(Once more The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; but one by one they fall asleep to the drowsy music, and then The Singer steps into the ring and unlocks the Tower and kisses The Emperor's Daughter. They have the end of the game to themselves.)
Lover, lover, thy/my own true lover
Has opened a way for the Emperor's Daughter!
The dawn is the goal and the dark the cover
As we sail a thousand leagues over the water—
Lover, lover,
My dear lover,
O my own true lover!
(The Wandering Singer and The Emperor's Daughter float a thousand leagues in his shallop and live happily ever after. I don't know what becomes of The Ladies.)
"Bed-time, children!"
In they go.
You see the treatment is a trifle fanciful. But romance gathers round an old story like lichen on an old branch. And the story of Martin Pippin in the Apple-Orchard is so old now—some say a year old, some say even two. How can the children be expected to remember?
But here's the truth of it.