Then the old man, mumbling at his own bewildered futility: “My soul is heavy to-day.” (A hand is raised, an old hand, tremblingly.) “What is one to do...? Men needs must live and await the unforeseen.... And after that they must still act as if they hoped....” (The arm drops, heavy ... a silence.) “There are sad evenings when our useless lives taste bitter in our mouths ... etc.”
The scene proceeds, on and on in ascending tensity, readers sitting at the wings, puppeteers operating the wires high up, the director off at his desk in the dark, ... and the marionettes animated into vital significance, symbols of supreme and simplified fervor ... dread, love, courage....
“They are shaking the door, listen. Do not breathe. They are whispering.
“They have the key....
“Yes, yes, I was sure of it.... Wait....”
Old Aglovale faces the slowly opening door, his sword outstretched; the others stand rigid with terror.
“Come! Come both....”
They face the door, they hold it. Their watchfulness avails for the time being. The door closes.
“Tintagiles!”
Aglovale, waiting at the door: “I hear nothing now....”