OLD LADY. But what is it? Mists out of the earth, or shadows cast by the trees?
JUDGE. No, it's our own vision that plays us false. There I go now, and yet I am standing here. Just let me get a good night's sleep, and I'll laugh at the whole thing!—The devil! Is this masquerade never going to end?
OLD LADY. But why do you look at it then?
JUDGE. I see it right through my hand—I see it in the dark, with my eyelids closed!
OLD LADY. But now it's over.
The PROCESSION has passed out.
JUDGE. Praised be—why, I can't get the word out!—I wonder if it will be possible to sleep to-night? Perhaps we had better send for the doctor?
OLD LADY. Or Father Colomba, perhaps?
JUDGE. He can't help, and he who could won't!—Well, let the Other One do it then!
THE OTHER ONE enters from behind the Lady Chapel. He is extremely thin and moth-eaten. His thin, snuff-coloured hair is parted in the middle. His straggly beard looks as if it were made out of tow. His clothes are shabby and outgrown, and he seems to wear no linen. A red woollen muffler is wound around his neck. He wears spectacles and carries a piece of rattan under his arm.