“Good luck, old friend!” and, smiling, he was gone.
Gone to the Pope—Great soul to mountebank!
It was her wish, they whisper. Well-a-day!
He’s gone, and not a friend have I again.
This bank is soft with delicate white moss,
No pillow better in broad Germany.
Were Madeline but here! What rustle stirs
These leaves? A strong man sobbing! The earth quakes
Responsive. Hillo-ho! Who comes by there?
[Tannhäuser enters. He appears old and worn; but from his whole body radiates a dazzling light, and his face is that of the Christ crucified.