MOLE. Then why have you come back?
DUCKLING. To let the swans kill me.
MOLE. What! To let them kill you?
DUCKLING. I would rather be killed by those beautiful birds than pecked by the hens, beaten by the geese, or starved with hunger in the winter.
MOLE. Perhaps you are not so ugly now as you were then.
DUCKLING. I have not looked at myself in the water since spring came and took the ice away. But I know well enough how dark and badly formed I am. The swans will kill me if I dare to approach them.
[A noise is heard in the distance.]
MOLE. They are coming! Go, while there is yet time.
DUCKLING. There is no place to go to. All winter long I was driven from moor to moor. I could not make a friend—I no longer wish to live.
[The SWANS are seen swimming down the brook.]