Beata.
I must have been listening to Wagner. Let me see; did I really write that? (She reads.) "For I mean to make you the greatest among men, you, my discoverer and my deliverer--" That's not so bad, you know. (Reads on.) "If only heaven would let me die, and give you my life to live as well as your own." (She rises suddenly with a strange look on her face.)
Richard.
This letter and another have just been brought to me by--Meixner. If he had come yesterday we should have been saved. Now it is too late.
Beata.
Too late?--Oh, Richard, how ungrateful I've been! Why, every prayer of my youth has been granted--the long sad sweet dream at your side-- (She breaks suddenly into laughter.)
Richard.
Why do you laugh?
Beata.
I laugh because in your speech this morning you disowned us both--disowned our long sad sweet dream. Oh, I don't blame you, Richard. It isn't your conscience that torments you, it's the conscience of the race. I'm only a woman--what do I care for the race? You felt that you were sinning--I felt that I had risen above myself, that I had attained the harmony nature meant me to attain. And because I feel that----