Fam. The coward!
Mas. So—back to the field,
Mute as a snail, and poorer too, for then
The dream is gone of any life but this.
Fam. They have no spirit—none!
Mas. Much as you'll have
This time next year.
Fam. Next year? I shall be gone.
My debt was just ten pesos.
Mas. [Incredulous] You were sold
For that?
Fam. I'll work it out.
Mas. Be 't ten or hundreds,
Who comes here stays. You'll soon know that, my bird,
And limber your fine neck.
[As they talk, men and women enter in groups of scores and dozens until there are several hundred in the yard. They are mostly of mixed blood, their color ranging from the full brown of the Maya to the pale olive of the Peonian aristocrat. At a spout, upper left, they wash their hands, then drop about wearily. One man sits near Famette, his head sunk on his chest. She lays her hand on his shoulder]
Fam. What, Garza, you?
Who were so blithe this morning, on your way
To freedom?