THE POET. But peace? Rest?
THE DAUGHTER. Hush! You must ask no more, and I can no longer answer. The altar is already adorned for the sacrifice—the flowers are standing guard—the candles are lit—there are white sheets in the windows—spruce boughs have been spread in the gateway——
THE POET. And you say this as calmly as if for you suffering did not exist!
THE DAUGHTER. You think so?—I have suffered all your sufferings, but in a hundredfold degree, for my sensations were so much more acute——
THE POET. Relate your sorrow!
THE DAUGHTER. Poet, could you tell yours so that not one word went too far? Could your word at any time approach your thought?
THE POET. No, you are right! To myself I appeared like one struck dumb, and when the mass listened admiringly to my song, I found it mere noise—for this reason, you see, I have always felt ashamed when they praised me.
THE DAUGHTER. And then you ask me—Look me straight in the eye!
THE POET. I cannot bear your glance——
THE DAUGHTER. How could you bear my word then, were I to speak in your tongue?