He gladly entertained a proposal so advantageous to his Sister, and thereupon was content to accept of any thing they could offer on the behalf of Don Sancho. The three marriages were solemnised the same day, with so great content of all parties, as was not only remarkable at that time, but continued many years after.   

SCARRON's NOVELS.  
The Invisible Mistress.  
The Sixth Novel.  
DON Carlos of Arragon was a young Gentleman of an illustrious Family, well known in Spain under that name; his person such, that a curious eye might have observed somewhat in him transcending all descriptions of the most elaborate Romances, yet not comparable to the noble accomplishments of his mind. But what comes more particular to the character we have to give of him, is, that, at certain Shows, wherewith the Viceroy of Naples entertained the populace, upon occasion of the Nuptial solemnities of Philip, the second, third, or fourth, of Spain, (I cannot now well call to mind) he did things beyond their belief, who only received them by relation. The next day after a famous Tilting, at which he had behaved himself with such gallantry, as raised no less astonishment in the beholders, than indignation and shame in those who ventured at a trial of their address in the same exercise, the Ladies obtained a permission of the Viceroy, to go about the City disguised, and masked after the French mode, for the convenience of such Strangers as those magnificencies had brought thither from all parts of the Kingdom. That day, Don Carlos put on the richest clothes he had, and went, among many others, who, as so many Cockatrices, intended to murder all the Ladies they looked on, to a Church, where most of the Gallantry were to meet. Where be it observed by the way, that Christian Churches may be profaned, as well in those Countries which profess most obedience to the holy See, as in others, and in stead of being used as the Temples of God, become a Rendezvous for those who have not the opportunities so well to meet elsewhere. The only remedy I can at present think of to prevent this scandal, is, that there be a new Officer created in every Parish, whose charge it shall be, to mark what persons come to those Sacred places upon Love-appointments, and if they will not depart the place by fair means, to drive them thence with as little regard, as they would do those snarling creatures, which many times stick not to quarrel there, to the great distraction of people's devotion.  
But some busybody will haply be so impertinent as to ask, why I should trouble my head with these abuses, as if I were some Master of a Parish, or Lay-Elder, that had a Maid who should exercise his dog at home? I would have the fool that is scandalised at it, know, that in this lower part of the world, all men are fools, as well as liars, some more, some less, and perhaps I who now speak a greater fool than any, though it might abate somewhat of my folly, that I am so free to acknowledge it, and withal that this Book of mine, and all others of this kind, being but so many collections of fooleries, I hope, every fool in his quality and degree, will somewhere or other light upon a little description of himself, if he be not too much besotted with self-conceit.  
But let the Reader take it as he will. Let me go on with my story. Don Carlos, as I told you, was gotten into a Church, with divers other Gentlemen, Italians and Spaniards, who were strutting up and down in their feathers, like so many Peacocks, and making reverences to more persons than they were known to, (a vanity practised sometimes in Churches as well as Hide-Parks) when three Ladies, all close masked, singled him out from among the rest, and having led him a little aside, one of them addressed herself to him either in these words, or others to the same effect.  
Signior Don Carlos, said she to him, I have a business to impart to you, whereof perhaps you little thought either before or at your devotions, which is, that there is in this City a Lady to whom you are extremely obliged. She was present at the Tilting, and all those other exercises, wherein you have lately been engaged, and always wished you might come off with honour, as you have done. She is not so vain to think your success wholly the effect of her wishes, but leaves it to yourself to consider, what degree of kindness you will allow her good wishes, and what a lady's concerning herself so particularly in your good fortune may signify; if it were expressed in other terms.  
The young Gallant was a little surprised at the strangeness of the adventure; but having recovered himself, he made this Reply. The greatest advantage I can make to myself of what you tell me, Madam, is, that I receive it from you, who seem to be a Lady of quality, and I am to assure you, that could I have imagined any Lady had had such tender wishes for me, I should have endeavoured to do more than I have done to deserve her approbation. And therefore, I am to account the obligation she hath put on me the greater, in that it proceeds from a person, to whom I have not the honour to be known.  
The disguised Lady told him, that he had not omitted any thing which might render him, even in the judgement of persons less prejudiced by kindness than that Lady, one of the most accomplished men in the world. But another thing she had taken particular notice of, was, that it might be presumed, by his Liveries of black and white, his affection was not any where engaged. I never understood, Madam, replies Don Carlos, what colours signified in such a case; but this I know, that it is not so much out of any insensibility, or indifference I have towards your fairer sex, that I have not made my addresses to any one of it, as an apprehension of my own want of merit.  
There passed abundance of other ingenuous compliments between them, for their discourse continued a long time; but I shall forbear the communication of them, not only because they never came to my knowledge, and that I am loath to make others out of a fear it might be to the disadvantage of Don Carlos and the unknown Lady, who were infinitely more witty than I am, as I have been since informed by an honest Gentleman of Naples, who was intimately acquainted with them both. The result was this, that the masked Lady declared herself thus far to Don Carlos, that she herself was the person who had that inclination for him. He desired to see her; She desired him to excuse her for the present, telling him she would endeavour to satisfy him some other time, and to assure him that she was not afraid to give him a meeting, at which there should be none but themselves, she would give him a pledge. With that she discovered to the gentile Spaniard, the fairest hand he had ever seen, and presented him with a Ring, which he made no difficulty to receive, but with such distracted reflections on the odness of the accident, that he had almost forgotten to make her a congey, when she took leave of him.  
The other Gentlemen, who had, at a distance, observed what had passed between Don Carlos and the Lady, though not overheard their discourse, seeing they were parted, came up to him, very desirous to know what might occasion so long a converse in so public a place. He freely told them what had happened, and showed them the Ring, wherein was a Diamond of very great price. Whereupon every one passed his judgement on the adventure, and the result of the whole debate was, that Don Carlos found himself seized by as violent a passion for the unknown Lady, as if he had seen her face, such an inevitable influence hath Wit over those that have any. Eight tedious days, and those attended by ten times more tedious nights, passed away ere he heard any further account of the Lady; which that he was extremely troubled at, I should easily have believed, though I had never been told so much.  
During that time, his divertisement was to go every day to an acquaintance of his, a Captain of Foot, at whose house several persons of quality met to spend some few hours and pieces at play. One night, that Don Carlos was not in an humour to venture any thing, but was going home much sooner than he was wont, he was called by his name, from a ground-room belonging to a house, which seemed to be some persons of great quality. He comes up close to the window, which had a grate before it, and presently sound by her voice, that she was his invisible Mistress, who presently said to him; Come as near as you can to the window, Don Carlos, I have been here a good while expecting you, that we may decide a difference there is between us. I have some apprehension of your impatience, and must permit you to expostulate, though you have not so great reason to complain, as you imagine to yourself. What construction, Madam, replies Don Carlos, can I make of all these bravadoes of yours, when in the mean time you dare not trust me with the sight of your face, nay, after my so long expectation, think it a signal favour to me, to make your appearance at a grated window, and that in the night. No more of your censures, Don Carlos, says she him, be satisfied, that I think it not yet time we should be fully known one to another, and imagine it not want of any confidence in me, that I have been so backward to meet you, but impute it to a curiosity I had to know you, before I suffered you to see me. I need not tell you, that in appointed combats there should be an equality of arms: if your heart should not be as free and disengaged as mine, the advantage would be of your side; and thence it came, that I was desirous to be informed concerning you. And what account have you received of me, says Don Carlos? The world, Madam, is full of flattery and calumny, it concerns you to examine well the credit of your ininformation. But may you communicate what you have found out by an enquiry which hath been so long a making as it is since I had the honour first to meet you? I have as much as I am satisfied with, replies the disguised Lady, and it is only this, that we are free enough to become one another's. No, Madam, says Don Carlos, there is a great inequality in the case; for you see me, and know who I am, nay you acknowledge yourself, that you have particularly enquired of me, whereas I never saw you, nor know who you are, nor where to be informed. What judgement do you conceive I should make of this shiness, and the earnest care you take to keep yourself from my knowledge. These mysterious proceedings are seldom used by those, whose designs are just and generous; and it is no hard matter to deceive a person who mistrusts no treachery; but he is not so easily deceived twice. If you think to make use of me, to raise a jealousy in some other, give me leave to tell you beforehand, that you will not find me for your purpose, and that I am not to be drawn into any other plot than that of being your most humble and most faithful Servant.  
The invisible Lady suffered him to go on in his discourse, out of an expectation, that, among the many things he said, he might let fall somewhat, which might contribute to the further discovery she was desirous to make of him. But at last finding nothing to fasten on but his distrust of her, she made him this Reply; Well, Don Carlos, have you been sufficiently censorious, or am I yet to tell you, that your assurance of my sincerity, must be the issue of your own belief of it, and that your hastiness will rather retard than hasten the accomplishment of your desires. Assure yourself therefore, without any further reflections on the grounds you have to suspect me, that I am very real and sincere, and that you shall find me no less in all that shall happen between us, and I expect you should be the like to me. That were but just, replies Don Carlos, but it were requisite I should see you, and know who you are. It shall not be long ere you do, replies the Lady, and therefore, in the mean time, receive this Antidote against impatience, that only by the trial I shall make of your constancy, you may attain what you pretend to from me, who now assure you, (to the end your courtship may not be without some encouragement and hope of requital) that I am equal to you as to Quality; that I have an Estate plentiful enough to maintain you in as much splendour as the greatest Prince in the Kingdom; that I am young; that I may challenge somewhat of beauty; and for matter of wit, you are better stored yourself, then to be doubtful whether I have any or not.  
With these words she shut to the window, leaving Don Carlos with his mouth open, ready to make her some Answer, so surprised at the smartness of her expressions, so passionately in love with a person he had never seen, and so distracted at the strangeness of the procedure, that, not able to stir from the place, he stood still for a good quarter of an hour, making several reflections on so extraordinary an adventure. He knew there were many Princesses and Ladies of great quality then at Naples; but he knew withal, that there were many subtle Courtesans, eagerly bend to trapan Strangers, greet cajollers of such as were ignorant of their impostures, and so much the more dangerous, by how much they were the more beautiful.  
Having recovered his astonishment, he went very disconsolately to his lodging, but resolved to prosecute the design wherein he was engaged, with all the caution he could, out of a fear it might prove a cheat put upon him. I shall not tell you exactly whether he supped, or not, nor yet whether, in case he went to bed supperless, he slept, or not, and yet there might be much probability of the latter. These considerable circumstances of a Hero's life, I seldom trouble myself or my Reader with, though it be very much practised by the Authors of much greater Romances, than the world is ever like to have from me. For those Gentlemen give such a punctual account of all their Hero's do, and regulate their employments according to the several parts of the day, appointing them to do such a thing first, and then some other, as if they were shut up in some place of spiritual Retreat. For example, they must rise betimes in the morning, and having met with somebody, though they had never seen the party before, entertain him or her, with the History of their adventures, till they be called in to dinner: dine very lightly, and, as soon as they have dined, retire into some arbour, to proceed in the continuation of it, or spend the afternoon in reading some Romance; whenever they drink, take as many go-downs as there are letters in their Mistress' names, in commemoration of them; and if the clock strikes, make so many ejaculations for the good success of their Loves. If the weather be inviting to go abroad, they are led into some Grove, where they are to acquaint the Trees and Stones with their misfortunes, till their suppertime calls them home, at which having, instead of eating, spent the time in sighs and reveries, go and build Castles in the air upon some Turret, that looks towards the Sea, while some Squire or Servant discovers that his Master is such a one, the Son of such a King, and that there is not a better natured Prince in the world; and though he be then one of the handsomest men in the world, that he was quite another person, before Love had disfigured him. And thus they make those whom they would represent for exemplars of all the great and heroic Virtues, in many things no better than so many Extravagant Shepherds and Don Quixots.  
But to return to my Story. Don Carlos came the night following to the same post, where he found his invisible Mistress ready to entertain him. She asked him whether he had not been much troubled at the former converse they had together, and whether it were not true, that he had entertained some distrust of what she had told him. Don Carlos, without answering her question, entreated her to satisfy him, what danger or inconvenience there might be, in discovering herself, since things were upon even terms on both sides, and that they proposed to themselves no other ends in their gallantries, than such as might be approved by all. In that lies the whole danger of it, says the invisible Lady, as you shall find in time; be you therefore assured, that I am real, and, in the relation I gave you of myself, I have been so modest, that, without injury to truth, I might have told you much more. Their discourse lasted a long time. They made some advance in the mutual love they had raised in one another, and at last parted, after a reciprocal promise to meet there every night, at the time they had agreed on.  
The next day, there was to be an extraordinary Ball at the Viceroy's Palace. Don Carlos was in hopes to make a discovery there of the person, who would be invisible to him in all other places. In the mean time he made enquiry, whose house that was, where he had received such favourable audiences. He was told by the neighbours, that there lived in it an ancient Lady, the Relict of a certain Spanish Captain, that she lived very private, and had neither Daughters nor Nieces. He knocked at the door, and desired to see the old Lady; answer was brought him, that since the death of her Husband, she admitted no visits from any person whatsoever; which added not a little to the disturbance of his thoughts.  
Don Carlos went at night to the Viceroy's, where you may imagine there was a noble Assembly of Gallants. He very exactly observed all the Ladies, to find out her whom he so much desired to know. He fell into discourse with those he met; but without any satisfaction. At last he singled out the Daughter of a certain Marquis, where his Title lay I know not, nor care much, especially now we are come to an age wherein people are too forward to assume Titles of Honour to themselves. The Lady was young and beautiful enough, and her voice came somewhat near hers whom he looked for: but after much observation, he found such a distance between her intellectuals and those of his invisible Deity, that it repent him he had in so short a time made such a progress in his courtship to that Beauty, as whence he might presume that she had a more than ceremonious kindness for him. They danced together several times, and the Ball being done, little to the satisfaction of Don Carlos, he took leave of his Captive, whom he left highly conceited of herself, that she alone, in so noble an Assembly, had received the gallantries of a Cavalier, who was no less esteemed by all the women, than envied by all the men.  
From the Viceroy's, he immediately went to his lodging, and thence, having taken such arms as he thought requisite, to the fatal Grate, which was not far from it. The Lady, who was already got to her post, asked him what news he brought from the Ball, though she had been there herself. He ingenuously told her, that he had danced several times with a very beautiful person, and had entertained her with discourse as long as the Ball lasted. This confession gave her occasion to put divers questions to him, whereby he might easily have perceived that she was jealous. Don Carlos on the other side discovered the trouble of his mind, that she had not been at the Ball, and that it gave him some cause to mistrust her quality. She soon observed what he would have been at, and to prevent the disturbance such a doubt might raise in him, she used all the wit and Rhetoric she had, and showed him all the kindness could be expected between two persons separated by an iron-grate, which concluded with a promise, that she would be visible within a very short time. They thereupon took leave one of the other, he very doubtful whether he should believe her, and she a little jealous of the beautiful Lady, whom he had entertained all the time of the Ball.  
The next day, Don Carlos going into a Church, to hear Mass, and meeting just at the door with two Ladies masked, presented them with holy water, to sp●re them the trouble of taking it themselves. The better clad of the two told him, that in requital of that civility she had somewhat to acquaint him with, wherein he might be highly concerned. If you are not too much in haste, Madam, says Don Carlos to her, you may immediately ease yourself of what you have to tell me. Follow me then into the next Chapel, replies the unknown Lady. She went in first, and Don Carlos followed her, much in doubt whether she were his Mistress, (though he was satisfied she was about the same stature) in regard he found some difference in their voices, this Lady speaking somewhat faster than the other.  
Having shut themselves into the Chapel, she made him this discourse. Signior Don Carlos, said she, the whole City of Naples is full of wonder, at the great reputation you have acquired, since the small time of your residence in it, and you are looked upon, by all, as the most accomplished person in the world, Only this occasions a general astonishment, that, being what you are, you should not have observed, there are in this City several Ladies of great quality and worth, who have a particular esteem and kindness for you. They have expressed so much, as far as modesty and the reservedness of their sex would permit, and though they earnestly wish you assured of it, yet would they rather it might be said, you regarded it not out of a certain insensibility, than dissembled your inadvertency, out of indifference. There is, among others, one, of my acquaintance, who, not regarding what may be said of such a discovery, gives you this eminent assurance of the esteem she hath for you, as to give you notice, That your midnight adventures are observed; that you indiscreetly engage your affection to what you have no knowledge of, and since the person you court as a Mistress will not vouchsafe you a sight of her, that it is either out of a fear she is not amiable enough to gain your love, or ashamed of her own. I doubt not but the object of your contemplative love is some Lady of high quality, and transcendent wit, and that you imagine to yourself a Mistress who is, such, of all the excellencies her sex is capable of, and consequently deserving the adoration of such a person as you are; But Signior Don Carlos, let me give you this advice, not to trust your imagination, to the prejudice of your judgement, but rather mistrust a person, who disguises herself, and avoid all further engagement in these nocturnal conversations. To deal freely with you, 'tis I who am jealous of this phantasm of yours, troubled you should speak of her, and, since I have expressed myself thus far, am resolved to quash her designs, and defeat all her projects, so as to deprive her of a victory which I may justly dispute with her; since I am not inferior to her, either as to beauty, fortune, or quality, or indeed any thing that may render a woman amiable. Farewell, I leave you to make your advantage of the good counsel I have given you, which, if you are wise, I doubt not but you will.  
With these last words she went out of the Chapel, not staying for the Answer, which Don Carlos was ready to make her. He would have followed her, but he found at the Church-door a person of quality, who presently fell into discourse, with her, and continued it so long, that he grew weary of staying to see her disengaged. All the remainder of the day, his thoughts were wholly taken up with this adventure, and he suspected, at first, that the Gentlewoman he had met with at the Ball, might be the last masked Lady, that had appeared to him: but considering with himself, that she seemed to be much more ingenuous, than the other had discovered herself, he was at a loss what to think of it, and began to wish he had not engaged himself so far to his obscure Mistress, that he might have addressed his devotions to her whom he had last parted with. But at last, reflecting that she was no more known to him than his former invisible Lady, whose wit had charmed him in the conversation he had had with her, he resolved what course he should take, and little regarded the menaces which had been made him, as being a person not to be frightened with great words.  
In pursuance of this resolution, he went that very night to his iron-grate at the hour appointed. The two Lovers spent their time, much after the same rate as they had at their former meetings. But being come near the height of their amorous discourse, it was unexpectedly interrupted by a strange accident. Don Carlos was of a sudden surprised by four men in vizards, who having disarmed him, carried him away by main force into a Coach, which waited at the lower end of the street. I leave the Reader to imagine how heartily he railed on them, and the reproaches he made them, that they had taken him so much at their advantage. Nay, he tried what fair words and promises might do; but instead of prevailing aught upon them, it only obliged them to look more narrowly to him, and deprive him of all hope to help himself either by his strength or courage.  
In the mean time, the Coach went forward as fast as four good Horses could draw it, and about an hour after they had left the City, he was brought into a magnificent Palace, the great Gate whereof stood open, as if it had been purposely for his reception. The four disguised persons received Don Carlos out of the Coach, holding him fast under the arms, as if he had been some Ambassador conducted to the Grand Signior, or the King of Persia. He was brought up the first Story with the same ceremony, and there, two Gentlewomen masked received him, at the entrance of a spacious Hall, having each of them Torches in their hands. The disguised men took leave of him, and withdrew, after they had made him a most low congey. 'Tis very probable, they left him neither Sword nor Pistol, nor that he returned them any thanks for the care they had of him, and their trouble to bring him thither. Not but that he was a person of as much civility as any man in the world, but one surprised may well be pardoned the backwardness of expressing it so much as another.  
I shall not tell you whether those great Wax-lights which the Gentlewoman held, were in Silver Candlesticks, but this I am sure of, that they were carved and embossed work, and the Hall was one of the most sumptuous in the world, and, if you please, the furniture of it, without disparagement, comparable to some Apartments of our late Romances, as for example Zelmana's Ship in Polexander, Ibrahim's Palace in the Illustrious Bassa; or the Room, in which the King of Assyria entertained Mandana, in the Grand Cyrus, which, not to disparage those other I named, is, one of the most magnificently furnished Books of any in the world. Imagine then how much our cajoled Lover was astonished to find himself in so sumptuous an apartment, attended only by two Gentlewomen masked, who spoke not at all, and conducted him thence into another room, more nobly furnished than the Hall, where they left him all alone. Had he been of the humour of Don Quixote, he would have been transported into some extravagance befitting so great an Adventurer, and he would have conceited himself at least Esplandian or Amadis; but our grave Spaniard was no more troubled at it, than if he had been in some Inn, or Countryhouse of his own. True it is, he was much troubled for his Invisible Mistress, and having his thoughts continually fixed on her, he thought that room sadder than any Prison, which is neve● accounted handsome, but on the outside. He was confident they intended him no hurt who had Lodged him so nobly, and wanted not much of being satisfied, that the Lady, who had spoken to him the day before in the Church, was the Sorceress, who had wrought all these enchantments. He admised in himself the fantastic humours of Women; and with what expedition they execute what they have once resolved; and thereupon he concluded it his best course patiently to expect the period of the adventure, and to continue faithful to his Mistress at the Grate, what promises or menaces whatsoever might be made to him.  
Some time after, certain Officers belonging to the House, all in Vizards, but very richly clad, came in to lay the cloth, which done, Supper was brought up. All was very magnificent; Music and Perfumes were not wanting, and our Don Carlos, besides the senses of Smelling, and Hearing, satisfied also that of the Taste, much beyond what I should have imagined, the condition he was in considered; my meaning is, that he made a good Supper, for, as I told you, he could not live on the airy entertainments of sighs, and amorous imaginations. I forgot to tell you, that I think he washed his mouth before he sat down, for I have heard, that he had an extraordinary care of his teeth. The Music continued playing a good while after Supper, and all having left him, Don Carlos walked up and down the room a good while, ruminating on all these enchantments, or somewhat else, it m●tters not much. At last two Gentlewomen masked, and a little Dwarf of a Page masked also, after they had laid a rich cloth on a Side-table, came to help him off with his clothes, without any previous question, whether he had any mind to go to Bed or not. He suffered them to do what they pleased; the Gentlewomen ordered his Bed, and marched away; the Page helped him off with his boots or shoes, and afterwards with his clothes. Don Carlos got into Bed, and all this was done with as strict an observation of silence of all sides, as if he had been in some Monastery of Carthusians. He rested well enough for an amorous person; the Birds of an adjoining aviary awaked him at the break of Day; the masked Dwarf was ready to wait on him, and brought him the finest Linen, the whitest, and best perfumed that he had ever seen.  
'Twere too hard a task to give an account how he passed away the time from Morning till Noon, let those who feel the gripe of a passionate love imagine it, as for other people, it matters not what they think. The silence, which had hitherto been exactly observed of all sides, was broken at last, by another masked Gentlewoman, who came to ask him, whether he would be pleased to see the Princess of that enchanted Palace. He told her, it was his desire, and that she should be very welcome. Not long after, she comes into the room, attended by four Gentlewomen very richly clad, and with that lustre and attraction, as if the Graces had bestowed the whole morning in dressing her. Never had our Spaniard seen a greater conjunction of Love and Majesty in one countenance, than he now saw in that of this unmasked Urganda. He was so ravished and astonished together, that all the Congees he made, and the several postures he put himself into, while he led her by the hand into an adjoining room, were little better than so many stumblings. What he had thought so sumptuous in the Hall, and the other room, whereof I told you before, were nothing in comparison of what he found in this, and yet as magnificent as all things were, they received some addition of lustre from the masked Lady, who honoured the place with her divine presence. They sat down on a sumptuous Couch, the most sumptuous that had ever been made, since the first invention of Couches. Having viewed him a while, to see how he kept his countenance, she at last spoke to him, with a Voice as sweet as a Virginal, discovering her mind in a discourse, not much different from that I am now going to give you.  
I doubt not, Signior Don Carlos, says she to him, of your being surprised, at what hath happened to you in my House since your coming into it last night; but if it have not had that effect on you which I imagine to myself, I have however the satisfaction of assuring you that I am no worse than my promise, and convincing you, by what I have already done, what I am further able to do. 'Tis possible, my Rival, your Invisible Mistress, may, by her artifices, and the good fortune of having engaged you first, be absolutely possessed of that place in your heart, which I am to dispute with her: but she is no Woman that will be put off with one denial, and if my fortunes, which are not to be slighted, and all may be had with me be too weak a motive to induce you to love me, I shall yet have this self-content, that I have chosen rather to run the hazard of being slighted for my imperfection, than obscure myself out of subtlety or shame.  
With those words she took off her mask, and gave Don Carlos a full discovery of Heaven, or, if you please, a small draught of it, the loveliest Head in the world, sustained by a Body of the noblest-stature he had ever admired, in a word, both together making up a person wholly divine. By the fresh complexion of her countenance, a Man would have guessed her not to exceed sixteen years of age; but a certain mixture, of majesty and gallantry in the air of it, such as young persons are not arrived to, gave a greater assurance of her being four years elder.  
Don Carlos stood mute a while, as being unresolved what answer he should make her, not a little incensed against his invisible Lady, who hindered him from making an absolute disposal of himself to the most beautiful person he had ever seen, and at a perfect loss, both as to what he should say, or what he should do. At last, after an interior conflict, which lasted long enough to raise some doubts in the Lady of the enchanted Palace, he took a firm resolution, to make her a clear discovery of his soul, and it proved (such is commonly the reward of sincerity) one of the noblest and most advantageous actions he ever did. But you expect his answer. Many persons, who have heard of it, have been of opinion he might have done better, and declared his mind a little more smartly, when he had once resolved which game he would be at. But I am only his Secretary, and think myself concerned in point of conscience, to lay down the very words he delivered, which were these, as near as I can remember. I must acknowledge, Madam, said he, that it would have been too great a happiness to please such a person as you are, could I have been but so happy as that I might have loved you. I am sufficiently sensible, that I refuse the most beautiful person in the world, to court another who possibly may be such only in my imagination. But, Madam, would you think me worthy your affection, if you thought me capable of an unfaithfulness, towards a person, whom I had promised constancy? And is it consistent mith my constancy that I should address my affection to you? But why do I say mine, when I have not had any to dispose, since the engagement of fidelity I made to that Mistress, who is yet pleased to be invisible to me? You are therefore, Madam, not so much to blame me, as bewail my misfortune; or rather let us jointly bemoan ourselves, you, because you cannot obtain your desires, and I, that I cannot see what I love.  
He delivered this with so sad an accent, that the Lady might easily observe he made a sincere discovery of his thoughts. She omitted nothing which she conceived might persuade him, to fall off from his former love; he was deaf to all, her entreaties, nay was little moved at her tears, though the greatest Rhetoric a Woman can use. She renewed the charge several times; he as obstinately kept his ground. At last she fell to bitter rail and reproaches, and having vented on him all the injurious expressions, that could proceed from exasperated rage, and that a woman's, she left him, not so much to consider what he had to do, as to curse his misfortune. A Gentlewoman came in a while after, to tell him, that, if he pleased, he might take a turn or two in the Garden. He went, not meeting with any body in his way, till he came to the bottom of the stairs, where he found ten men with vizards on, who waited at the door, armed with Partisans and Carbines. As he passed through the Court, to go towards the Garden, which was in all things answerable to the Palace, one of those men, who stood Centrie at the gate, comes up to him, and whispers him in the ear (as if he had been much afraid to be overheard) That he had received from an ancient Gentleman a Letter directed to him, and that he had promised the delivery of it into his own hands, though it might hazard his life, if it were discovered: but a present of twenty pieces, and a promise of a like sum afterwards, had prevailed with him to venture the doing of that dangerous kindness. Don Carlos promised secrecy, and made all the haste he could into the Garden to read what he had received from him.  
THE LETTER.  
Signior Don Carlos,  
YOu may easily imagine what trouble I have been in, ever since I lost you, by that you are in yourself, if so your love be as violent as mine. My affliction was not capable of any abatement, till I had discovered the place where you are, and that's the only comfort I have. The Lady, who contrived your surprise and carrying away, from the place where we thought ourselves secure from such ambushes, is the Princess Porcia. To satisfy her own humour, she slights all other considerations, and you are not the first Reynaldo that hath fallen into the hands of that dangerous Armida. But I shall break all her enchantments, and it shall not be long ere I force you, out of her embraces, into my own, a happiness you will deserve, if you are as constant as I wish you should be, to  
Your invisible Mistress.  
Don Carlos was ravished to receive this account of his Lady, for whom he had a real and violent affection. He kissed the Letter till he grew weary of that divertisement, and returned to the gate, to find out him from whom he had received it, and to require his kindness with a rich Diamond-ring, off his finger. He walked a good while longer in the Garden, wondering extremely at the strange humour of that Princess Porcia, of whom he had heard much, as of a young Lady of a very great fortune, and descended of one of the noblest Houses in the Kingdom; and being a person of great virtue, he conceived such an aversion for her, that he resolved, though with the hazard of his life, to do all he could to get out of that restraint wherein she kept him.  
As he was coming out of the Garden, he met with a young Gentlewoman, unmasked (for upon the lady's discovery of herself, orders were given there should be no more masks seen about the Palace) who asked him, whether he would be pleased to admit of her lady's company, to dine with him that day. I leave you to judge, whether he returned, She should be welcome, or With all his heart, or, That it was an honour he could not have aspired to. Soon after, dinner was brought in; the Princess appeared fairer than the Day, and her conversation took the amorous Spaniard so highly, that it bred in him a secret trouble to see, in a person of so great quality, such excellent endowments so strangely misemploied. He endeavoured all he could to put himself into a pleasant humour, though his thoughts were continually fixed on his unknown Mistress, whom he was impatiently desirous to meet with once more at the grate.  
As soon as they had taken away, and all the attendants had quitted the room, the Lady assaulted his constancy one more, in these words. I know not, Signior Don Carlos, said she, whether I may, from the cheerfulness, which methinks I have observed in your countenance, derive any hope of some change in your mind, or presume that my face and carriage, have at least raised in you a doubtfulness, whether the invisible Beauty, you so much dote on, be more capable to force your love than I am. I have not disguised what I would have bestowed on you, because I was not willing you should repent your having received it; and though a person accustomed to receive Petitions, may easily be offended at a denial, yet I shall forget all resentment of that which I have received from you, on condition you repair it, by your future compliance, in giving me what I conceive myself more worthy of than the invisible and inaccessible object of your adorations. Let me therefore know your final resolution, that if it prove not to my advantage, I may endeavour to find a counter-battery of reasons, strong enough to beat down those which I think I have had to love you, that I may no longer pursue a vain hope, which will deceive me at last.  
Don Carlos paused a while, to see whether she would have gone on with the discourse, but perceiving she had given over, and that, with her eyes fastened on the ground, she expected the sentence he was to pronounce, he persisted in the resolution he had taken to deal freely with her, and put her out of all hope that he could ever be her Servant, and so made her this cold and comfortless Answer. Madam, before I satisfy you, as to what you are so desirous to know, I am to beg a real discovery of your sentiments concerning what I shall propose to you, with the same freedom and sincerity, as you expect I should observe towards you. If yourself had obliged a person to offer up his affections to you, and by all the endearing favours, which a Lady may grant, without injury or prejudice to her virtue, you had engaged this person to swear and vow an inviolable constancy to you, would you not account him the basest and unworthiest of men, if he should not perform the promise he had made you? And should not I be this very base and and unworthy person, if, though to obtain one so infinitely deserving as you are, I should forsake a woman, who hath some grounds to presume that I love her?  
He would have proceeded with this and other formal arguments, to satisfy her, but she gave him not the time. I have enough, said she, I perceive what your Answer will amount to, and cannot forbear admiring your constancy, though it be so much contrary to my satisfaction. I shall importune you no further, to a change of the resolution you have taken; you shall be delivered out of your restraint, only this kindness I shall press you to, that you remain here till night, to be removed hence, in the same manner as you were brought hither, assuring myself, that if you ever come to discover where you have been, you will be so generous as to conceal the design I had upon you, and be moderate in the triumph of your fidelity. She held a handkerchief before her eyes, while she spoke those last words, as it were to keep her tears from being seen by the Spaniard, who, if, on the one side, troubled at what she had said, was, on the other, so transported with joy at the recovery of his liberty, that he could not have concealed it, though he had been the greatest hypocrite in the world: and 'tis to be imagined that if the Lady had observed, he could not have avoided her reproaches. I know not whether he thought it long ere night came, for, as I told you before, I trouble not myself much about the precise observance of times and hours: you may be assured it came, and that, being disposed into a Coach, he was brought back to his own lodgings, attended by the same persons who had waited on him the night before.  
Being one of the kindest Masters in the world, his Servants were overjoyed to see him again; but they enjoyed him not long. He put on armour, and accompanied by two of them, whose courage he had former experience of, he made all the haste he could to the Grate, nay his haste was such, that those who attended him, had much ado to follow him. He had no sooner made the accustomed signal, but the invisible Deity answered him. They had a long discourse, and that so full of affectionate tenderness, on both sides, that I never think on it, without tears. At last, she told him, that, having received some affront in the house where she than was, she had sent for her Coach, to remove thence; but in regard it would be long ere it came, and that his might be sooner got ready, she entreated him to send for it, to conduct her to a place, where he should not any longer complain of her invisibility. The amorous Gallant stayed not for a longer entreaty, he ran to his Servants, whom he had left at the end of the street, and sent them for his Coach, which being come, the invisible Lady kept her promise, and went along with him into it. She gave the Coachman directions which way he should go, and bid him stop at a great house, into which he drove, by the light of many torches, which met them at the gate. Don Carlos conducted the Lady as she directed him, up a large pair of stairs, into a spacious Hall, where he continued somewhat troubled to find her still masked. At last, several Gentlewomen richly apparelled, coming to receive them, every one with a great wax candle in her hand, the invisible Lady discovered herself, and taking off her mask, satisfied Don Carlos, that the Lady at the grate and the Princess Porcia were but one and the same person.  
It were no easy matter for me to tell you, how strangely the Spaniard was surprised. The beautiful Neapolitan told him, that she had brought him away a second time, to know his final resolution; that what pretensions soever the Lady at the grate had to him, were now become hers, with a thousand other things highly amorous and witty. Don Carlos cast himself at her feet, embraced her knees, and kissed her hands, and so avoided the uttering of many impertinences, which people overjoyed are apt to be guilty of. When these first transportations were over, he rallied together all his wit and gallantry, to celebrate the pleasant humour of his Mistress, and acquitted himself in expressions so advantageous to her, that she was further assured of her not being mistaken in her choice. She told him, that she was unwilling to trust any but herself in a trial, without which, she could never have loved him, and that she would never have been any man's less constant than he had shown himself.  
Upon this, the Relations of the Princess Porcia being acquainted with her design, came in to them. She being one of the most considerable persons in the Kingdom, and Don Carlos of great quality, it proved no hard matter to get a Dispensation from the Archbishop, for their marriage. They were married that very night, by the Parson of the Parish, who being an eminent Preacher, 'tis likely, there wanted not a very good Exhortation. Some reported, that it was very late ere they were stirring the next day, which I am apt enough to believe. The News was soon divulged, whereat the Viceroy, who was nearly related to Don Carlos, was so glad, that the public divertisements began afresh in Naples, where they still talk of the Loves of Don Carlos and his INVISIBLE MISTRESS.   

SCARRON's NOVELS.  
The Chastisement of Avarice.  
The Seventh Novel.  
NOT many years since, a young Lad, poor, to the very lowest degree of poverty, yet of an ambition exceeding it, and infinitely more desirous to be thought a Gentleman, than to be accounted, either a rational Creature or a Christian, came along with his Father out of the Mountains of Navarr, with a resolution (whether guided by instinct, or encouraged by the directions of some others of his friends, I could never learn) to plant themselves at Madrid. They had heard much of the gallantry of that place, and were put in hopes, that they should meet with those things there, which they could not find in their own Country, I mean the favours and indulgences of Fortune, which are to be had at the Court, rather than any where else, yet are seldom obtained, without much courtship, and excessive importunities. It was the young Lad's good luck, though I know not by what charms procured, to be entertained a Page by some Grandee, or rather Prince, (for they have the vanity to think themselves such) a condition, not thought very honourable in Spain, that is, much at the same rate as that of Lackeys in France or England. He was put into the Livery about twelve years of age, and, no doubt, he looked very prettily in it, such an alteration is the first smile of good fortune able to make, in one who, till then, had lived no otherwise than as an uncivilised Highlander. 'Tis possible, some other person would have grown insolent upon so strange a Metamorphosis; but he was of a quite different temper, and withal the most frugal Page that ever was, nay, what is the greatest commendation of a person of his quality, the least addicted to an Art called the Lightness of the Fingers, as haply having not yet been long enough in the City, to understand the advantages of his profession.  
Having sold his former rags to the Brokers, he began to think himself a rich man; yet did not his wealth consist so much in the gaudiness of his accoutrements, as in the greatness of his hopes, and a wretched Bed, disposed into a small partition of a Garret, which he had taken, not far from his Master's house, and there he retired in the night, with his Father, rich in years, since he lived, and, upon that account, raising a compassion in all he met, some were so charitable as to relieve him. Those charities were his daily revenue, but so small, that, many times, he went to his Cell, not only supperless, but hungry. At last the old Man dies, and his Son was glad to see him so well provided for, out of this reflection, that being disburdened of that charge, he was in a fair way to become a rich man. From the hour of his Father's interment, he imposed upon himself so great a frugality, and entered into so strict and austere a kind of Life, that he spent in a manner nothing, of that little, which was allowed him every day for his subsistence. 'Tis true, it was not without the grumbling and barking of his Stomach, and to the cost of all those, with whom he could make any acquaintance.  
Don Marcos (so was called this remarkable example of penury) was a person of a stature somewhat below the middle size, and, through pure want of seasonable nourishment, he, in a short time, became the slenderest, and driest person in the world. When he waited on his Master at table (which, it seems, was not so often as he could have wished) he never changed his plate, but that, if there were any thing left on it, he had the admirable sleight of conveying somewhat into his pocket, whether it were dry or liquid he mattered not much. But finding by experience, that, when he secured any thing of the latter kind, it could not be done without offence, he found out an expedient to prevent that inconvenience, for having converted into money the wax of a great number of Torches ends, which he had very carefully kept together, he bought him a pair of pockets of your Latten-ware, wherewith he afterwards did miracles, in order to the advancement of his fortune.  
Most covetous persons are commonly vigilant and careful, and these two qualities, heightened by the insatiable passion, which Dom Marcos had, to become a rich Man, raised in his Master such an extraordinary kindness towards him, that he would not, by any means in the world, have parted with so excellent a Page. He continued him in his Livery, from the twelfth, as I told you, to the thirtieth year of his Age, so that, upon the account of his Seniority, he might have taken place of all the Pages in Spain. But there happened an inconvenience, which prevailed with his Master to change that resolution, and that was, that this overgrown Page was obliged to shave himself every day; whereupon being transformed from a Page into a Gentleman, he was made by his Master what Heaven would never have made him.  
The advantage of this transformation was, that his allowance was advanced, by a daily addition of some few Rials; but he, instead of adding any thing to his expense, reined his Purse-strings the more, not regarding how much his new employment obliged him to betray a proportionable liberality. He had heard indeed, that some of his Profession, instead of a Boy, to wait them, in the morning, made use of such as sold Aquavitae, to make clean their rooms, into which they got them, pretending that they would have drunk of their Water, and sometimes in the Wintertime, they called up those that sold Wafers and Jumbals (a sort of people that walk as late as the Bak'd-pipin wenches do about London) to get off their clothes; but in regard this could not be done without a kind of violence, and that our Dom Marcos was of an humour, not to be unjust to any but himself, he conceived it his best course not to be troubled with any Servant. Never was there a Candle's end burnt in his Chamber, but he came to it by slight of hand, and to make it last as long as might be, he began to undress himself in the street, from the very place where he had lighted it, so that by that time he was come to his Chamber, he was in a manner ready to get into his Bed. But considering with himself, that it was possible a Man might go to his rest with less charge, his inventive imagination found out another expedient, which was, to make a little hole in the partition, which separated his room from his next Neighbours, so as that, as soon as he had lighted his Candle, Dom Marcos opened the hole, and so had light enough to do any thing he had to do at that time of the Night.  
That one side of his Body should not laugh at the other, nor either of them at the middle of his haunches, he wore his Sword one day on the right side, the next day, on the left, the third hanging perpendicularly down his back, and all this, that his clothes might be equally worn out of all sides, and that the Damage should be the less, being equally divided. Upon the very break of Day, he stood at his door, with a little Earthen pitcher in his hand, begging a little water of all the Water-bearers that passed by, and so he supplied himself with water for many days together. He went many times into a little Buttery, just at the time that the other Servants belonging to his Master, who had their Diet in the House, were at Meals, and there he would take occasion to commend what they had before them, that some body might invite him to taste of it. He never bought any Wine, yet drunk of it every day, either by tasting what the public Criers carried about, or staying in the streets those, who had been buying at the Cabarets, of whom he begged a taste, as if he intended to buy himself of the same. Coming to Madrid upon a Mule, he cast such a mist before the eyes of his Hosts, that he kept the poor Beast only with pieces of the Bed-mats on which he lay, and what other remnants of old Mats he could meet with.  
There happened a necessity, one time, that he must take a Servant along with him, upon a Journey he had to make; but growing weary of him the first day of his service, he bethought himself of a pretty device to put him off. Pretending that he could not drink the Wine at the Inn where he than was, he sent the poor fellow to another, a good League distant, where he said there was much better. There was no way but to obey the commands of his new Master; but, before his return, he was gone away, and had left false directions, where to find him, and so the poor Boy was forced to get back again to Madrid with a weeping-cross, as being reduced to play the Pilgrim, and beg all the way, for the Money he had given him to buy the Wine proved naught. In fine, Dom Marcos became the living portraiture of base thrift and avarice, and was so well known to be the most covetous Man that ever Spain bred, that, in Madrid, they had no other name for a miserable fellow, than Dom Marcos.  
His Master, and all his Friends, told a thousand pleasant stories of him, and that even in his presence, for he never troubled himself at their discourse, as minding his own advantage more than their raillery, though he understood it well enough, and would put in ever and anon some grave saying or Apothegm. One of them was, that a Woman could never be handsome, if she loved to receive; nor ever deformed if she had any thing to give: And that a prudent and thrifty Man should never go to Bed, till he had made some advantage or other. This excellent Theory, seconded by as exact a Practice, had brought him in, by that time he was arrived to forty years of Age, ten thousand Crowns in ready money, a vast sum for a Gentleman, waiting on a Grandee, especially one of Spain. But what will not a long process of time bring a Man to, when he robs himself of all he can, as well as other people.  
Dom Marcos having thus acquired the reputation of being rich, without that of following any evil course or gaming, was soon looked upon as an advantageous Match, by several Women, who, above all things, and with all the artifices imaginable, prosecute their own concernments. Among the many who proffered him their enjoyments and liberty, (for Women in Spain are but a small degree above Slaves) there was one Isidora, a Woman that went for a Widow, though she had never been married, and that it was at least forty years since she had been a Maid. She seemed to be much younger than she was, so well was she versed in the disguises and artifices, which Women sometimes use, to belly their Age and Wrinkles. Her fortune was measured according to her expense, which was very high for a Woman of her condition; insomuch that the common report, which is ever rash and apt to lie, gave her out to be worth, besides what she might have in Money and Jewels, three hundred Pounds sterling per ann. and at least ten thousand Crowns in Householdstuff. He who proposed the match between Dom Marcos and this Isidora, was a famous Trapanner, one that traded in all sorts of Commodities, and a Hole-sale-Marchant in the common Drugs of the female Sex. He gave Dom Marcos such an advantageous account of the Lady Isidora, that it made his teeth water to be acquainted with her, a curiosity he had never had for any person before. Nay, he persuaded him so far that she was rich, and the Widow of a Cavalier, of one of the best Houses of Andalusia, that, upon the first proposals, he accounted himself as good as married to her. That very day, this subtle Solicitor of Venereal Causes, whose name was Gamara, prevailed with Dom Marcos to go along with him to visit Isidora at her house. The covetous wretch was ravished at the neatness and magnificence of the House, into which Gamara brought him, but much better pleased, when he conductor assured him, that both it, and all within it belonged to Isidora. He found therein such Householdstuff, such Alcoves, Couches, and a profusion of Perfumes, as might become a Lady of the greatest quality, rather than the future Spouse of a simple Gentleman, that waited on a Grand Signior of Spain; and for her own part, he thought her at least a Goddess. Dom Marcos found her very busy, about some extraordinary Works, sitting between two of her Waiting-women, both so highly clad, and so handsome, that, notwithstanding the natural aversion he had for expense, and especially that occasioned by a superfluous number of Domestics, he would have married Isidora, though 'twere only out of an ambition he then had, to have, at his command, such beautiful young Maids, as he took them to be. Isidora's discourse was so excellent, that it not only pleased, but in a manner enchanted, Dom Marcos; and what made an absolute conquest of his heart, was a magnificent Collation, at which the fineness of the Linen, and the sumptuousness of the Plate were answerable to the other rich Householdstuff of the Lady, at whose charge it was. There was present at this Collation a proper young Lad, named Augustine, well clothed, whom Isidora said was her Nephew, and whom his good Aunt, to show her fondness of him, diminutively called Augustinetto, though he were above twenty years of Age. Isidora and Augustinetto out-vy'd one the other in their treatment of Dom Marcos, and were ever presenting him with what they thought best in the Collation; and while our upstart Gentleman satisfied his half-starved Stomach with provisions for at least one week, at the charge of another, his ears were charmed by the sweet Voice of the Waiting-woman Marcelia, who, to the sound of a Virginal, sung certain passionate Airs. Dom Marcos forgot his Gentility, and fed like a Farmer, and the Collation ended with the day, the light whereof growing deficient was supplied by that of four great wax-candles, in candlesticks of massy silver tightly wrought, which Dom Marcos immediately resolved within himself to reform into one single Lamp, as soon as ever he were married to Isidora. Augustinetto took a Gitthar, and played several Sarabands, which the crafty Marcelia, and the other Waiting-gentlewoman Inez, danced admirably well, exactly answering the sound of the Gitthar with their Castagnets. The discreet Gamara whispered Dom Marcos in the ear, that the Lady Isidora went to bed betimes. The civil Gentleman stayed not for a second advertisement, and thereupon addressing himself to Isidora, with such extraordinary compliments, and so great protestations of love and service, as he had never made to any before, he took leave both of her, and her Nephew Signior Augustinetto, leaving them at liberty to say what they thought of him.  
Dom Marcos being thus deeply fallen in love with Isidora, but much more with her money, acknowledged to Gamara, who accompanied him to his own lodging, that the beautiful Widow had smitten him in the more amorous part of his soul, and that he would have parted with a finger, on condition he were already married to her; inasmuch as he had never met with any woman that pleased his fancy better than she did, telling him withal, that after their marriage, she should not live at such an extravagant rate. She lives rather like a Princess, than the wife of a private person, says the cautious Dom Marcos to the dissembling companion Gamara, and considers not, that the householdstuff and plate she hath, being turned into money, and that money added to that which I have, might bring in a considerable yearly rent, which we may lay up for a reserve, and, by the industry it hath pleased God to bestow on me, raise a plentiful estate and fortunes for the children we may have between us. But if Heaven shall think fit, that we have no issue, since Isidora hath a hopeful Nephew, we will settle all we shall gather together upon him, provided he answer the expectation I have of his well-doing.  
Dom Marcos entertained Gamara with these discourses, or others to the same effect, walking still on, till he found himself just at the door of his lodging. Gamara took his leave of him, after he had promised, that the next day he would conclude his marriage with Isidora, and given him this reason for his expedition therein, That affairs of that nature, many times, miscarried as much by delay as by the death of either of the parties. Dom Marcos kindly embraced the dear carrier on of his designs, and dismissed him. He went immediately back to Isidora, to give her an account in what posture he had left her humble Servant, and in the mean time our amorous Gentleman taking out of his pocket the end of a wax-candle, he fastened it to the point of his sword, and having lighted it at a lamp, which burned before a public Crucifix, in a place hard by, not without making a kind of ejaculatory prayer, for the good success of his marriage, he opened, with a Mistress-key, the door of the house where he lay, and laid himself down in his wretched bed, rather to pass away the night in reflecting on his Loves, than in sleeping.  
The next morning Gamara comes to him, and acquainted him with the good news of the conclusion of his marrirge with Isidora, who referred it to Dom Marcos, to appoint the day, on which it should be solemnised. The amorous Miser told Gamara, that though he were married that very day, yet would it not be as soon as he wished it. Gamara replied, that it depended wholly on himself to consummate his own happiness: whereupon Dom Marcos, embracing him, desired the contract might be drawn up that very day. He appointed Gamara to meet him in the afternoon, as soon as he pleased, after he had waited on his Master at dinner. They both punctually met at the time and place appointed. They went to Isidora's house, where Dom Marcos was more nobly entertained than he had been the time before. Marcelia sung; Inez danced; Augustinetto played on the Gitthar; and Isidora, the principal Actress, gave her future husband an extraordinary Treatment, whereof she knew who should defray the charge at last. He devoured all was presented to him with as little remorse as a Wolf half-starved; and yet he could not forbear censuring the superfluity of the expense in his soul. Gamara was sent for a public Notary; he brought one to act that part. The Articles of the Treaty of Marriage were soon set down, and as soon signed on both sides.  
There was a motion made to Dom Marcos, that he would play a game at Primero, to pass away the time. Heaven and all the Inhabitants of it forbid, says Dom Marcos, I play at any kind of game! No, no; I serve a Master, who would turn me out of his service within a quarter of an hour, if he should ever hear that I were a Gamester; and for my own part, I am not so well skilled, as to know the Cards. How infinitely am I pleased with what Signior Dom Marcos hath said, replies Isidora, I am every day preaching the same thing to my Nephew Augustinetto, but the world is come to that pass now, that the younger sort think themselves too wise, to receive the good counsels and admonitions of their elders, much more to follow them. Go thy ways, unhappy boy, says she to Augustinetto, go bid Marcelia and Inez make an end of their dinner, and come and divert the company with their Castagnets.  
While Augustinetto was gone down to call up the Maids, Dom Marcos, addressing himself to Isidora, acquainted her with his mind in these terms. If Augustinetto will do as I would have him, there are two things he must abstain from, as the most contrary to my nature of any thing in the world, and that is, Gaming, and being abroad late in the night. I am desirous that all those who lie within my doors should be in their beds betimes, and that, as soon as it is dark, the house-doors should be well bolted and locked. Not that I am of a distrustful humour; nay, on the contrary, I do not think any thing more impertinent than to be so, especially when a man hath an honest and careful wife, as I am more than in hopes to have: but those houses, where there is any thing to be taken, can never be too secure from Thiefs, and House-breakers, for if there be but a sink-hole left open, they will make a shift to get in; and for my part, it would break my heart, if some idle rascal of a Thief, without taking any other pains, than what it co●●s him to carry away what he finds, should, in an instant, convey away, what I had much ado ●o get together in many years. For these rrasons therefore, continues Dom Marcos, I will absolutely forbid him Gaming and Nightwalking, or resign him up to be dealt with according to the discretion of the Devil, for Dom Marcos shall be no longer his Tutor.  
The choleric Signior spoke these last words with so much transportation, that it cost Isidora a great many entreaties and submissions, to lay his great spirit, and reduce him to his ordinary tranquillity. She did as good as fall on her knees, to desire Dom Marcos, that he would be no longer angry, assuring him, that her Nephew should give him all the satisfaction he could expect, for he was but young, and of the most docile and compliant nature of any she had ever known.  
They fell into some other discourse, upon the coming in of Augustine and the Dancing-women, and they spent some part of the night in dancing and singing. Dom Marcos, to spare himself the trouble of returning to his own lodging, would have persuaded Isidora, to condescend, that they might, from that time, live together, as man and wife, or that at least he might lie in her house, in regard it was grown later than he had imagined. But she put on a severe countenance, and earnestly protested, that ever since the unhappy day that had reduced her to the condition of Widowhood, never had any man set his foot into the chaste bed which had sometime been her dear Lords, nor should any, till the Church had interposed her authority, and that, while she were a widow, no person should ever lie under her roof, but her Nephew Augustine.  
Dom Marcos was much pleased with her resolution, notwithstanding his amorous impatience. He bid her good-night, returned to his lodging, accompanied by Gamara, took out of his pocket the candle's end, stuck it to the point of his sword, lighted it at the Lamp before the Crucifix, in a word, did all he had done the night before, so punctual was he in all things, unless it were that he said not his prayers, as he had done, haply because he thought his business effected, and that he stood not in any need of Heaven's further assistance. The Banes of Matrimony were soon asked out, for there happened to come two or three holidays together. At last, the marriage, so much desired on both sides, was consummated, and the solemnity thereof occasioned a greater expense than was expected from the penuriousness of the Bridegroom, who, out of a fear of making any breach in his ten thousand Crowns, borrowed money of his friends. The chiefest of his Master's servants were at the wedding, and took occasion ever and anon to commend the good choice he had made. The cheer was extraordinary, though at the charge of Dom Marcos, who for that time was content to defray all, and, by a prodigy of affection, had caused very rich clothes to be made for Isidora and himself.  
The Guests departed in good time, and, the coast being clear, Dom Marcos went himself and locked the doors, and shut to and barred the windows, not so much for the security of his wife, as that of the Trunks, wherein his money lay, which he ordered to be brought into his own room and set close by the nuptial bed. The young couple went to bed, and while Dom Marcos was groping for what he could not find, Marcelia and Inez were grumbling in their own chamber, at the strange humour of their Master, and blaming the forwardness of their Mistress, in taking a husband. Inez burst forth into downright swearing, and said she had rather be a Lay-Sister in a Monastery, than Servant in a house, whereof the doors were locked up at nine of the clock. And what would you do were you in my condition? says Marcelia to Inez; for your business is to go up and down, to provide for the house, but for my part, who am a Gentlewoman made up in haste, I must le●d a retired life, with the chaste spouse of a jealous husband, and, of all the Serenades, which were given under our windows, I must hear no more talk, than of the pleasures of the next world. And yet we are not so much to be bemoaned as our friend Augustinetto, says Inez. He hath spent his youth in waiting as a Gentleman-usher on her whom he called his Aunt, though she were no more so than I am, and now that he is come to write Man, she puts him under the tuition of a Pedagogue, who, no less than a hundred times a day, will reproach him with his diet and clothes, and God only knows and himself, whether he came honestly by them. Thou tell'st me in that somewhat I knew not before, replies Marcelia, and I give over wondering at the severity our Mistress pretended to, when her Nephew ad honores grew a little more familiar with us than she would have had him. Had I been any thing forward to believe his protestations, I should soon have deprived the Aunt of the Nephew; but she hath bred me up from a child, and it is a certain gratitude, for us to be faithful to those, whose bread we eat. To tell thee the truth, continued Inez, I cannot find in my heart to have any aversion for that young fellow, and I must confess, that it raised a great compassion in me, when I saw him only dissatisfied, and out of humour, among so many others who enjoyed themselves and were merry.  
In these discourses did the two Waiting-women spend the time, after they were got into bed, and such were their comments on the marriage of their Master. Honest Inez fell asleep, but Marcelia had somewhat else to do. As soon as she perceived that her companion was asleep, she puts on her own clothes, and made up a great bundle of those of Isidora's, and some of Dom Marcos', which she had slily got out of their chamber, before the over-cautious Signior had locked the door. Having dispatched her business, she went her ways, and, because she had no intention to return ag●●n, she left open the doors of that part of the house where Isidora lived. A while after, Inez awakes, and not finding her companion a-bed with her, she was very desirous to know what should become of her at that time of the night. She harkened a while at Augustine's chamber-door, not without some distrust and jealousy: but not hearing any noise within, she went to search for her in all those places where she conceived she might be, and found her not, but all the doors, through which she had passed, wide open. She went and knocked at that of the new-married couple, and did it with so much noise as put them into a fright. She told them that Marcelia was run away, that she had left the doors open, and she was afraid, that she had carried somewhat with her, whereof she intended not ever to make any restitution. Dom Marcos starts out of bed, as a person out of his wits, ran to look for his clothes, but could not find them, nor Isidora's wedding-gown. But what completed his distraction, was, that, after a light was brought into the room, he found, what he least suspected, his dear spouse of a far different figure, from that, under which he had been so much taken with her; nay, so dreadful was the spectacle, that the narrow-hearted fellow was ready to swoon. The poor Lady sitting up half-asleep, half-awake in her bed, never minded, that her periwig was fallen off. At last, she sees it on the ground, fallen down by the bedside, and, taking it up, would have put it on; but a thing is never well, when it is done with too much precipitation. She put on the dress with that part before which should have been behind, so that her face, which, so betimes in the morning, had not received all its diurnal ornaments, appeared in a very odd posture, and painted as it was, seemed so dreadful to Dom Marcos, that he was afraid it might be some apparition. If he cast his eyes on her, he saw an uncouth monster, and if he looked about the room, he could not see his clothes. Isidora, extremely at a loss, made a shift to perceive that some of her counterfeit teeth were entangled in the long, brushy, and well-bristled moustaches of her husband. She went to retrieve them thence with much confusion; but the poor man, whom she had frightened almost out of himself, imagining she had no reason to put her hands so near his face, out of any other design, than to take him by the throat, or scratch out his eyes, retreated, and shunned her approaches, with so much nimbleness, that she, not admitted to close with him, was at last forced to acknowledge, that his Moustaches had got away some of her teeth. Dom Marcos, upon that, began to stroke them up, and having met with his Wife's teeth, which had sometime been those of an Elephant, an original Inhabitant of afric, or the East-Indies, he flung them at her head with much indignation. She gathered them together, as well those scattered in the Bed, as those about the Room, and made her escape into a little Closet, with that exquisite treasure, and some head-brushes, which she took out of the Bag, where her Night-cloaths were.  
In the mean time, Dom Marcos having sufficiently renounced his Christianity, set himself down in a chair, where he made most sad reflections on the misfortune had befallen him, in marrying a woman, who, by the snows of at least sixty winters, that powdered her shaved pate, had discovered herself to be older than he was, by twenty years, yet not so well stricken in them, but that she might spend the other score in his company, nay, haply more. Augustinetto, who was awaked by the noise, came into the room, with his clothes half off, half on, and did all lay in his power to appease the Husband of his Aunt by adoption: but all the Answer the poor Man could make to his remonstrances, was, to sigh, and sometimes smite his thighs, sometimes his face, with his bare hand. Then was it, that he bethought him of a noble Gold chain he had borrowed, to adorn himself withal on his Wedding-day; but all he had left of it, was that sad remembrance. Marcelia had got it in the bundle of clothes, which she had carried away. He looked up and down for it, with some patience and tranquillity, very diligently searching every cranny about the Chamber: but when he had wearied himself with searching, and was convinced, that it was lost, together with all the pains he had taken to look for it, never was there such a conflict of rage and affliction, as then distracted the poor Dom Marcos. His sighs were so loud, that, if people had been awake, they might have been heard over the whole quarter. Upon those doleful lamentations, Isidora comes out of the closet, but so changed, and so beautiful, that he thought his Wife now the third time metamorphosed. He looked on her with a certain astonishment, and spoke not to her with any indignation. He took out of one of his Trunks the clothes he wore every day, put them on, and, followed by Augustinetto, went out to weary himself in running up and down the streets, after the mischievous Marcelia. They sought, and searched, and enquired, but all to no purpose, till the clock striking twelve minded them of their Dinner, which was made up of what had been left of the Wedding-feast. Dom Marcos and Isidora fell a quarrelling, as people that were desirous to eat, and fed as heartily as people inclining to quarrel. Yet would Isidora now and then put in a word, to pacify Dom Marcos, and to bring him into his former peaceable humour, speaking to him with the greatest humility and mildness imaginable, and Augustinetto did all he could to make an accommodation between them: but the loss of the Chain of Gold was as great a torment to Dom Marcos, as if he had been run through the Body with a Dagger.  
They were ready to rise from the Table, and only stayed for Augustinetto to make an end, who minded his belly more than their difference, when there came into the room two men, from the Admiral of Casteel's Steward, to entreat Madam Isidora, that she would return the Plate he had lent her for fifteen days, and which she had now kept a month. Isidora knew not any other Answer to make them, than that it should be forthcoming. Dom Marcos told them that it was now his, and that he would keep it. One of the men stayed in the room, to be in sight of what they made so much difficulty to restore, while the other went to the Steward, who immediately came, and reproached Isidora with her unhandsome carriage, made little account of the opposition of Dom Marcos, and all he had to say for himself, carried away the Plate, and left the Man and Wife ready to quarrel, upon this new occasion of quarrelling. Their contest was almost brought to an accommodation, when a Broker, accompanied by his Servants, and some Porters, came into the room, and told Isidora, that, since she was richly matched, he came for the Householdstuff she had taken upon hire, together with the Brokage-mony, unless she had a mind to buy them outright, and so spare him the trouble of taking them down.  
This unexpected accident put Dom Marcos out of all patience; he would have beaten the Broker; the Broker made it appear that he was a man as able to return as to receive, and fell a railing at Isidora, who returned him as good as he brought. He beat her; she revenged herself as well as she could, the consequence whereof was, that, in a short time, the floor was strewed with the teeth and hair of Isidora, and the cloak, hat, and gloves of Dom Marcos, who, though he had little reason for it, would needs take his Wife's part.  
While the Combatants gather up the broken pieces of their harness, and the Broker carries away the goods, and is paid for the use of them, as a Broker, and that all together make a noise as if Hell were broke loose, the Landlord of the House, who had Lodgings in some part of it, comes into Isidora's room, and told her, that he would not have such a stir kept in his House, and that if they resolved to continue it, they should look out for another Lodging. How now, you impertinent Coxcomb, says Dom Marcos, do you get out of mine, or I shall send you hence with more expedition than you came hither. The Landlord answered him with a box on the ear; he who had received it, being weary of that kind of engagement, looked about for his Sword or Poniard; but Marcelia had carried them away. Isidora and her pretended Nephew stepped in between them, and appeased the Landlord, but could prevail little with Dom Marcos, who running his head against the walls, called Isidora a thousand damn'd-base-pilfering-impudent-cheating-and-trapanning-Whores. Isidora made him Answer, weeping, that she could not use too much subtlety, to draw in so deserving a Dom Marcos as he was, and therefore he should rather applaud her ingenuity, than beat her, as he had done, adding withal, that a Husband, even in point of honour, was unblamable for beating his Wife. Dom Marcos, swearing very learnedly, protested, that he knew no other point of honour than his Money, and that he would be unmarried. Isidora, with an excessive humility, made a contrary protestation, that she would never consent thereto; swore to Dom Marcos, that it was not in his power to dissolve the sacred tye of a lawful Marriage, and advised him to patience.  
He was once more appeased, and bethought himself, that a new Lodging must be taken, the old one being grown too hot for them. Dom Marcos and the Nephew went out to take one, and so Isidora had a little relaxation. These unexpected accidents raised a little commotion within her, but when she looked about the room, and saw, not the Hangings, for those were gone, but the Trunks well lined with Silver, she took heart, and bore the more patiently the testy disposition of the Husband which brought them thither.  
Dom Marcos took some convenient Lodgings in the same Quarter, where his Master lived, and sent back Augustinetto to dine with his Aunt, being himself, as he said, too much pressed with grief, to eat out of the same Dish with that transcendent Cheat. But in the evening he came to her, with all the day's vexation, and cruel as a Tiger; not so much out of kindness to the Woman, as to visit his Trunks, and, by his presence, to secure them. Isidora entertained him with all the submissions and complacency imaginable; insomuch that they lay together, and passed away the night without any alarms. In the morning, as soon as she was dressed, she had the confidence to desire him, to go to the new Lodgings, there to receive the Goods, which she would order her Nephew and Inez to see brought thither in a Wagon. Dom Marcos went thither, and, while he was contriving how to dispose of them into several rooms, the ungrateful Isidora, the young Rogue Augustine, and the perfidious Inez plotted together, and packed up all the best things in a Wagon, got into it themselves, leave Madrid, and take their way towards Barcelona. Dom Marcos grew weary of staying for them, and went back to his old quarters, where he found the Doors locked, and was told by the Neighbours, that they were gone away with the Goods many hours since. He returned to the place from whence he came, imagining he had missed the Wagon by the way, but found no more than what he had left there. He immediately marches back again, mistrusting what misfortune might have happened to him; he breaks open the Door, and found there, only some old Bedsteeds, Stools, Tables, and Fire-irons, which it seems they thought either too troublesome, or not worth the carrying away. There was no body to be revenged on but himself; his venerable Beard and Hair were the first sufferers for his folly; then his Eyes; he bit his Fingers till the blood gushed out, and had a great temptation to make away with himself; but the hour was not yet come.  
There are not any so unfortunate, but they flatter themselves with some hope: he ran up and down to all the Inns about Madrid, to find out those, who had left him so basely in the lurch, but could not meet with any tidings of them. Isidora had not been so simple as to hire a Wagon that should return thither any more; she had taken it up at a Village not far from Madrid, and, to avoid pursuit, had agreed with the Wagoner, that he should make no longer stay in the City, than were requisite to take in herself, her company, and her goods. Wearier than a Dog, that had run all day after a Hare and mist her, the poor Gentleman was returning from his searching the Inns about the City and Suburbs, when it was his chance, to meet Marcelia full-but in the streets. He laid hold of her, Have I met with thee, O thou most mischievous of all thy Sex, said he, thou shalt now restore all thou hast stolen from me. O my God, my dear Creator, replies the crafty Baggage, without the least discovery of any trouble, how did it always run in my thoughts, that all the mischief would fall upon my head! My dearest Master, be pleased to hear me, for the Blessed Virgin's sake: do but give me the hearing, before your dishonour me. I am an honest Maid, and of good repute, and the least scandal you should force me to give my Neighbour, would be infinitely prejudicial to me, for I am upon the point of marriage. Be pleased to go along with me into the Entry of this House, and afford me but your patient attention for a quarter of an hour, and I will tell you what is become of your Chain, and all you have lost. I had been already informed, that I was charged with all that had passed, and I told my Mistress what it would come to, when she commanded me to do what I accordingly did: but she was Mistress; I, her Servant. Woe is me! How miserable are they whose dependence is upon others, and what pains they take, and what mischief they must sometimes do, to earn a piece of bread.  
Dom Marcos was a person guilty of as little malice as any other; the tears and eloquence of the crafty Marcelia prevailed with him, not only to hearken to her, but also to believe what she said to him. He went therefore along with her into the entry of a great house, where she told him, that Isidora was an old decayed Courtesan, who had ruined all those who were so unhappy as to fall in love with her, yet had not much advantaged herself thereby, by reason of the vast expenses she was at. She further acquainted him with what she had understood from her companion Inez, that Augustin●tto was not Isidora's Nephew, but a kind Night-bird, the Bastard of another Courtesan, of her acquaintance, and that she maintained him, under the notion o● her Nephew, to gain herself the greater authority among those of her own profession, and to revenge her quarrels. She told him, that she had delivered th● gold-chain & the other things she had carried away, to that young Hector, & that it was by his order, she had gone away in the night, and without taking her leave, which was a pure trick put upon her, that she only might be thought guilty of so l●ud an action.  
This plausible story Marcelia told Dom Marcos, out of a hope it might procure her escape out of his hands, or at least to observe the good custom, which most Servants have, to be very apt to lie, and to tell of their Masters, as well what they do not, as wh●t they do, know. She concluded her vindication, with a promise that all things should ●e returned him when he least expected it, exhorting him in the me●n time to exercise his patience. You speak very well, says Dom Marcos to h●r, but I think it as likely, that I shall never see a●y thing again; there being but little probability, that the perfidious Quean, who hath carried away all I have been gathering together these thirty years, should ere come back again to make me any restitution. He thereupon told Marcelia all that had happened at Isidora's lodgings since her departure thence. Is it possible, she should be at such a loss of all conscience, says the lewd Marcelia to him. Ah! my dear Master, now I perceive, it was not without just grounds, that I pitied your condition; but I durst not tell you so much, for the very night your things were carried away, I was representing it my Mistress, that it would be unworthily done, to meddle with your chain; but what bitter words, and blows it cost my poor carcase, he above only knows. I have told thee but the truth, how all things stand, says Dom Marcos to her, fetching a deep sigh, and the worst of it is, that I have not the least apprehension of any remedy. I have then somewhat to propose to you in this extremity, replied Marcelia. There is a certain person in this City, of my acquaintance, who, with God's permission, will tell you where you may find these people, who have so highly injured you. He is a person admirable for his deep learning, and one that hath Legions of Devils at his devotion, and comm●nds them with such an absolute power, as if he were the Prince of darkness himself. And what makes mo●e for the attainment of your desires, you are to know, that this excellent man hath so great a kindness for me, that I am in hopes ere long to be his wife.  
The credulous Dom Marcos entreated her, of all love, that she would bring him to the sight of this miracle of the Black Art; which Marcelia promised she would do, and appointed him to meet her, the next day, at the same place. Dom Marcos came, and had not been there long, ere Marcelia came also, who immediately told the besotted man, that the Magician, of whom she had spoken to him the day before, had already taken some pains, in order to the finding out of what had been stolen from him, and that, to carry on his work, he wanted only a certain quantity of Amber, Musk, and some other Perfumes, to entertain the Spirits he was to invoke, who were all of the first order, and of the best Houses in Hell. Dom Marcos, without any deliberation, carried Marcelia to the Drugster's, and bought what quantities thereof she appointed him, so infinitely did he think himself obliged to her, that she had found him out a Magician. She afterwards conducted him to an obscure house, which looked very suspiciously, where, in a ground-room, or rather a Cellar, wretchedly matted about, he was received, by a man in a long Cassock, with a huge bushy beard, who spoke to him with a great deal of gravity.  
After a little discourse, the Student of the infernal Sciences, whom Dom Marcos looked on with abundance of respect and fear, lighted two black wax-candles, and gave them the frightened fellow to hold, in each hand one; caused him to sit down in a very low chair, and exhorted him, but too late, not to fear any thing. He put afterwards several questions to him, as to his age, course of l●fe, and the goods which had been taken away from him; and after he had looked into a Gl●ss that stood by, and read some time in a certain book, he told Dom Marcos, who was ready to▪— for fear, that he had found out where the things were, and thereupon described them, one after another, so exactly, according to the instructions he had received from Marcelia, that Dom Marcos let the candles fall out of his hands, to go and embrace him about the neck. The grave Magician blamed him very much for his impatience, and told him, that the operations of his infallible Art required a serious and reserved composure of the body, adding withal, that, for actions, of a lower degree of confidence & familiarity, the Spirits had sometimes beaten, nay strangled some men. Dom Marcos grew pale at those words, and settled himself again in his chair, after he had taken up the candles.  
The Magician asked for the perfumes, which Dom Marcos had bought, and the counterfeit Marcelia delivered them to him. Till then, she had been a de●out spectator of the Ceremonies; but, being now upon the point of Invocation, he ordered her to quit the room, pretending that the Spirits could not endure the company of womankind, especially if there were any mistrust of the dilapidation of their Virginity. Marcelia, making a low curtsy, went out of the room, and the Magician taking a copper chaffingdish, full of coals, made as if he c●st on them the perfumes, which Dom Marcos had brought, but he had mixed among them a good quantity of stinking sulphur, which made such a thick smo●k, that the Magician himself, who had unadv●s●dly bowed down his head too near the co●ls, was almost choked by it. He coughed as violently as if he had had a burr in his throat, and so o●ten, that his bushy beard, which was not of the growth of the Country where it was then planted, and it seems had not been well fastened, fell down, and discovered the Magician, to be the same pernicious Gamara, who had trepanned him into all his misfortunes.  
Upon this discovery, Dom Marcos made no difficulty to fling away his magical candles and to take the Impostor by the throat, which he grasped as hard as he could, crying out, with a dreadful voice, Thieves, Thiefs. The Magistrate, attended by some Officers, chanced to pass by just at that time; They came into the house, where they imagined the noise was made, which was the greater, in regard Gamara, whom Dom Marcos still had by the throat, cried out as loud as the other. The Officers, at their entrance into the house, met with Marcelia, whom they secured, and, afterwards, having broke open the door of the Necromantical chamber, they found Dom Marcos and Gamara grappled together, and tumbling up and down the floor. The Magistrate knew Gamara for a person, he had looked after a long time, and one he had order to apprehend as a notorious Nightwalker, a Pander, and a searcher of other men's houses without any Commission. He commanded them all three to prison, and caused an inventory to be taken of all things found in the room. Dom Marcos was set at liberty the next day, upon his Master's engagement for him. He was brought in as a witness against Gamara and Marcelia, who were found guilty of having stolen those goods of his which were named in the Inventory. There were many other things found, some whereof they had stolen, some taken in, as Pawns, for Gamara was a Jew, and consequently a Broker, and an Usurer. When he was taken, he was upon the point of marriage with Marcelia, who brought him, as a portion, besides what she had stolen from Dom Marcos, an inclination to steal, not inferior to that of her future husband; an aptitude to learn any thing he would have taught her, nay to exceed her Tutor, and a body handsome, wholesome, and young enough, to be often bought, often sealed and delivered, and likely to weather out, a long time, all the services and inconveniences of Curtezanism.  
The justness of Dom Marcos' cause, supported by the mediation of his Master, procured him the restitution of all had been stolen from him. Gamara was condemned to the Galleys for the remainder of his life, unless he should outlive ninety-nine years; and Marcelia was ordered to be severely whipped, and banished; and the common opinion was, that they were both very favourably dealt with. As for Dom Marcos, he was not so glad of having recovered some of his things, and being revenged of Gamara and Marcelia, as troubled, that the cheating Rogue was no real Magician. The loss of his ten thousand Crowns made him in a manner distracted. He went every day to visit all the Inns about Madrid, till, at last, he met with certain Mule-drivers, who, returning from Barcelona, told him, that they had met, within four or five days journey of Madrid, a Wagon, loaden with householdstuff, in which there were two women and a young man, and that they were forced to make some stay at an Inn, because two of their Mules had died by the way, through overdriving. They described the man and the two women, so as that Dom Marcos presumed they could be no other than Isidora, Inez, and Augustine. Upon this advertisement, without any further deliberation, he put himself into a Pilgrim's habit, and having got Letters of recommendation from his Master, to the Viceroy of Catalonia, and a Decree out of the Court against his fugitive wife, he took his way towards Barcelona, sometimes a foot, sometimes on Mules, and got thither in a few days.  
He went immediately to the Port, to take up his lodging, and the first thing he saw, as he came into it, was his own Trunks, carried by Porters into a Shallop, and Isidora, Inez, and Augustine marching after them, as a Convoy, to be thence conveyed into a Vessel that lay in the Haven, wherein they were to embark for Naples. Dom Marcos followed his enemies, and went along with them into the Shallop, as fierce as a Lion. They knew him not, by reason of his broad-brimmed Pilgrim's hat, and took him for one going to our Lady's of Loretto, whereas the Mariners received him as one of the same company, because he came in so confidently along with them.  
Dom Marcos, being thus got into the Shallop, could not sit still, by reason of the distraction of his thoughts, not so much out of any reflection what should become of himself, as what should become of his Trunks. In the mean time, the Shallop made towards the Vessel, and with such speed, or rather Dom Marcos was so taken up with what run in his mind, that he was got under the Vessel, ere he thought himself near her. They began to get up the things; which action awakened Dom Marcos out of the Lethargy he was in, which yet was not such, but that he still had his eye on the dearest of his Trunks wherein all his money wa●▪ One of the Mariners came to fasten that Trunk, with ●ome others, to the pulley, to be drawn up into the Vessel. Then it w●s, that Dom Marcos forgot himself; he saw ●he Trunk fastened; though he sat close by, yet was not moved; but seeing it lifted up in the air, he laid hold on it with both hands, by the iron rings, whereby it was removed from one place to another, resolved never to part with it any more. 'Tis possible, he might have had his desire; for what will not a covetous person do, to preserve his money? But, as ill fortune would have it, that Trunk got loose from the other two, which were fastened with it, and falling just upon the head of the unfortunate Miser, who yet would not let go his hold, tumbled him into the Sea, and thence into another place ten times deeper than it. Isidora, Inez, and Augustine knew him, just as he and the Trunk were falling into the water: but the loss of the one put them into a greater trouble, than the revenge they feared from the other. Augustine, enraged to see such a vast sum of money lost, and not able to smother the first eruptions of his fury, gave the Mariner, who had been so negligent in the fastening of the Trunks, a hearty blow over the face. The Mrriner returned it with interest, and prosecuted his revenge so far, till, at l●st, he turned him overboard. As he was falling into the water, he laid hold on the unfortunate Isidora, who could not lay hold on any thing, and so was forced to accompany her dear Nephew, who, much against his will, went to see what was become of Dom Marcos. Inez made a shift to get up into the Vessel, with what was remaining of the goods, which she squandered away in a short time at Naples; and, after she had traded, and lived many years, a Courtesan, she at last died like a Courtesan, that is, in the Hospital.  
FINIS.