SCENE I.—_Country near Zalamea.

_Enter REBOLLEDO, CHISPA, and Soldiers._

_Reb._ Confound, say I, these forced marches from place to place, without halt or bait; what say you, friends?

_All._ Amen!

_Reb._ To be trailed over the country like a pack of gipsies, after a little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh?

_1st Soldier._ Rebolledo’s off!

_Reb._ And that infernal drum which has at last been good enough to stop a moment stunning us.

_2nd Sold._ Come, come, Rebolledo, don’t storm: we shall soon be at Zalamea.

_Reb._ And where will be the good of that if I’m dead before I get there? And if not, ’twill only be from bad to worse: for if we all reach the place alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to persuade the Commissary we had better march on to the next town. At first Mr. Commissary replies very virtuously, ‘Impossible! the men are fagged to death.’ But after a little pocket persuasion, then it’s all ‘Gentlemen, I’m very sorry: but orders have come for us to march forward, and immediately’—and away we have to trot, foot weary, dust bedraggled, and starved as we are. Well, I swear if I do get alive to Zalamea to-day, I’ll not leave it on this side o’ sun-rise for love, lash, or money. It won’t be the first time in my life I’ve given ’em the slip.

_1st Sold._ Nor the first time a poor fellow has had the slip given him for doing so. And more likely than ever now that Don Lope de Figueroa has taken the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a devil of a Tartar, who’ll have every inch of duty done, or take the change out of his own son, without waiting for trial either.[9]

_Reb._ Listen to this now, gentlemen! By Heaven, I’ll be beforehand with him.

_2nd Sold._ Come, come, a soldier shouldn’t talk so.

_Reb._ I tell you it isn’t for myself I care so much, as for this poor little thing that follows me.

_Chis._ Signor Rebolledo, don’t you fret about me; you know I was born with a beard on my heart if not on my chin, if ever girl was; and your fearing for me is as bad as if I was afeard myself. Why, when I came along with you I made up my mind to hardship and danger for honour’s sake; else if I’d wanted to live in clover, I never should have left the Alderman who kept such a table as all Aldermen don’t, I promise you. Well, what’s the odds? I chose to leave him and follow the drum, and here I am, and if I don’t flinch, why should you?

_Reb._ ’Fore Heaven, you’re the crown of womankind!

_Soldiers._ So she is, so she is, Viva la Chispa!

_Reb._ And so she is, and one cheer more for her, hurrah! especially if she’ll give us a song to lighten the way.

_Chis._ The castanet shall answer for me.

_Reb._ I’ll join in—and do you, comrades, bear a hand in the chorus.

_Soldiers._ Fire away!

_Chispa sings._

I.

Titiri tiri, marching is weary, Weary, weary, and long is the way: Titiri tiri, hither, my deary, What meat have you got for the soldier to-day? ‘Meat have I none, my merry men,’ Titiri tiri, then kill the old hen. ‘Alas and a day! the old hen is dead!’ Then give us a cake from the oven instead, Titiri titiri titiri tiri, Give us a cake from the oven instead.

II.

Admiral, admiral, where have you been-a? ‘I’ve been fighting where the waves roar.’ Ensign, ensign, what have you seen-a? ‘Glory and honour and gunshot galore; Fighting the Moors in column and line, Poor fellows, they never hurt me or mine— Titiri titiri titiri tina’—

_1st Sold._ Look, look, comrades—what between singing and grumbling we never noticed yonder church among the trees.

_Reb._ Is that Zalamea?

_Chis._ Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hurrah! we’ll finish the song when we get into quarters, or have another as good; for you know I have ’em of all sorts and sizes.

_Reb._ Halt a moment, here’s the sergeant.

_2nd Sold._ And the captain too.

_Enter Captain and Sergeant._

_Capt._ Good news, gentlemen, no more marching for to-day at least; we halt at Zalamea till Don Lope joins with the rest of the regiment from Llerena. So who knows but you may have a several days’ rest here?

_Reb. and Solds._ Huzzah for our captain!

_Capt._ Your quarters are ready, and the Commissary will give every one his billet on marching in.

_Chis._ (_singing_). Now then for

Titiri tiri, hither, my deary, Heat the oven and kill the old hen.

[_Exit with Soldiers._

_Capt._ Well, Mr. Sergeant, have you my billet?

_Serg._ Yes, sir.

_Capt._ And where am I to put up?

_Serg._ With the richest man in Zalamea, a farmer, as proud as Lucifer’s heir-apparent.

_Capt._ Ah, the old story of an upstart.

_Serg._ However, sir, you have the best quarters in the place, including his daughter, who is, they say, the prettiest woman in Zalamea.

_Capt._ Pooh! a pretty peasant! splay hands and feet.

_Serg._ Shame! shame!

_Capt._ Isn’t it true, puppy?

_Serg._ What would a man on march have better than a pretty country lass to toy with?

_Capt._ Well, I never saw one I cared for, even on march. I can’t call a woman a woman unless she’s clean about the hands and fetlocks, and otherwise well appointed—a lady in short.

_Serg._ Well, any one for me who’ll let me kiss her. Come, sir, let us be going, for if you won’t be at her, I will.

_Capt._ Look, look, yonder!

_Serg._ Why, it must be Don Quixote himself with his very Rosinante too, that Michel Cervantes writes of.

_Capt._ And his Sancho at his side. Well, carry you my kit on before to quarters, and then come and tell me when all’s ready.

[_Exeunt._