_Queen_. So shouldst thou! And so long as thou needest me, so long will I be at thy side.... But when thou sayest: "Enough! I ride abroad to seek my happiness," then all silently will I vanish from thy path.

_King_. And thus thou gavest me thy life, without condition or return; and with sweet service s.n.a.t.c.hed me from the grave. But when I was whole once more, I felt so confined within the hedge thy tenderness had built about me, so twined about with thy gentle arms, so dazed by weakness and by shame, that I seized eagerly, as on a penance, upon thy offered throne. My deed seems voluntary now, and like a weak submission to the fate that bore me, the faithless one, here to thy feet. Thou art no less than I its victim,--then forgive me if for a moment I rebelled at the sight of my last hope strewn to the winds.

_Queen_. We sit here hand in hand, and, third in our company sits misery.

_King_ [_shaking his head_]. Nay, if a man has found a friend whose voice is gentle, whose soul speaks harmony and keeps sweet accord with his in that holy hour which turns our griefs to calm, whose love rings true in sorrow and in joy,--such a man is far from deepest misery.

_Queen_. Thou speakest so gently now, and yet thou couldst speak so cruelly before! Nay, I mean no reproach, no blame. I have hung so long upon the hope of being thy happiness, that even the smallest change upon thy face has become to me a consciousness of some fault of mine.

And when I saw a laugh in thine eye, a smile, or even a single friendly beam, the whole broad world lay straightway in sunshine. Yet do not tell me that I am too fond. It is not that ... or only a very, very little. For look, I have a child; and my heart has the same gift for him. Thou canst believe there was a struggle there. And just because I yearned for thee so deeply, there fell a shadow over thine ... it was the child's!

_King_. No.

_Queen_. I thought that he was dear to thee.

_King_. That he is. Yes.

_Queen_. How many times hast thou beguiled the time in play and frolic with him, at all the little dreams that make his. Thou hast poured into his the strength of thy own soul.

_King_. Let the child be. I love him, thou knowest it. A little unwillingly, but what is that? He is not of my blood.... Let be. Speak of thyself. With every word thou drawest a thorn out of my soul.

_Queen_. What shall I say? Am I so powerful, then? And yet--I am!

Thou gavest my power to me! Nay, before that--I learned it from a gray-haired man. Still half a child, I owed my love to him; and gave it, though as yet I knew not how to love.

[_The swinging maidens outside have begun to sing._]

_King_. Hark! What is that? Some one is singing. How their voices exult together, as if they mocked the sound!... The air thrills as with the tremulousness of virgin bells on Sunday from a far-off lonely height.

_Queen_ [_who has drawn aside the curtain. On the moonlit sward the white-robed maidens are singing_]. Are they not fair, thy singing land, thy moonlit house?

_King_. Come back! Let the curtain fall! Give me thy hand, and I will drink therefrom a draught of deep forgetfulness. Lay it upon my burning forehead, ah, so coolingly! So rests the snow upon the slopes in my childhood's home.... My home ... what is it to me now?... A balmy wind blows over me ... it rises from a blue flower-besprinkled spot, far, far away, where happiness begins ... it seems so very long. I have not slept. I think ... [_He sleeps._]

_Queen_ [_after she has tenderly pillowed and covered him_]. I hold thee to my breast, beloved prisoner; at this hour thou art mine, even if tomorrow thou wouldst tread me in the dust. Until tomorrow is a long respite, to have thee and to hold thee, to give to thee a thousand golden gifts--if thou desirest them. How many joyous fountains might leap to the light of day from their deep sleep in my heart's depths.

Alas that no word breaks their enchantment! They must sink back again from whence they came. Never will sunshine build its seven-hued bridge between my dream and the reality, between to-day and happiness. Thou wilt go from me, I must see but cannot hinder it; but tonight thou still art mine,--I may protect the slumber of my sleeping child.

[_Before going out, she draws the curtain so that the moonlight streams in_. Hans Lorba.s.s, _spear in hand and quite motionless, is visible for a moment, and steps aside at the approach of the_ Queen.]

ACT IV.

_A vaulted tower in the castle. In the centre of the background is a landing with stairs going up and down. Beyond, a corridor that loses itself in the distance. In the left foreground a window, and next to it a vaulted pa.s.sage. In the right foreground a door bound with iron, and next to it a chimney-piece. In the middle of the room is a table with the remains of a feast upon it. Overturned goblets, burned-out lights, stringed instruments, garments, etc., about. On the left side of the stage is the throne, with the King's arms hanging upon it. Night, and half-darkness. The wind wails faintly in the chimney._

Scene 1.

Anna Goldhair _cowering with covered face in the shadow of the throne_.

Hans Lorba.s.s _and_ Colestin _enter from the landing._

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. Master!... No answer.

_Colestin_. His lair is empty. The hall seems forsaken. Nothing, but the sighing of the autumn wind. Not even a trace of the women that herd with him.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. And before the door, the foe.

_Colestin_. We are to suffer for his sins.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. Pah!--We!

_Colestin_. Since he so far betrayed morality as to draw to his l.u.s.tful embraces the young maid with the golden hair, even from the very feet of his most virtuous spouse, it has gone ill with him and us. For half a year this shameless wanton bond has blazoned itself beneath this roof.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. If I choose to cry him down, why it is my affair. I advise thee, old man, to let it be.

_Colestin_. Have I ever yet mingled with the crowd that boldly raise their heads against him? But now the foe hangs at our very heels,--and he, instead of showing fist in need, buries a thorn in our own flesh;-- must I still be silent?

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. Gabble or not, as thou choosest. Dost thou think the slime out of thy old mouth can make him slippery enough to--

_Colestin_. Hark! [_A m.u.f.fled drum-beat_]. The morning signal of the foe!

_Hans Lorba.s.s_ [_stretching out his arms_]. Come, mighty hour!

_Colestin_. There is one way ... some one might ... with more influence than I ... seek out the King and fetch him here. The tardy day still lies in heavy sleep . . wilt thou go? [Hans Lorba.s.s _nods._]

_Colestin_. Good! [_Going out._] I am cold.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. What? All empty?... Thou shadow there, give answer what thou art. What, Goldhair, thou? Asleep here on the stones? Where is the King?... The King, where is he?

_Anna Goldhair_ [_gets up trembling_]. I do not know.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. Is he asleep somewhere?

_Anna Goldhair_. No.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. Where have the women gone, then,--those wanton flaunting blossoms of his?

_Anna Goldhair_. He sprang up from the table to-night and drove them out with scourging.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. How was he before that?

_Anna Goldhair_. His greeting long since stiffened into silence and sternness. All night long his feet have wandered up and down the echoing pa.s.sages.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. And to-night--which way did he go?

[Anna Goldhair _motions towards the left._]

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. Give me a light.

_Anna Goldhair_ [_as she takes a taper from the table and gives it to him_]. Hans!