The Pheasant-hen
[Struck with amazement.] Is it another singing?
Patou
[With quivering ear.] And singing still better, if possible.
The Pheasant-hen
[Looking up in a sort of terror at the foliage, and then down at the little grave.] Another takes up the song when this one disappears?
The Voice
In the forest must always be a Nightingale!
Chantecler
[With exaltation.] And in the soul a faith so faithful that it comes back even after it has been slain.
The Pheasant-hen
But if the Sun is climbing up the sky?
Chantecler
There must have been left in the air some power from my yesterday’s song.
[Flights of noiseless grey wings pass among the trees.]
The Owls
[Hooting joyfully.] He kept still!
Patou
[Raising his head and looking after them.] The Owls, fleeing from the newly risen light, are coming home to the woods.