(The two figures confront each other in silence. Dr. Thorne desperately flings himself towards the Angel. Without a touch he is beaten back. Azrael stands immovable. His face grows solemn with pity. Dr. Thorne retreats; advances again; raises his staff, and strikes it upon the Angel’s sword. The staff flames up, burns, and drops to ashes on the ground.)
(Dr. Thorne recedes a few steps; shades his eyes with his hands; regards the Angel blindly; wavers, turns. Slowly, with bent figure, he weakly reascends the mountain; stumbles and falls; regains his footing; climbs on alone, and now without his staff; does not look back.)
(Azrael stands immovable, with drawn sword.)
Voices from beyond (sing so softly that they seem rather to be breathing than singing):—
“The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on ...
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost a while.”
(As they sing the summit mellows slowly. No figures appear. At the brow of the mountain a single gleam of light pierces the gloom. It brightens rather than broadens. It has the color of dawn.)
(Azrael fades away, the sword vanishing last.)
(Dr. Thorne climbs up, with eyes lifted towards the light on the summit, which strikes his face and figure.)
As the Voices sing:—
“And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost a while.”