"She comes, Léontine comes!" shrilled a thousand throats.
Into the ring she dashed on a milk-white horse, and, throwing off her drapery, stood bowing.
What a graceful figure she had, and how lovely she looked as she clambered aloft to her giddy perch! Breathlessly every one saw her make preparations for the flight through the air. The band became silent; all necks were strained as she swung lightly to and fro in space, increasing the speed to gain necessary momentum for the final launch.
Off she darted, like a thunderbolt—bang! went my drum—a moment too soon. The false unaccustomed rhythm shook her nerves and she tumbled with her face toward me.
There were no nets....
Later I sought the manager. He was in his room, his head thrust beneath pillows. I tapped him on the shoulder; he shuddered when he saw me. "'Tis you who should wear black," I said....
ISOLDE'S MOTHER
Kennst du der Mutter Künste nicht?