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“Now, Señor Governor,” the young man responded with great charm, “let’s use our reason and come to the point. Suppose, your grace, that you order me taken to prison, and there I’m put in irons and chains, and placed in a cell, and the warden will suffer great penalties if he lets me out, and he obeys every order you give him; even so, if I don’t want to sleep, and stay awake the whole night without closing my eyes, is all your grace’s power enough to make me sleep if I don’t want to?”

“No, of course not,” said the secretary, “and the man has proven his point.”

“Which means,” said Sancho, “that you wouldn’t sleep simply because it’s your will not to, not because you want to go against mine.”

“No, Señor,” said the young man, “I wouldn’t dream of that.”

“Well then,” said Sancho, “go with God back to your house to sleep, and may God give you a sound sleep, for I don’t want to rob you of that, but I do advise that from now on you don’t mock the law because you may come across a constable who’ll take the joke out of your hide.”

The young man left, and the governor continued on his patrol, and in a little while two constables came along holding a man, and they said:

“Señor Governor, this person who looks like a man isn’t one, she’s a woman, and not an ugly one, and she’s dressed in men’s clothes.”

They raised two or three lanterns up to her eyes, and in their light they saw the face of a woman who seemed to be sixteen years old, or perhaps a little older, with her hair caught up in a net of gold-and-green silk, and as beautiful as a thousand pearls. They looked at her from head to toe and saw that she was wearing stockings of scarlet silk, with garters of white taffeta edged in gold and seed pearls; her breeches were green, made of cloth of gold, as was her jacket or loose coat, under which she wore a doublet of a very fine gold-and-white cloth, and her men’s shoes were white. On her belt she did not wear a sword but a richly decorated dagger, and on her fingers there were many precious rings. In short, everyone thought the girl was lovely, and no one recognized her, and the residents of the village said they could not think who she might be, and those who were privy to the tricks that were to be played on Sancho were the ones who were most bewildered, because they had not arranged this incident and discovery, and so they were in doubt, waiting to see how the matter would turn out.

Sancho was amazed at the girl’s beauty, and he asked her who she was, where she was going, and what had moved her to dress in those clothes. She, her eyes lowered in modesty and shame, responded:

“I cannot, Señor, say publicly what it has been so important for me to keep secret, but I want one thing understood: I am not a thief or a wicked person, but an unfortunate maiden forced by the power of jealousy to break with the decorum owed to modesty.”

Hearing this, the steward said to Sancho:

“Señor Governor, have these other people move away so the lady can say whatever she wishes with less embarrassment.”

The governor so ordered, and everyone moved away except the steward, the butler, and the secretary. When they were alone, the maiden continued, saying:

“Señores, I am the daughter of Pedro Pérez Mazorca, the tax collector for wool in this village, who often comes to my father’s house.”

“This doesn’t make sense, Señora,” said the steward, “because I know Pedro Pérez very well, and I know he has no children, male or female, and besides, you say he’s your father and then you add that he often comes to your father’s house.”

“I noticed that, too,” said Sancho.

“Now, Señores, I’m very upset, and I don’t know what I’m saying,” responded the maiden, “but the truth is that I’m the daughter of Diego de la Llana, whom all of your graces must know.”

“Now that makes sense,” responded the steward, “for I know Diego de la Llana, and I know he’s a distinguished gentleman, and very rich, and that he has a son and a daughter, and since he was widowed there’s no one in the entire