A desolate and melancholy wood. Nightfall.
Heinrich.
W ELL, I am lost! The whistle brings no hound,
The horn no hunter! North and South are mixed
In this low twilight and the hanging boughs.
I have slept worse than this. Poor Tannhäuser!
I met him walking, as in dream, across
The courtyard, while behind him skulked that crew
That lurked, and itched to kill him, him unarmed,
Not daring! But he reached his hand to me!