"Her grief is over; his mother is dead," says Kundry.
"Dead! my mother! who says that?" cries Parsifal, throwing himself furiously upon Kundry, and seizing her by the throat.
"Violence again, mad youth!" says Gurnemanz, holding him back.
"I perish," cries the young man, staggering. Kundry has rushed toward a forest stream, and comes to bathe Parsifal's forehead with fresh water.
"It is well thus," says the old man, "such is the grace of the Grail, you banish evil when you do great good."
But Kundry turns sadly away. "I never do good," she murmurs, "I seek only repose. Alas! repose for her who is wretched. Ah! horror seizes me, resistance is vain, the time is come, sleep, sleep I must." And with a stifled cry, she sinks down behind a bush. Gurnemanz, however, hoping that this may be the redeemer promised to the king, conducts Parsifal toward the temple; he will be present at the ceremony, and should Parsifal be the chosen one, his mission will be revealed to him by the Grail.
The scene changes; the forest disappears, while the old man and Parsifal appear to be advancing; the side of a large rock conceals them, then they reappear in the galleries. Sounds of trumpets gently swell forth, and bells toll louder and louder. They finally arrive in a vast hall, whose lofty cupola permits the daylight to penetrate like a luminous flood. The Knights of the Grail, clad in the white coat-of-arms, a dove embroidered upon their mantle, advance in two lines and chant piously: "Each day prepared for love's last repast, and troubling himself little that it may be perhaps for the last time, may it strengthen to-day him who can rejoice in his acts, and may the repast be renewed unto him. Let him approach the holy table and receive the divine gift." Voices of youths respond from the halls and heights: "As formerly, with a thousand pains, his blood flowed for sinning humanity, may my blood be poured out with a joyous heart for the hero Saviour, and may this body which he has offered for our redemption live in us by his death." And children's voices answer back from the cupola's very heights: "Faith lives, the dove soars, sweet messenger of the Saviour; drink of the wine which flows for you, and eat of the bread of life."
Shield-bearers and serving-brothers then enter, bearing the litter upon which Amfortas lies. Children advance, bearing a shrine covered with a scarlet cloth, which they proceed to place upon a marble altar. Suddenly from a vaulted niche at the end of the hall behind the altar a voice makes itself heard. It is that of the aged Titurel. "My son, Amfortas," he says, "doest thou officiate? Must I behold the Grail yet again to-day and live? Must I die, no longer sustained by my Saviour?"
"Alas! alas! oh, grievous sorrow!" cries Amfortas. "My father, perform once more thy holy office. Oh, live, and let me die." And Titurel: "I live in the tomb by the grace of our Lord, but I am too feeble to serve him. Expiate thou thy sin in his service. Uncover the Grail."
"No, uncover it not," cries Amfortas, in a passion of despair. "Oh! can no one measure the torment which the sight that transports you awakens in me? What is the wound and its agony of pain compared with the infernal suffering of being damned here to officiate? Oh, sorrowful heritage which has fallen to me! I must guard the sublimest of sanctuaries, I, the only sinner among you all! Oh, chastisement, chastisement without equal, inflicted by the all merciful One whom I have offended! Alas! to him and to the mercy of his salvation I ardently aspire from the depths of my soul; by expiatory penitence I hope to return to him. The hour approaches, a ray of light descends upon the sacred work, the veil falls, the sacred cup is illumined with a radiant lustre; overcome by the celestial possession of pain, I feel the stream of divine blood flowing through my heart, and the impure wave of my own blood rushes impetuously back in wild terror to cast itself toward the world of lust; it breaks anew its bonds, and gushes from the wound, like unto his, made by the lance which of yore opened in the Redeemer's side this wound which weeps in pity's sacred ardor tears of blood for the world's iniquity! And from this wound flows, though I be the keeper of divinest treasures, of the redeeming balm, the fiery blood, renewed without respite by the fountain of longing, which, alas! no penitence can extinguish. Mercy, mercy! oh, all-merciful one. Ah! in pity take from me my heritage, close the wound that I may die purified, and be born again in holiness unto thee."