THE DAUGHTER. What a strange world!
THE POET. The sea is rising. Darkness is closing in upon us. The storm is growing——
[THE CREW set up a wild outcry.
THE POET. The crew scream with horror at the sight of their Saviour—and now—they are leaping overboard for fear of the Redeemer——
[THE CREW utter another cry.
THE POET. Now they are crying because they must die. Crying when they are born, and crying when they pass away!
[The rising waves threaten to engulf the two in the cave.
THE DAUGHTER. If I could only be sure that it is a ship——
THE POET. Really—I don't think it is a ship—It is a two-storied house with trees in front of it—and—a telephone tower—a tower that reaches up into the skies—It is the modern Tower of Babel sending wires to the upper regions—to communicate with those above——
THE DAUGHTER. Child, the human thought needs no wires to make a way for itself—the prayers of the pious penetrate the universe. It cannot be a Tower of Babel, for if you want to assail the heavens, you must do so with prayer.