The Blackbird
We have in these latter days bowed Tragedy respectfully out of the house!
The Pheasant-hen
But had we not best warn Chantecler, so that—
The Blackbird
He would go instantly and challenge them. And then such a whetting of steel!
The Pheasant-hen
You are right. So he would.
The Blackbird
On your principle, mad Gitana, an oak-gall could be made into a world.
The Pheasant-hen
You have much good sense.
The Blackbird
Daughter of the forest, I have.
Chantecler’s Voice
[Outside.] Coa—
The Pheasant-hen
Chantecler!
Chantecler
[Approaching on the left, between the hollies, calls from afar.] Who is there?