Third Nun: And Zuleica there, sent all through Lent to the Morería[1] or the Jews’ butcher for red meat ... and she was swearing it was all for her ape Gerinaldo!
First Nun: Yes, and the other night I could have sworn I heard the strains of a Moorish zither coming from her room and the tapping heels of a juglaresa.
Fourth Nun (with a sigh): This house has never been the same since the sad fall of Sister Isabel.
First Nun: Ay, that must have been a rare time! Two brats, I think?
Second Nun: And they say her lying in was in the house of Trotaconventos.
Third Nun: Ah, well, as the common folk, and (with rather a spiteful smile) our dear Sister Assumcion would say: Who sleeps with dogs rises with fleas—and if we sin venially, why, the only wonder is that ’tis not mortally.
Second Nun: Be that as it may, if rumours reach the ears of the Archbishop there’ll be a rare shower of penances at the next visitation. Why, the house will echo for weeks to the mournful strains of Placebo and Dirige, and there will be few of us, I fear, who will not forfeit our black veils for a season.
Fourth Nun: There is one will keep her black veil for the honour of the house.
Sister Assumcion (scornfully): Aye, winds strong enough to level the Giralda could not blow off the black veil of Sister Pilar.
Third Nun: And yet ... she is a Guzman, and the streets are bloody from their swords; they are a wild crew.