Jean. I see—
Ulrich. They are coming up.
Bastian. They are going by.
Jean. They have crossed the road.
Ulrich. We can go down for the moment.
Bastian. Ouf!
Jean. It is strange—twenty times, a hundred times in Germany I have met the patrols of dragoons, or hussars, and admired their fine form. Here—
Ulrich. Here?
Jean. Only to see them gives me a queer feeling at the heart.