THE POET. No, it is no house—no telephone tower—don't you see?
THE DAUGHTER. What are you seeing?
THE POET. I see an open space covered with snow—a drill ground—The winter sun is shining from behind a church on a hill, and the tower is casting its long shadow on the snow—Now a troop of soldiers come marching across the grounds. They march up along the tower, up the spire. Now they have reached the cross, but I have a feeling that the first one who steps on the gilded weathercock at the top must die. Now they are near it—a corporal is leading them—ha-ha! There comes a cloud sweeping across the open space, and right in front of the sun, of course—now everything is gone—the water in the cloud put out the sun's fire!—The light of the sun created the shadow picture of the tower, but the shadow picture of the cloud swallowed the shadow picture of the tower——
While THE POET is still speaking, the stage is changed and shows once more the passageway outside the opera-house.
THE DAUGHTER. [To THE PORTRESS] Has the Lord Chancellor arrived yet?
THE PORTRESS. No.
THE DAUGHTER. And the Deans of the Faculties?
THE PORTRESS. No.
THE DAUGHTER. Call them at once, then, for the door is to be opened——
THE PORTRESS. Is it so very pressing?