We were very joyous and merry, and had drunk a
good deal more than usual. The wine was powerful, and had taken effect
upon most of us. Singing was introduced, and the night passed merrily
away, more visitors occasionally dropping in. My cousin was much elated
with wine, and made several ill-natured remarks, which were meant for
me. I took no notice for some time, but, as he continued, I answered
with such spirit, as to arouse his indignation. My own blood boiled; but
the interference of mutual friends pacified us for the time, and we
renewed our applications to the bottle. My cousin was called upon for a
song; he had a fine voice and considerable execution, and was much
applauded.
"Now, then," said he, in an ironical tone, "perhaps Don Pedro will
oblige the company; although perhaps the real way to oblige them will be
by not attempting that of which he is not capable."
Stung with this sarcasm, and flushed with wine, I forgot my prudence.
Snatching the guitar from him, after a prelude which created the
greatest astonishment of all present, I commenced one of my most
successful airs: I sang it in my best style, and it electrified the
whole party. Shouts proclaimed my victory, and the defeat of my
relative. Some embraced me in their enthusiasm, and all loudly encored;
but as soon as there was a moment's silence, I heard a voice behind me
observe--"Either that is the monk Anselmo's voice, or the devil's."
I started at the words, and turned round to the speaker, but he had
mingled with the crowd, and I could not discover who it was.
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