The Scene is a bare height over a little town, white huddled with shard roofs. Coppery, the río Tinto widens and swirls through sands into the Gulf of Cádiz. Upon the height, stand two old men, bare-headed. They are clad in the gentility of their days. But the cloth is thread, the brocade is dim, the velvet shines and yellow is the lace. The one is tall. He holds behind his back, martially, an arm with a crippled hand. He is erect. His features are hard and large: only his mouth, too delicate and his eyes, tender and dark as a womb, belie the warrior. The second man is short. Beaked is his nose, and the eyes have a watery gleam. His hair is silken white above the swarthy skin. The tall man speaks:
CERVANTES—Why did you ask that I should meet you here?
COLUMBUS—This is Palos de la Frontera. [There is a pause in which with a hard hand he wipes his watery eyes.] From here the first time we sailed. Here, seven months later, we returned. Bringing back——
CERVANTES—A world.
COLUMBUS—Nay. Bringing back a Grave.
CERVANTES—[Regarding the town and not COLUMBUS’ words.]—Here, now, is nothing.
COLUMBUS—Look beyond the fat sands of the Gulf. Look beyond the sea.
[They stand in silence toward the west. The low sun swims above the brooding water, vaults the hard roofs, and lights the shabbiness of the watchers.]
COLUMBUS—[Nervously.] Well? Are you looking? Tell me what you see.