Chantecler
Assuredly,—in just the measure that strength is added to the song by the knowledge of listeners, boldness to the exploit by the consciousness of lovely watching eyes—[Taking his stand upon a hillock at the back, overlooking the valley.] Now, Madam!
The Pheasant-hen
[Gazing at his outline against the sky.] How beautiful he is!
Chantecler
Look attentively at the sky. Already it has paled. The reason is that a short while back, with my earliest crow I ordered the sun to stand in readiness just below the horizon.
The Pheasant-hen
He is so beautiful that what he says almost seems possible!
Chantecler
[Talking toward the horizon.] Ha, Sun, I feel you just behind there, stirring—and I laugh with pride and joy amidst my scarlet wattles—[Rising on tiptoe suddenly, in a voice of startling loudness.] Cock-a-doodle-doo!
The Pheasant-hen
What great breath lifts his breast-feathers?
Chantecler
[Toward the east.] Obey!—I am the Earth, and I am Labour! My comb is the pattern of a forge fire, and the voice of the furrow rises to my throat! [Whispering mysteriously.] Yes, yes, month of July—
The Pheasant-hen
To whom is he speaking?
Chantecler
You shall have it earlier than April! [Bending to right and left, encouragingly.] Yes, Bramble!—Yes, Brake!
The Pheasant-hen
He is magnificent!