SCENE III.—_DIEGO gropes his Way through the Bushes, and starts violently

at meeting the HIGH-PRIEST._

_High-Priest._ Whence come you?—and whither would you go?

_Diego._ Whithersoever chance may conduct a pedestrian.

_High-Priest._ Do you walk for pleasure in such unbeaten ways?

_Diego._ (_Pertly_) Yes.

_High-Priest._ You may probably have mistaken your path?

_Diego._ So it should seem, since I find myself in your way.

_High-Priest._ Are you not Don Alonzo’s attendant?

_Diego._ You are not very wide of the truth.

_High-Priest._ If you be not well acquainted with this wood, you are in great danger of losing yourself. Accompany me, and I will conduct you in a short time into the right path.

_Diego._ (_Assuming an angry tone_) Who told you that I was in the wrong path?—Signor High-Priest, I would have you to know, that neither in Castile nor Arragon, neither in Grenada nor Murcia, no, nor in any other of the countries belonging to my king, by whatsoever name distinguished, has any mother’s son ever been known to excel Diego in valour and virtue.

_High-Priest._ (_smiling_) I readily believe it. And what gives the greater currency to this assurance is, that it is uttered by yourself.

_Diego._ It was forcibly extorted by you, from my modesty.

_High-Priest._ Pardon me!—And now permit me to request an explanation of this riddle?—How can you be wandering at night in so wild a spot as this, and yet be in the right way?—Are you alone, or is your master near?—What is it you want?—for never can I be persuaded that you come hither only for a walk.

_Diego._ (_with hesitation_) Since you press me so closely then—I—must confess—that—I am in love.

_High-Priest._ (_smiling_) You are in love?

_Diego._ (_extravagantly_) Yes, in love to desperation!—I am tortured with jealousy; driven almost to phrenzy!—In the tumult of passion I am now hurried up to the summits of the highest hills, now driven into the lowest recesses of a subterranean cavern,—till at length I have wandered insensibly into this spot, devoted to tender feelings, here to hold solitary intercourse with the mournful turtle-doves.

_High-Priest._ This spot does indeed seem to be selected by the gods, as an asylum for enamoured fools.

_Diego._ Here will I tell of my sorrows to the silent trees!—here breathe out my amorous sighs to the chaste moon!

_High-Priest._ Thou art a coxcomb! (_Exit._)

_Diego._ (_Alone_) A coxcomb!—So much the worse for you Signor!—for if such be the case, the most illustrious High-Priest of the Sun has been made the sport of a coxcomb. Live wit, say I—it will fetch its price in the new world, as well as in the old.—But is he really gone?—Yes.—I hear nothing more!—Hist!—Hist!—(_He goes and looks out at the other side of the stage._)