wn with the best face he could
put on it. But from the mockery and laughter of all who heard him, 'twas
plain to see they would not believe a word of his story.

"What would you have me do now?" asks the Don, turning to us when the
clamour had subsided, and he told us how he had tried to persuade them
we were dancers he was taking for a show to the fair at Barcelona, which
they, by our looks, would not believe, and especially that a man of such
build as Jack Dawson could foot it, even to please such heavy people as
the English.

"What!" cries Jack. "I can't dance! We will pretty soon put them to
another complexion if they do but give us space and a fair trial. You
can strum a guitar, Kit, for I've heard you. And Moll, my chick, do you
dash the tears from your cheek and pluck up courage to show these
Portugals what an English lass can do."

The brigands agreeing to this trial, the table is shoved back to give us
a space in the best light, and our judges seat themselves conveniently.
Moll brushes her eyes (to a little murmur of sympathy, as I thought),
and I, striking out the tune, Jack, with all the magnificence of a king,
takes her hand and leads her out to a French pavan; and sure no one in
the world ever stepped it more gracefully than our poor little Moll (now
put upon her mettle), nor more lightly than Dawson, so that every rascal
in our audience was won to admiration, clapping hands and shouting
"Hola!" when it was done. And this warming us, we gave 'em next an
Italian coranto, and after that, an English pillow dance; and, in good
faith, had they all been our dearest friends, these dirty fellows could
not have gone more mad with delight. And then Moll and her father
sitting down to fetch their breath, a dispute arose among the brigands
which we were at a loss to understand, until Don Sanchez explained that
a certain number would have it we were real dancers, but that another
party, with Don Lopez, maintained these were but court dances, which
only proved the more we were of high quality to be thus accomplished.

"We'll convince 'em yet, Moll, with a pox of their doubts," cries
Dawson, starting to his feet again. "Tell 'em we will give 'em a stage
dance of a nymph and a wild man, Senor, with an excuse for our having no
costume but this. Play us our pastoral, Kit. And sing you your ditty of
'Broken Heart,' Moll, in the right place, that I may get my wind for the
last caper."

Moll nods, and with ready wit takes