The Owls
[Returning to their holes in the old trees.] He kept still!
Chantecler
[With all his strength come back to him.] The proof that I was serving the cause of light when I sang is that the Owls are glad of my silence. [Going to the Pheasant-hen, with defiance in his mien.] I make the Dawn appear, and I do more than that!
The Pheasant-hen
[Choking.] You do—
Chantecler
On grey mornings, when poor creatures waking in the twilight dare not believe in the day, the bright copper of my song takes the place of the sun! [Turning to go.] Back to our work!
The Pheasant-hen
But how find courage to work after doubting the work’s value?
Chantecler
Buckle down to work!
The Pheasant-hen
[With angry stubbornness.] But if you have nothing whatever to do with making the morning?
Chantecler
Then I am just the Cock of a remoter Sun! My cries so affect the night that it lets certain beams of the day pierce through its black tent, and those are what we call the stars. I shall not live to see shining upon the steeples that final total light composed of stars clustered in unbroken mass; but if I sing faithfully and sonorously and if, long after me, and long after that, in every farmyard its Cock sings faithfully, sonorously, I truly believe there will be no more night!
The Pheasant-hen
When will that be?
Chantecler
One Day!