FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wilt go? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see.
SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward.
FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! Without thee love is dead, and I must die.
SEELCHEN. Poor heart! I am gone.
FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold.
At the blowing of the Shepherd's pipe, THE COW HORN stretches forth his hand to her. The mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE HORN holds out his hand. She stands unmoving.
SEELCHEN. Companions. I must go. In a moment it will be dawn.
In Silence THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN, cover their faces. The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark.