The First Voice: "'Tis time."
The Second Voice: "Wait."
The First Voice: "'Tis time, my love."
The Second Voice: "No, no! We will wait till morning."
The First Voice: "'Tis late already."
The Second Voice "How timidly thou lovest! One moment more."
The First Voice: "Thou wilt destroy me!"
The Second Voice: "One moment!"
The First Voice: "If my husband wakes and I am not——"Aleko: "I am awake. Whither are you going? Don't hurry; you both are well here—by the grave."
Zemphira: "Run, run, my friend."
Aleko: "Stop! Whither goest thou, my beautiful youth? Lie there!" (He plunges his knife into him.)
Zemphira: "Aleko!"
The Young Gypsy: "I am dying!"
Zemphira: "Aleko, thou wouldst kill him! Look, thou art covered with blood! Oh, what hast thou done?"
Aleko: "Nothing; thou canst now enjoy his love."
Zemphira: "Enough, I do not fear thee! Thy threats I despise, and thy deed of murder I curse."
Aleko: "Then die thyself!"
Zemphira: "I die, loving him." . . . . . . . From the east the light of day is shining. Beyond the hill Aleko, besmeared with blood, sits on the grave-stone, knife in hand. Two corpses lie before him. The murderer's face is terrible. An excited crowd of timid gypsies surrounds him. A grave is being dug. A procession of sorrowing women approaches, and each in turn kisses the eyes of the dead. The old father sits apart, staring at his dead daughter in dumb despair. The corpses are then raised, and into the cold bosom of the earth the young couple are lowered. From a distance Aleko looks on. When they are buried, and the last handful of earth thrown over them, without a word he slowly rolls from off the stone on to the grass. Then the old man approaches him, and says:
"Leave us, proud man. We area wild people and have no laws. We neither torture nor execute. We exact neither tears nor blood, but with a murderer we cannot live. Thou art not born to our wild life. Thou wouldst have freedom for thyself alone. The sight of thee would be intolerable to us; we are a timid, gentle folk. Thou art fierce and bold. Depart, then; forgive us, and peace be with thee!"
He ended, and with great clamour all the wandering band arose, and at once quitted the ill-fated camp and quickly vanished into the distant desert tract. But one van, covered with old rugs, remained in the fatal plain standing alone.
So, at the coming of winter and its morning mists, a flock of belated cranes rise from a field loudly shrieking and flying to the distant South, while one sad bird, struck by a fatal shot, with wounded drooping wing, remains behind. Evening came. By the melancholy van no fire was lighted; and no one slept beneath its covering of rugs that night.