Enrique. The Sorceress?
The Goatherd. Certainly, my lord. I have often seen her at night wandering on the heights and making conjurations to the moon, so I was not surprised to see her up there at daybreak this morning making curious gestures, in this way—I hurried my flock to avoid her—when two nigger devils approached her along that path! I was seized with a foolish fancy to know what these three were charming, and I clambered and crawled over the rocks toward them. But she pricked up her ears, the magician, and scrutinized the slope where I was lying with such a terrible gaze that I rolled down and scampered away, saying to myself: “I hope that her eyes have not changed me into a brown owl, or into a bad beast!”
Enrique. Then she is the guilty one?
The Peasants. (Eagerly) It is she, your lordship; it is the Sorceress, without a doubt.
Enrique. And who among you believe she is a sorceress?
The Peasants. Oh, all!
First Man. It is believed everywhere.
A Woman. She has caused enough misfortune with her deviltries!
Second Man. It has been proved that words from her will give rot to the sheep.
A Peasant. And sickness to men. (Murmurs of approbation.)