Ernestina had already found a lover, and deemed that his only mission in this vale of woes was to adore her.
He was pale, with long hair and sad eyes, which gazed adoringly at her. They soon interchanged loving vows and letters full of ardent protestations and loving promises, in which love and death were jumbled together promiscuously. They met secretly, either at her latticed window, or in the garden in the moonlight, or in the deserted walks of some park, under the rustling leaves and amid the first shade of night. Their passion even carried them so far as to meet several afternoons in the quiet cemetery. Ernestina's equippage awaited outside while she entered the graveyard, followed by her duenna, who kept making he sign of the cross in amazement at her folly. Leaning against a willow-tree, her melancholy lover was waiting for her. Ah, that was the very height of romanticism!
Señor Albamonte was unaware of the existence of such a troubadour, or that he had laid siege to his daughter, but her rejected suitors all vowed vengeance on their more fortunate rival, who was Simon Campallano himself!
They all determined to challenge him to fight a duel with each in turn. So they said to him one day: "We have come to let you choose either to renounce Ernestina's hand or to fight with us all."
"All of you?" exclaimed Simon. "And who are you, pray?"
"We are thirteen," they replied.
"Thirteen of you!" he cried, full of fear.
