Rodriguez—I am getting wisdom.
Lagrimas—Too much wisdom will make a monk of thee.
Rodriguez—(After a pause.) I think the stars will shine to-night.
Lagrimas—(Piqued.) Oh, dost thou?
Rodriguez—The air is blowing up a little sharp.
Lagrimas—Maria be adored, there is always the weather.
Rodriguez—Of what else shall I speak?
Lagrimas—Of thee and—oh anything!
(Silence. Guitars tinkle in the valley.)
Lagrimas—Dost hear the guitars?