O pity! pity!
FALK [in passionate agitation].
No,—but eye for eye,
Svanhild, and tooth for tooth. Now you'll attend
No further greetings from your garden-friend,
No guerdon from the land of melody.
That is my vengeance: as you slew I slay.
SVANHILD.
I slew?
FALK.
You slew. Until this very day,
A clear-voiced song-bird warbled in my soul;
See,—now one passing bell for both may toll—
You've killed it!
SVANHILD.
Have I?
FALK.
Yes, for you have slain
My young, high-hearted, joyous exultation—
[Contemptuously.
By your betrothal!
SVANHILD.
How! But pray explain—!
FALK.
O, it's in full accord with expectation;
He gets his licence, enters orders, speeds to
A post,—as missionary in the West—
SVANHILD [in the same tone].
A pretty penny, also, he succeeds to;—
For it is Lind you speak of—?
FALK.
You know best
Of whom I speak.