The Pheasant-hen
—above—
Chantecler
—doooooo!
The Pheasant-hen
—the poplars!
Chantecler
[In a last, dry-throated, desperate crow.] Cock-a-doodle-doo [Both stagger, suddenly flooded with light.] It is done! [He adds, in a tone of satisfaction.] A proper Sun,—a giant! [He totters toward a mossy rise and drops against it.]
The Pheasant-hen
[Running to him, while all grows brighter and brighter.] One song now to greet the beautiful rising Sun!
Chantecler
[Very low.] I have no voice left. I spent it all. [Hearing the other Cocks crowing in the valley, he adds gently.] It matters not. He has the songs and praises of the others.
The Pheasant-hen
[Surprised.] What? After he appears, he hears no more from you?
Chantecler
No more.
The Pheasant-hen
[Indignant.] But in that case, perhaps the Sun believes the other Cocks have made him rise?
Chantecler
It matters not.