Don Salomon (quite unmoved): Howbeit, you will see that to one of my race his children are dearer than his coffers. Unless this convent gets in better odour, Moses and Rebecca will soon be playing in Granada round the Elvira gate, and sailing their boats upon the Darro ... have you that balsam for me?
Trotaconventos: Ay, and have you two maravedis for it?
Don Salomon (taking out two coins from his purse): Are you, indeed, an Old Christian? Had you no grandam, who, like your own daughter, was not averse to a circumcised lover? Methinks you love gold as much as any Jew.
Trotaconventos (drops the coins on the table and listens to their ring): Yes, they sing in tune; a good Catholic doremi, I’d not be surprised to hear coins from your purse whine ‘alleluia’ falsely through their nose—the thin noise of alloy and a false mint. (Goes and rummages in a coffer, and with her back turned to him, says nonchalantly): Neither your ointment nor the Goa stones powdered in milk have reduced the swelling.
Don Salomon does not answer, and Trotaconventos looks sharply over her shoulder.
Trotaconventos: Well?
He looks at her in silence. She walks over to him.
Trotaconventos: Here is your balsam. As touching sickness, I have ever hearkened to you; you may speak.
Don Salomon: The ointment ... I hoped it might give you some relief of your pain; but as to the swelling....
Trotaconventos: It will not diminish?