A tale whispered and told to children all Spain through. And why should not a statue have power to speak?

Don Juan lived in a city of Castille, lived a godless, reckless life; and as for that matter so did his factotum Leporello. If the don climbed a ladder, Leporello held it; if the don had to be thrashed, Leporello often caught the blows. He might have had a better service, and he frequently complained of the don’s, but he did not leave it till the don had no further need of a factotum.

One night he was watching as usual, and grumbling as usual, “what a life was his, to be harassed day and night, blown by the wind, cut at by the rain, robbed of sleep, and all for what? no wages paid, and half starvation.” For the thousandth time he had resolved to get him a new master, when the noise of footsteps made him discreetly retire.

Next moment where he had been standing, was a woman striving to detain a cavalier, and calling all the time for help.

“Let me go, I say, for thine own sake, let me go.”

“Help, help.”

A quick, heavy step, and a third person was there, an old man, his white hair streaming in the moonlight.

The lady let go her hold, as the new comer ran forward, his sword bravely out before him.

Yet he did not at once fall on this thief coming in the night time. He called on him to defend himself.

Said the other, placing himself, so that the golden braid about him glistened in the moonlight, “Begone, my sword is not crossed with such as yours.”

“Defend yourself, I say.”

“Ah! dotard, if thou bravest me.”

A little sawing of the swords, a click or two, and the white hair is touching the dust.

“Dead, by the rood!” exclaimed the cavalier, wiping his sword. “Here, Leporello, here!”

“Sinner that I am—behold me, master. Thou art not killed—then the old man is?”

“Surely, the old can better be spared than the young.”

“Rare, rare, my master, to break into the chamber of the daughter, and to kill the father, both in one night. Rare, oh! rare.”

“By my faith, he thrust himself upon my sword. Come, let us go. See, torches are flickering near.”

And without fear or hurry, the young don moved away, not swaggeringly, yet audaciously, followed by the trembling Leporello.

Another moment, and the light of torches was gleaming on the face of the dead. The old man’s daughter, Donna Anna, had hastened away for assistance, and returned with it but to find her father slain, the warm blood gurgling out from his heart on to the cold and thirsty ground.

With her was the Don Ottavio, her betrothed, but he was nothing to her in her grief, as she leant over her dead father.

Then came the solitary procession, bearing one dead into his house, who but a little while agone was hale and strong, even in his age.

Meanwhile, the don was forgetting the tragedy.

Even the next evening he was in the streets with Leporello, seeking some new adventures.

“Well, Leporello, and pray what is it thou hast to tell me?”

“It is important—it is grave.”

“Better and better.”

“Now good master, promise not to be wrath.”

“So that it doth not relate to Don Pedro.”

“Unless thou art Don Pedro, it doth not relate to him.”

“Speak out!”

“Verily, thy life is infamous!”

“Rapscallion.”

“And thy promise, good master, thy promise.”

“What! thou darst to suppose I keep promises.”

“To me, yes, of a verity, I’m dumb, I’m dumb.”

“The way to friendship. Now, why am I here?”

“An affair. The name of the damsel, for my list, good master, for the perfectioning of my list.”

“Write her down Venus, for she hath her form. I shall whisper her at the Casino; but tarry a little, here cometh one—whom—”

“In truth my master hath a good eye.”

“At a glance, I see she is handsome.”

“And also she hath a brave eye!”

“Let us retire a little.”

“He hath fired already. O rare.”

Into the shadow they crept (the don dealt largely in shadows.)

’Twas a Spanish beauty, and a pensive beauty, who came slowly along.

“Lepo, ’tis a damsel who hath need of condolement.”

“He hath condoled with many of them, this master of mine.”

“Senorita, Senorita. Heaven!”

“Ha! ’tis Donna Elvira; O rare—rare.”

“’Tis you, Don Juan—monster, robber!”

“’Tis an old acquaintance, as one shall read by the tongue.”

“Donna! quiet, quiet (what misfortune); if thou wilt not believe me, thou’lt believe this worthy gentleman.”

“In faith! that’s Leporello—”

“He’ll tell thee all; I pray thee turn to him.”

And the lady doing so, the don took advantage of the shadow, and was off anywhere.

“Well, villain, speak!”

“In faith, good lady, it may be declared, seeing the world we live in, that a square is ne’er a round, or equally a round a square; and yet—”

“Cease, scrub; and thou, Don Juan—gone! The monster hath gone! Which way?”

“Ah! marry, which way! though wherefore shouldst thou care; he is not worth the kindness of so considerable a lady.”

“Ah, he leaves me!”

“By your leave, lady, ’tis not the first lady he hath fled from. Have I not here a book, which hath weight in it, I warrant thee; and if it be not filled with the names of the ladies he hath fled from, with the particulars of their birth, parentage, and residences, the evil one hath played false with my handwriting, or some good angel hath, in pity to my master, wiped out the faithful record. See now, in Italy he flies me six hundred and forty; in Germany, he hath ruined two hundred and thirty-one; one hundred in France; thou shalt repeat me that number for Turkey; but here in Spain he hath destroyed the peace of one thousand and three.”

Here the serving man dutifully followed his master into shadow, and scudded away harder and harder when he heard the pattering of little feet behind him.

CHAPTER II.

Little Zerlina was a little country maiden, as happy as the sun was bright, and as fond of Masetto as the bee of sweet flowers.

As for Masetto, he loved Zerlina as honest natives do love, with his whole heart, and he thought nobody equal to Zerlina.

And that day was come when Zerlina and Masetto were to be nobody’s business, and more, and were to be all in all to each other for life; they were going to be married.

The country folk were blythe and happy, and full of the wedding, chatting, laughing, and wishing the bride and bridegroom happy, when a grand Don, accompanied by his servant, for he walked behind, caused the prattle to die away into silence.

“I’faith, pretty creatures! a marriage, good friends? Nay, go on with your sports—go on.”

“Yes, good my lord, and I am the bride.”

“A lovely bride! And who’s the bridegroom?”

“So please you, at your service, here, I call myself Masetto.”

“Spoken bravely!”

“O rare! he hath the build of a husband, hath he not?”

Here the little bride, who was a little vain, and who rather plumed herself upon talking to a grandee, said, “Masetto hath an excellent heart.”

“And also have I, so we should be friends; and, prythee, what do they call thee?”

“Zerlina, so please you.”

“And so please you, I call myself Masetto.”

For truth to tell, the little rustic was growing jealous.

“And you two are to be married. Well, well; I do offer you my protection, aye, and my house. Leporello, show these good people to my house, give them what they will; and for the bridegroom, he is the guest of honor, Leporello—pay, if thou valuest whole bones, excellent attention to the bridegroom.”

“I seize thee, master, I seize thee.” Thus the man, speaking softly to the master. Then the man said to the lucky bridegroom: “So please you, walk by me. And all you rustics, follow heartily.”

“But, good sir, Zerlina must come with me.”

“’Tis not etiquette that thou shouldst be bound to her side. Good friend, come walk by me. The Senor himself will care for her right heartily. So please thee, walk walk.”

“Oh! be not afraid, Masetto, the senor will guard me.”

“But!—but!—”

“Verily, friend Masetto, thou art little better than a curmudgeon. Walk, I say, walk.”

“Dost thou not breathe more lightly, Zerlina?”

“Wherefore, Senor?”

“That the clown hath gone.”

“Nay—he hath my love!”

“A king should have thy love; those pretty lips, those eyes, those little fingers, were not made for clowns.”

“Nay—but I love him!”

“And I love thee. A poor home, and a poor husband—is this thy lot? See away there, ’tis my house, ’tis my palace. I love thee, I love thee. Wilt thou be my wife, Zerlina?”

“Wife, Senor, thy wife?”

“Choose between us, Masetto or Don Juan.”

“I—I, then, a great lady. Yet, Masetto.”

“Come my love, come, my love.”

But the don started and turned pale, for as he made a step forward with the simple little Zerlina, there was standing Donna Elvira.

“Thou seest,” he said rapidly, before she could speak, “I am but toying with her simplicity, I mean no harm.”

“No harm, Don Juan, thou art destruction.”

“Nay, believe her not, charming Zerlina, ’tis a poor forlorn creature, who followeth me because I cannot love her. Well, if she will not quit me, I will her;” and lightly he ran away.

She pitied him, did the donna, nay she still loved him somewhat; but for all that, she warned Zerlina of him and went away with that simple little maiden, hand in hand.

Barely had they left the spot, than Don Juan was upon it again, for he had determined upon keeping the little village maiden in view. But barely had he returned to the spot than he was accosted by one whom he would fain have not seen, Don Ottavio, the cavalier of Donna Anna.

The don was not easily abashed, so he came lightly to Ottavio’s side, but he thought to himself that this was one of his unlucky days.

“This meeting is fortunate, Don Juan, if thou hast a generous heart.”

“I hope for thy sake and mine own, that I have.”

“For we have need of thy friendship.”

“I breathe again,” thought the don, who, brave as he was, had trembled in meeting the injured lady, Donna Anna. “Command me,” he said aloud, “my arms are thine, if ’tis a question of arms. But Donna Anna, why these tears?”

“Do not hear him,” said a voice; and the three turning, saw Donna Elvira, who had determined to keep Juan in view; “do not hear him, he hath destroyed me.”

“Pardon her Ottavio, and you, Donna Anna, she is a poor deranged lady; leave her to me.”

“Do not believe him!”

“Poor lady! You see!”

“Do not believe him!”

Donna Anna and Ottavio seemed puzzled by this meeting. The lady seemed sane, and yet Don Juan was a man of probity, said all the world.

He bade her be still; but she called out more loudly than before, that he was her destroyer; and as she changed color, and struck her foot upon the ground, Ottavio and Anna shook their heads as though deploring her.

Whereon, the poor lady seeing their error, turned from them, and walked away quickly.

The don took advantage of this incident to rid himself of the terrible company of Ottavio and Anna, and so saying that for her dear sake he would follow her, he fled away; not marking the terrified start that Donna Anna gave as he turned from her.

“Dear Anna, how pale thou art! What has happened?”

“I dare not say, and yet I dare not be silent.”

“Speak! speak!”

“As I live—as I live, Ottavio, Don Juan killed my father.”

“What sayest thou?”

“I am sure; I am sure. The tones of the last words he spoke—the very words themselves. Ottavio, as I live he killed my father; ’twas he who entered my room; whom I held, whom I followed, who turned and killed my father! I ask of thee that vengeance that is just, Ottavio. Be but sure, and then act; thy arm shall be strengthened to thy work by my love—by the memory of my bleeding father! Come, come!”

Barely had the couple left the spot, than Leporello and his master were upon it.

“If I fly him not, the foul fiend will have me!”

“Well my little Leporello? All well?”

“No, little Don Juan; on the other side, all ill.”

“Wherefore ill?”

“Wherefore? marry, because ’tis. Have I taken them all to thy house? Yes have I. Have I spoken lies and flattery in thy service, that I am lost for ever? Yes have I. Have I beguiled Masetto till he is a very fool? The tempter knoweth that I have. The men I have set drinking, the women idem (as the lawyers have it), when, who cometh, if not my little Zerlina? And who with our little Zerlina, if not Madame Elvira, who prythee? She should be laid, master; she should be laid like a vexed spirit. And she hath abused me; my faith! hath she abused me—hath she laid about her uncivilly touching me!”

“And what saidst thou?”

“Marry, the best thing I could say ... nothing. But when she hath worn herself silent, and when she is, if I may thus say it, so to speak, melting in tears, I take me her hand, direct her to the street, and there do I most gingerly leave her.”

“Then, she being gone, I may be there. Now, my Leporello, wine, wine; bring us plenty of wine, for ’tis the persuader which smoothens my road wonderfully.”

And, taking the factotum by the arm, he pushed him along before him.

CHAPTER III.

“But Masetto, dear Masetto.”

“Get thee gone. What! thou wouldst caress me, thou false Zerlina!”

“But I love thee.”

“Then hast thou a marvellous queer way of showing it. Thou dost bemean me. Thou dost make fingers to point at me, and then, forsooth, thou dost say ‘I love thee.’ Pish! for pure modesty’s sake I cry ‘shame.’”

“But I love thee. He did deceive me. See, if thou lovest me not, thou dost kill me. Wherefore turnest thou from me? I love thee, I love thee.”

“Thou art encompassed with immodesty.”

“Beat me, beat me, thy Zerlina, here she stands, beat me; and I’ll kiss thy hands quite meekly. Beat me, beat me, but forgive me, for I love thee, dear Masetto.”

“Thou hast the power of the evil one to overthrow me. Truly, man is weak.”

“Beat me, beat me. Masetto, here’s the don.”

“Let him approach. I defy him.”

“I fain would hide myself.”

“And, marry, I fain thou shouldst not. Ho, ho—she fears I shall learn secrets; ho, ho, ho, thou art falsity. I will hide myself.”

“Nay, if he find thee, he will beat thee, as thou wattest not of.”

“Let him fear me, my arm is strong.”

“’Tis hopeless to speak to him.” This she said softly.

“Speak loudly, untruthful woman, speak honestly loud. (I have mine ideas, yes, Masetto, I have mine ideas.)”

And he hid behind a tree.

Said the little woman to herself, “he hath a wry mind, Masetto;” and then she ran to hiding herself, as she saw the don approach, accompanied by several peasants.

He dismissed those people immediately, and then called out “Zerlina, come thou here.”

“So please you, let me go.”

“My angel, I love thee too well.”

“So please you, if thou art merciful, let me go.”

“Masetto, come thou here also.”

“My faith, he hath marked me,” said the rustic, and came forward sheepishly.

“Thy Zerlina is unhappy when thou art not near her, why dost leave her? come, be merry, I will go with you and be merry with you,” and he walked away between them, and entered his house with them.

Nor did he see three masked persons following him. Donna Anna, Donna Elvira, and Don Ottavio. They were following him, marking him, bringing home his guilt to him.

Suddenly Leporello passing a window of the house within, saw the masks and called out, “O rare, my master, here is fit company for thee, my master; here are ladies, and of a quality! What sayest thou, invite them in. Aye, marry, will I. Masks, list, fair masks; my master greets ye, and prays ye enter; ye shall find good entertainment.”

Still watching him, still tracing the crime to him, they entered the house of the murderer.

CHAPTER IV.

In the house of the don itself, the rustic feast, which he had improvised, was going on—

“Pray ye, Senors, drink; I, Leporello, who talk to ye, will sip chocolate, but ye shall take what ye will—sherbet, sweetmeats, as you like it—as you like it.”

“My lovely Zerlina, thou charmest me.”

“Thou art very kind Senor!”

“My faith,” said Masetto, “she is as a fine lady!”

“Oh! rare, I love ye all, ye charmers.”

“If thou touchest her, Senor Leporello, I will touch thee,” exclaimed Masetto, who saw the factotum eyeing the simple, charming Zerlina.

“Methinks he’s fallen out with me again,” said the simple Zerlina to herself.

“Of a verity, I shall go distraught,” said Masetto.

Here the masks entered.

The don bowed to them, then called out to the musicians, and went gaily up to Zerlina.

“That—that is the poor country girl,” said one of the masks, in a low tone: and the three drew together.

“Verily, I tell thee, nor will I dance myself nor shall she dance: I love not these pousettings.”

“Verily, and I tell thee, Masetto, thou art a rare fool, a fool such as the world hath never seen. Be merry, I say be merry; nay, thou shalt be merry.”

And the man of stratagem playfully thrust about the uneasy rustic, while the master led away the young girl. Then the dancing began, and soon the don had thrust Zerlina into a closet, unperceived, he hoped, but fully marked by the eyes under the masks.

At once they ran towards the door, as the girl called out loudly, “Help! help!”

“Verily, ’tis her own voice—help me, masters, help!”

Here the don entered by another door, and, sword in hand, fell upon the luckless Leporello. “What, thou wicked servant, thou destroyer, wouldst thou, in thy master’s house, send thyself to perdition? Ho, ho! thou shalt die.”

The simple folk were inclined to believe the don, and would have fallen upon the servant, who cried under his breath, “’Tis the fiend himself.”

But the wearers of the masks showed their faces—Don Ottavio, Donna Anna, and Donna Elvira.

And they unmasked him, too, for they pointed to him as the ravisher.

Then they threatened him, stood about him with angry glances. Nearer and nearer they came, and as though approving them, the thunder muttered high in the air.

But he was fearless; on heaven, or earth, or both, he cared not. Like a baffled tiger, he flew at his enemies, cut his way through them, and was saved.

CHAPTER V.

“I tell thee, master, ’twere death to stay with thee.”

“Then thou hadst best depart.”

“Verily will I, and quickly.”

“Yet why desert me, thy old master?”

“What ho! thou beatest me, thou dost threaten to kill me; am I kicked, am I cuffed? Wherefore is it that I am kicked and cuffed? Now, tell me that, master?”

“Le-po-rel-lo!”

“So, my master—”

“What! shall we not be friends again? I say, yes. Ope thy hand.”

“How much?”

“Four pistoles, Le-po-rel-lo.”

“Good! rare! but I tell thee, that if thou thinkest a man of my mettle is to be bought with dirty gold, as thou wouldst buy of the weaker sex, thou thinkest mainly wrong, my master.”

“Nay, drop thy hand, there be no more pistoles.”

“Avaunt! the gold; but if I stay by thee, thou wilt promise to abandon women?”

“Aye, aye!”

“Nay, dost thou not harm them?”

“I, who love them all! Is not he cruel to all who loveth but one? I do abhor cruelty, therefore do I love all women. And yet are there women who stand by thy metaphysics, and call this love of mine perfidy.”

“If thy love is benevolence, which is charity, then art thou saved, and art sure of a cool heaven.”

“But thou didst never see so sweet a woman. And I had thy dress?”

“Marry, is she so sweet that she loveth a patched jerkin?”

“Her mistress is not a patch upon her; and her mistress is Donna Elvira.”

“What! wouldst make the maid weep also?”

“I would rather the maid wept than Leporello. See, ’tis the house, and behold Elvira at the window. I will speak to her—Elvira! dear Elvira!”

“Who speaketh? Methinks ’tis the voice of the perjured Don Juan!”

“’Tis Juan, who prays thee to forgive him.”

“My faith! Of a verity I believe she will trust him. O rare! O rare!”

“Thou art a traitor, Juan.”

“Nay, descend, love, that I may kiss thy tears away.”

“Methinks, I shall very fairly crack with laughing. This is good. This is good, rare.”

“Dear Elvira, come to me, come to me.”

“She yieldeth now. By my faith, I would I had such a deft tongue i’ my head. She hath left the window.”

“Friend Leporello, dost thou not admire me?”

“Master, if thou comest not from heaven, of a surety I know thy cradle—’tis below, master, ’tis below!”

“Now remember thee of this. When she cometh out, smother her in thy arms. Speak as I speak, yet not fine like a woman. Then deftly discourse her away.”

“Good. But if she find me out?”

“Then hadst thou best scarify thyself.”

“Good. My faith, a pretty posture mine. I will leave this master. I will leave him.”

Here the luckless lady came from the house.

“Nay Juan, did I ever think my sorrow would melt thy heart. Thou dost, then, repent thee of thy desertion?”

“Aye, do I.”

“I have sighed as the south wind sigheth all the long night through.”

“Eugh.”

“But thou wilt never leave me again.”

“Angel, never.”

“Thou wilt forever be mine.”

“Eugh.”

“And thou wilt never deceive me again?”

“Ne—e—ver.”

“Thou wilt swear.”

“I swear by this kiss upon thy hand.”

“Ha! ha! ho! the guard, the guard.” Thus cried Don Juan, while the unfortunate lady ran quickly away.

The don was about to enter at the open door, when he stopped suddenly, as he saw Masetto come stealthily along, accompanied by some friends. For the young Zerlina’s sake he was interested.

“Now, who goeth there?”

“A friend; my faith, ’tis Masetto. Ah, Masetto! What, knowest thou me not?”

“Why, thou art the very foul one’s servant!”

“Don Juan’s; ah, ’tis a base man, Masetto; a base man. I have left him for a godly service.”

“Truly? But canst thou tell me where I shall find him, for we would fain cudgel him to death?”

“Good. I will help you, my master, to punish this sinner unparalleled. He is near at hand, my masters, and making love, for he hath a rare habit of making love. Go you—all. I and Masetto will follow you.”

So the peasants went off stealthily on their toes, each hoping to have a hand in towelling the don.

“So, Masetto, thou wilt cudgel him to the death.”

“To the very death; good.”

“Wouldst not be satisfied with a few broken bones?”

“Talk not to me of broken bones only, he shall soon know of no bones, marry.”

“Thou’rt well armed, friend?”

“A cudgel, sir, i’faith such as shall make a broad-chested man fly before thee; feel not its weight. Oh, oh. My head, mercy o’ my head. My back, wouldst twitter my back to a jelly? Marry, now, ’twas an awful thwack to the elbow; help, oh, oh. See what ’tis to trust people. Help!”

Here the don finding his vicious arm quite weak, stole away in the dark, each of Masetto’s “helps” growing fainter and fainter.

Now little Zerlina had followed her rustic afar off, and when she heard his yells, she came with quite a run to his side. Arrived there, she saw no one near him; but he was still yelling, and rubbing all of his back he could get at.

“Masetto, Masetto, what hast thou?”

“By my faith, what have I not? I am beaten to a jelly!”

“Who hath beaten thee?”

“A man of a foul tongue and a strong arm.”

“Where is he?”

“I know not, but that he is gone. Why art thou here? Oh, gadabout, why art thou here?”

“Thou art jealous again.”

“Why art thou here? Now answer me that, straightly and purely.”

“Thou shalt see, O dearest, what my answer is. For a reason that no money could purchase nor art wrest from me—that thou mightst lay thy hand—thy hand here on my heart.”

Whereon the jealous young rustic marched home appeased.

CHAPTER VI.

The worthy servant and the worthy master were once more together; they met in the cemetery.

The don was wondering how his servant had managed with the Donna Elvira, when that valuable factotum ran up against his master.

“This master will destroy me.”

“What! dost ruffle with thy master?

“Yes, I say again—would I had never known this master.”

“What, rapscallion!”

“I tell thee I have rarely escaped a murdering business and I love not blood, my master; no, I love not blood.”

“’Twould be an honor to lose blood for thy master’s sake.”

“Faith! I would sooner keep it for mine own.”

“Come, I have rare adventures to tell thee.”

“Good master, tell them me at home; but, master, what devilment brings thee here?”

“I have had a wondrous adventure.”

“The poor woman!”

“I met her in the street. Thou may’st guess, I briskly went to her. Take her by the hand, do I? Aye, yes. When, thou dog, whom, thinkest thou, she took me for? Thyself was it? Yes, then.”

“For me! then, master, that woman hath abused herself in this, for I will have nought to do with the sex.”

“But, faith! she soon finds I am not Leporello, and then doth she yell so as to wake the happiest sleepers. I’ faith! I leapt over the wall, and here am I. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Good! rare! my master. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Before the dawn this mirth shall die!”

“Who speaketh?”

“Master as I tremble—and I would not say I do not tremble; for as I have a soul, I tremble vastly—’tis some spirit from the other world who knows thee better even than I do.”

“Peace, fool! Who speaketh?”

“Man weighed down with crime, depart from amidst the holy dead.”

“Did I not say ’twas a spirit, master? A very gentle spirit, most assuredly.”

“’Tis some one without the wall, who would affright us. But, prythee, is not that the statue of Don Pedro? By my faith, ’tis the statue of Don Pedro! Read the inscription.”

“I pray thee spare me. My eyes are not diligent in the moonlight.”

“Read, Leporello, read.”

“Yes, master, yes. As I do spell it, it says, ‘Patiently here I await vengeance on my destroyer.’”

“Master, good master, if thou upholdest me not, I fall.”

“Bid him to supper. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Preserve us, ye saints, how he frowneth. Master, he hath life. He will speak. I would I were conveniently away from here. Master, why dost thou not look at the statue?”

“’Tis not handsome. Now, thou cur, obey me!”

“Softly, good master. This is woeful, this is woeful. So please you, gentle statue; nay, I cannot proceed. I have my heart in my mouth. I would I were at home, this master will most completely destroy me.”

“If thou dost hesitate, I will warm this dagger in thy coward’s heart. Now, proceed.”

And he again laughed, still not turning his face to the statue.

“So please you, gentle statue, for I advise me thou art gentle, if thou art stonely—he hath turned his eyes on us: mercy, he hath remarked us.”

“What, thou wilt die, recreant?”

“Master, laugh not. So thou hast thy choice of death, Leporello—’tis more than many a sinner; either by fear or by steel thou fallest. Well, well, if I love blood, I know not my likings. Good, master, good. Most gentle of statues, my master, and I—prythee, mark well, ’tis my master, and not I, good statue. Oh Lord! he hath up and downed his head.”

“Thou art but a pudding, friend Leporello.”

“Granted, I am what I am, yet look, master.”

“And wherefore?”

“The statue, which with his stony head goeth thus, up and down, up and down!”

Then suddenly the don turned and looked for the first time at the statue.

“Tell me, statue, wilt thou sup with me?”

“Yes.”

The don started, but his courage was equal to his crimes, so he laughingly bade his servant come and prepare the meal.

“Anywhere and anything, my good master, so that we go from this place. Methinks I am half dead.”

And the servant kept pretty close to his master’s heels till they had quitted the cemetery and the awful speaking statue.

CHAPTER VII.

The supper was laid, the don seated. He had forgotten his guest. He sat lightly at table, leaning back in a great crimson chair, and chattering gaily to his servant and friend.

“Leporello, I shall eat a supper as large as thy eyes when thou art frightened.”

“Rare, master, rare.”

“This is a good dish, Leporello.”

“My faith, but I would e’en eat of it too. I would he would ask me.”

“Another plate, good Leporello. Pour out some wine, Leporello.”

“Verily, if I do not eat, I shall fail in my strength. Faith, I will steal, ’tis not much more on my conscience.”

“Leporello, my friend, whistle.”

“He fain would stay my eating.”

“Marry, how doth a man whistle, master?”

“Not with his mouth full.”

“Master, lay it down that ’tis no fault of mine. The cook is too good; he is a tempter.”

Here there sounded a terrible tramp which shook the mansion.

“Preserve us, saints; what is that my master?”

Again the awful sound broke over the house.

“’Tis a wondrous uncouth noise, Leporello!”

Again the sound came, like the footsteps of an iron-shod giant.

“Go thou to the door.”

Yet once more the footsteps sounded. Nearer now.

The servant ran from the room and then came staggering back, shutting the folding doors after him, as though for safety.

“Help, master! help! methinks I am dying!”

Yet once more the sound was heard. Then a summons at the door of the room called the don’s attention.

“Leporello, some one knocketh—open.”

Still this man’s courage held good. Surely he was as courageous as wicked.

“Open the door, I say.”

“Nay, master, I cannot move.”

“Then must I.”

And he went to the door, and opened it. There stood the white statue of the murdered Don Pedro. Implacable, destructive.

“Don Juan, thou didst invite me to thy supper; behold thy guest!”

Still mighty in his courage at least.

“I did not expect thee. Leporello, fresh dishes.”

“Master, master, we are lost!”

“My presence here is that I may speak with thee!”

“Thou art polite.”

“Thou hast invited me to thy table—wilt thou be my guest?”

Here the first evidence of fear showed itself, in nervously tearing a candle from its socket and quickly walking round the visitor. As he ended that tour, he trembled, and the wax-light fell from his hand.

But he suddenly seemed to find fresh courage, and he flung himself easily into a chair.

“Wilt thou be my guest?”

“By the rood, master, say thou we are engaged.”

“I will come with thee; I will be thy guest. I never yet feared; I never will.”

“Then thou acceptest?”

“Good master, if you love me, say no. This master of mine will surely destroy me.”

“I say I will be thy guest.”

“Thy hand upon it.”

“Behold it!”

Then he trembled again, for as he touched the hand the chill of death crept through him.

“Repent, amend thy life, or die!”

This was a threat, so it renewed all his fatal courage.

“I will not repent; I will not amend my life! Let me die, then!”

“Repent, I say, amend thy life, or thou shalt surely die!”

“No, no, no!”

“Thy time has past—’tis too late to hope—die!”

“What is this sudden fear which weighs me down? Lost, lost! I see the flames rising to me. Lost, lost!”

So, if we repent not we shall surely die.