_The First_. Past bearing.

_Duke_. Who is that man that speaks with you? Why have you not already struck him down?

_Skoll_. He is so droll, master, he would not let himself be killed.

_Duke_. Meseems ... Hans Lorba.s.s--do I see aright? What--what?... Thou knowest I am in thy debt for business secretly done. I love not debts between master and man.

_Hans_. No need, my lord, I have my pay.

_Duke_. At first thou seemedst to serve me diligently; yet thou didst slip as suddenly from my throne as though thou hadst an ailing conscience.

_Hans_ [_gazing out to sea._] Perhaps. It may be.

_Duke_. Where hast thou stayed so long?

_Hans_ [_without stirring_]. I am a servant. I have served.

_Duke_. What drivest thou now?

_Hans_. I drive naught, my lord, I am driven.

_Duke_ [_threateningly_]. It pleases thee to jest.

_Hans_. And thee to be galled thereat.

_Duke_. That fellow's corpse was never found! Now clear thyself from the suspicion.

_Hans_. Think what thou wilt. Covered with wounds I sunk it in the ocean's depths.

_Duke_. I trust thee. If thou wilt swear thy truth to me, then come.

With me all is feasting and revelry.

_Hans_ [_looking out to sea again_]. Thank thee, my lord. I care not to do murder, and I can play the robber by myself.

_Duke_. Seize him.

_Skoll_ [_beseechingly_]. Master, our dearest companion, who never yet has played us false.

[Duke _draws his sword and makes as if to attack_ Hans.]

_Hans_ [_gripping his sword and flourishing it high in the air._] Thou art the master and wonted to victory; but come too near, and thou hast only been the master!

_Duke_. Well, leave him then upon the path where thou hast found him. I had wellnigh killed instead of paying him.

[_He goes out. The others follow. Some of them shake_ Hans Lorba.s.s _furtively by the hand._]

_Hans_ [_alone_]. Then there is something holds his spirit in bonds; will make his race a race of weaklings, will plunge the land itself in guilt,--and yet they know not their own shame.... Right! Just now I saw something. Did I not behold, not far from land a blood-red sail a-dazzle against the blue night cloud? The keel bore sharply toward the sh.o.r.e--how gladly would I believe the old wife there, when--truly, it frets me so I must--[_He goes to the tower and is about to open the door_. Prince Witte _appears in the background._]

_Hans_ [_casting himself at the_ Prince's _feet with a shout of joy_]. Master!--Thou hast come! Art thou safe? Unharmed? Here is thy nose--both ears--thy arm--and there thy sword! Thy voice alone is lost, it seems.

_Prince_. Let me be silent, friend. The horror I have seen stands black about me and takes the color from my joy.

_Hans_. What is that, now thou art here? [_Stammering._] And even if thy journey were in vain, if thou hast not brought the heron's feathers back with thee, what is--

_Prince_. I brought not the heron's feathers with me? My nightly watches, twilight's scanty rest, the morning's ardent fiery prayers, and more than all, the consecrated labor of the day, wherein what has been obtained from G.o.d with tears, must be besieged anew with fierce resolve, and conquered by the teeth-set "I will," won by obstinate unshrinking,--sorrow--doubt--danger--struggle--unsuccess to-day and new onslaught tomorrow--and so on and on--and always forward--have I all this behind me, and yet have I returned without the feathers?

_Hans_. Thou hast the feathers? Are they really heron's feathers, from the very bird?

_Prince_. Set thy fears at rest; the wonder is fulfilled, and all our pains dispersed in thankful prayer.

_Hans_. Forgive me, dear my lord and master, that I forgot a moment the bare fact itself, to thee so all-important. I knew thou wouldst never have returned without them, however my heart thirsted after thee.

_Prince_. Thou wert right. I knew it well.

_Hans_. Where are they, master? Dost thou bear them in thy breast? I feel thou wouldest. Chide me if thou wilt, but show them to me.

_Prince_. Look at my helmet. I understand thy eagerness. No sword can cleave them from me, no rush of wind displace them. They are the standard of my fortunes.

_Hans_. Thy story, master,--come, tell it to me!

_Prince_. Wait, Hans. The hour will come, at drinking-time, while the dull camp-fire flickers to its end, and the fierce thirst of fighting will not let us sleep,--then will I tell the tale and make it glow anew.

_Hans_. Master, how changed thou art. Thy fire seems smothered, and thy pa.s.sions burn less fiercely, being self-controlled.

_Prince_. Thou art wrong, my friend; in me there dwells no calm. I stir and seethe. Death itself, which I have conquered, reanimates in me.

Only henceforth I gain by firmer paths the end which I have chosen. My country that betrayed me, lies small and half-forgotten in the distance. I measure myself against the great henceforth. What are they?

Myself shall be the arbiter, and fate shall never again allure me with her cruel "Take what I offer thee" to a starvation feast.

_Hans_. I look at thee in wonderment. I left thee a boy, I find thee a man. And for this, though my sword has itched in my hand to answer to my thoughts, though I have sat for hours on end in gnawing tedium and spat into the sea, for this result I bless the old wife there. Once more I may strike good blows for thee, once more be proud to guard thee as before.

_Prince_ [_giving him his hand_]. It shall be so.... Yes, yes, my lad.

Since I have been gone--how long is it?

_Hans_. A good two years, master.

_Prince_. The old wife now, and quickly, that she may open to me all the enchantment lurking in the feathers, to which I trusted and surrendered myself. The time has come for this unmolded life to shape itself after the law of its own desire. Why dost thou hesitate?

_Hans_. I will go.

_Prince_. But yet thou mutterest?

_Hans_. Do not blame me, master; I know of what I speak. First of all, mistrust the old one. I fear her not ... but something horrible and slimy crawled in my throat when I first saw her crouching in a grave, all stiff, her brows drawn and her staring eyes turned inwards lifelessly.... When a storm stood coal-black in the heavens and gave the greedy coffins fresh food--lo, there she stood and bade me dig the graves; and when the wave cast corpses up on the strand, she bore each one up the hill pressed mother-like to her breast, shaken meanwhile with a sly laugh; and thus she laughed until they all lay quietly at rest beneath. Have a care for thyself!

_Prince_. Yet why? Her work is pious and she tends it faithfully.

_Hans_. But if she weaves enchantment, master?

_Prince_. I am the last from whom on that account a threat is fit. It has turned to blessing for me. To him who chooses sacrifice for his fate, there often comes the best of gifts,--to see deep into the unsearchable, and smilingly to build as though within a pleasure-park, upon the very boundary of the ideal. Once more--