“Ah, my brave one! thou dost not fear the drama.”
The boy looked up with a startled face. He gave a little shiver.
“What is that, my father,” he asked, “that you speak of as the drama?”
“What is that, beloved one,” asked his father, “that afflicts you with dismay?”
The boy pressed his palms against his thin temples.
“I think—I think it is the words, my father,” he said, “the something in the sound of the words.”
“Truly,” said his father, “the something in the sound of the words. That which is given is taken away—the something in the sound of the words.”
“Did you not say, my father,” said the boy, “that the drama was—was what you call a ‘play’?”
“Yes, a play,” said his father, “a bewildering and curious play—a haunting and strange play. It is almost terrible, and yet it is beautiful also.”
“I don’t understand,” said the boy, his eyes growing dark with perplexity.