GANDALF. Was it Only a jest?
BLANKA. Alas! a foolish dream I often used to dream before we met,— Which often I no doubt shall dream again, When you—
[Suddenly breaking off.]
BLANKA. You stare so fixedly.
GANDALF. Do I?
BLANKA. Why, yes! What are you thinking of?
GANDALF. I? Nothing!
BLANKA. Nothing?
GANDALF. That is, I scarcely know myself; And yet I do—and you shall hear it now: I thought of you and how you would transplant Your flowers in the North, when suddenly My own faith came as if by chance to mind. One word therein I never understood Before; now have you taught me what it means.
BLANKA. And that is what?