BLANKA. [As they go.] Give me your hand!
[Stops.]
BLANKA. No, wait!
RODERIK. What is the matter?
BLANKA. I have today for the first time forgot—
RODERIK. And what have you forgot?
BLANKA. [Points to the barrow.] Behold the wreath!
RODERIK. It is—
BLANKA. The withered one of yesterday; I have forgot today to make the change; Yet, let me take you to the cabin first, Then shall I venture out in search of flowers; The violet never is so sweet and rare As when the dew has bathed its silver lining; The budding rose is never quite so fair As when 'tis plucked in child-like sleep reclining!
[They go out at the back to the right.]