(They go for a walk.)
Moritz.
Do you see that black cat there with its tail sticking up?
Melchior.
Do you believe in omens?
Moritz.
I don't know exactly. They come down to us. They don't matter.
Melchior.
I believe that is the Charybdis on which one runs when one steers clear of the Scylla of religious folly.——Let's sit down under this beech tree. The cool wind blows over the mountains. Now I should like to be a young dryad up there in the wood to cradle myself in the topmost branches and be rocked the livelong night.
Moritz.