Trotaconventos: Ay, but what of the black sins that weigh down my soul?
Don Juan Tenorio: Dreams are the only sin.
Trotaconventos: What, then, of death?
Don Juan Tenorio: Every death is cancelled by a birth; hence there is no death.
Trotaconventos: But I must surely die, and that ere long.
Don Juan Tenorio: But if others live? Prisoners! Prisoners! Locked up inside yourselves; like children born in a dark tower, as their parents were before them. And round and round they run, and beat their little hands against the wall, or stare at the old faded arras upon which fingers, dead a hundred years ago, have pictured quaint shapes that hint at flowers and birds and ships. And all the time the creaking door is on the jar, the gaolers long since dead.
The ghost of Sister Isabel appears.
Sister Isabel: Mother!
Trotaconventos (in horror): Isabel!
Sister Isabel: I come from Purgatory.