VERONIKA
Oh, that will be
Soon,—soon.
PIPER
[gently]
Remember,—if one word of thine
Set on the hounds to track me down and slay me,
They will be lost forever; they would die,—
They, who are in my keeping.
VERONIKA
Yea, I hear.
But he will come . . . oh, he will come to me,
Soon,—soon.
[She goes, haltingly, and disappears along the road to Hamelin.—The PIPER, alone, stands spell-bound, breathing hard, and looking after her. Then he turns his head and comes down, doggedly. Again he pauses. With a sudden sharp effort he turns, and crosses with passionate appeal to the shrine, his arm uplifted towards the carven Christ as if he warded off some accusation. His speech comes in a torrent.
PIPER
I will not, no, I will not, Lonely Man!
I have them in my hand. I have them all—
All—all! And I have lived unto this day.
You understand . . .
[He waits as if for some reply]
You know what men they are.
And what have they to do with such as these?
Think of those old as death, in body and heart,
Hugging their wretched hoardings, in cold fear
Of moth and rust!—While these miraculous ones,
Like golden creatures made of sunset-cloud,
Go out forever,—every day, fade by
With music and wild stars!—Ah, but You know.
The hermit told me once. You loved them, too.
But I know more than he, how You must love them:
Their laughter, and their bubbling, skylark words
To cool Your heart. Oh, listen, Lonely Man!—
* * * * *
Oh, let me keep them! I will bring them to You,
Still nights, and breathless mornings; they shall touch
Your hands and feet with all their swarming hands,
Like showering petals warm on furrowed ground,—
All sweetness! They will make Thee whole again,
With love. Thou wilt lookup and smile on us!
* * * * *
Why not? I know—the half—You will be saying.
You will be thinking of Your Mother.—Ah,
But she was different. She was not as they.
She was more like . . . this one, the wife of Kurt!
Of Kurt! No, no; ask me not this, not this!
Here is some dawn of day for Hamelin,—now!
-Tis hearts of men You want. Not mumbled prayers;
Not greed and carven tombs, not misers' candles;
No offerings, more, from men that feed on men;
Eternal psalms and endless cruelties! . . .
Even from now, there may be hearts in Hamelin,
Once stabbed awake!
[He pleads, defends, excuses passionately; before his will gives
way, as the arrow flies from the bow-string.]
—I will not give them back!
And Jan,—for Jan, that little one, that dearest
To Thee and me, hark,—he is wonderful.
Ask it not of me. Thou dost know I cannot!
* * * * *