SCENE V.—_DON JUAN, and DIEGO. Juan looks after Alonzo with Astonishment

and Indignation._

_Diego._ (_After a pause._) Now do I defy any one to assert again, that sound is an empty thing—a nothing. The most reverend Don Juan Velasquez has been for a long time holding such a discourse here as is not delivered every day, even from the pulpit of Salamanca, but the moment that three or four claps are given by a pair of heathenish hands, the wretch for whose benefit this fine oration was intended, loses every beneficial impression, gives them all to the winds, and runs headlong after his own wild inventions.

_Juan._ (_With some asperity_) Farewell my friend! Since thou art resolved on ruin, take thine own course!—Oh madman! madman!—where others only walk he runs, where others enter slowly and only step by step, thither he rushes. Well, well, even if what I have urged prove of no avail, friendship has however discharged its duty—and the worst that can happen is at last to be reduced to suffer with my friend. Till then, be of good heart, Diego!—How dost thou find thyself?

_Diego._ Like a fish upon dry land.

_Juan._ Thou dost not speak truly. When a fool is running on the wrong side of the post, he is in his proper element; and, by Saint George, I think we are running cursedly on the wrong side of the post here.

_Diego._ Only with this difference, that I _must_ do as you _please_—and you are not _pleased_ to do what God and sound reason require of you.

_Juan._ Well, let us hear what your wisdom would suggest.

_Diego._ Were I in the place of the valiant knight Don Juan de Velasquez, in the first place I would deliver a discourse pretty nearly to the same purpose as he has done; but then if that produced no effect, I would say—my dear friend Alonzo, or my dear Don Alonzo, you cannot expect that I should stay to be roasted alive for your sake!—Fare thee well—I shall return home, and take our worthy Diego with me.—We will say over our beads in your behalf.

_Juan._ That may as well be done here.

_Diego._ Here!—on heathen ground!—in view of a heathen temple!

_Juan._ Blockhead!—Our God is every where, and by a firm adherence to the sacred claims of friendship we serve him more acceptably than by saying over a rosary—therefore will I offer no prayers at this moment. I am here as the guardian of my misguided friend.

_Diego._ And pray then in what capacity am I here?

_Juan._ As his attendant, whom he employs to carry his arms.

_Diego._ My presence then, it should seem, is now wholly superfluous, since I am not permitted to appear publickly as such.

_Juan._ Thy part is to obey, not to remonstrate. Go, take this whistle, and steal silently to the left, along the wall that surrounds the Temple, while I go round by the right—we shall by this means meet on the other side; and should you encounter any thing suspicious by the way, make use of the whistle. Here, take it.

_Diego._ (_Trembling as he takes it_) To the left did you say?

_Juan._ Yes, to the left.

_Diego._ And quite alone?

_Juan._ Yes, quite alone.

_Diego._ I am afraid of losing myself among the bushes.

_Juan._ Fool, can you not see the wall, and the cupola of the Temple?

_Diego._ Do you take me for an owl?

_Juan._ Is not the moon bright enough to light thee?

_Diego._ No.

_Juan._ No!—Ha! ha! ha!—Fear seems wholly to have deprived Signor Diego of his senses.

_Diego._ I must beg leave to observe, Sir, that the night is devoted to rest, and even if the man himself be not allowed to sleep, his internal courage, commonly takes the liberty of enjoying a comfortable nap. My fortitude always goes to bed with the sun.

_Juan._ (_Going up to him earnestly_) Friend Diego, we will awaken it with some hearty blows.

_Diego._ (_Shrinking away from him_) Oh it is easily awakened: it does not sleep very soundly.

_Juan._ Go, then, fool!—(_He thrusts him off on one side, and goes off himself on the other._)