Must answer for that direful fantasy;
But ’tis your least achievement, past dispute,
To hear the spirit speaking, when ’tis mute.
Falk [with emotion].
Nay, Svanhild, do not jest: behind your scoff
Tears glitter,—O, I see them plain enough.
And I see more: when you to dust are fray’d,
And kneaded to a formless lump of clay,
Each bungling dilettante’s scalpel-blade
On you his dull devices shall display.