STRANGER. A very old man's sitting at the table, bent over a game bag, his hands clasped in prayer. A woman, so longer young, kneels on the floor. Now once more I hear the angels' greeting, as if far away. But those two in the kitchen are as motionless as figures of wax. A veil shrouds everything.... No, that was no poem! (Waking.) It was something else.
LADY. It was reality! The kitchen at home, where you've never set foot. That old man was my grandfather, the forester, and the woman my mother! They were praying for us! It was six o'clock and the servants were saying a rosary outside, as they always do.
STRANGER. You make me uneasy. Is this the beginning of second sight? Still, it was beautiful. A snow-white room, with flowers and mistletoe. But why should they pray for us?
LADY. Why indeed! Have we done wrong?
STRANGER. What is wrong?
LADY. I've read there's no such thing. And yet... I long to see my mother; not my father, for he turned me out as he did her.
STRANGER. Why should he have turned your mother out?
LADY. Who can say? The children least of all. Let us go to my home. I long to.
STRANGER. To the lion's den, the snake pit? One more or less makes no matter. I'll do it for you, but not like the Prodigal Son. No, you shall see that I can go through fire and water for your sake.
LADY. How do you know...?