FALK.
True.
SVANHILD.
He smote us hardest.
FALK [to himself].
Stole my armour, too.
SVANHILD.
What blows he struck!
FALK.
He knew to place them well.
SVANHILD.
All seemed to go to pieces where they fell.
[Coming nearer to him.
How rich in one another's wealth before
We were, when all had left us in despite,
And Thought rose upward like the echoing roar
Of breakers in the silence of the night.
With exultation then we faced the fray,
And confidence that Love is lord of death;—
He came with worldly cunning, stole our faith,
Sowed doubt,—and all the glory pass'd away!
FALK [with wild vehemence].
Tear, tear it from thy memory! All his talk
Was true for others, but for us a lie!
SVANHILD [slowly shaking her head].
The golden grain, hail-stricken on its stalk,
Will never more wave wanton to the sky.
FALK [with an outburst of anguish].
Yes, we two, Svanhild—!
SVANHILD.
Hence with hopes that snare!
If you sow falsehood, you must reap despair.
For others true, you say? And do you doubt
That each of them, like us, is sure, alike,
That he's the man the lightning will not strike,
And no avenging thunder will find out,
Whom the blue storm-cloud scudding up the sky
On wings of tempest, never can come nigh?