ANATHEMA.
Bending over him.
Is it true this time? Are you dead? Or do you He again? No—it is an honest death now. Let me have your fist. Open it. You don't want to? But I am stronger than you.
Rises and examines what David had in his hand.
A copeck!
Throws it down with contempt. Pushes David with his foot.
Farewell, fool. To-morrow people will find your body here and will bury you with pomp, according to the custom of the people. Kind-hearted murderers, they love those they kill. And out of the rocks with which they stoned you for your love, they will erect a tall, crooked, and stupid tombstone. And in order to enliven the stupid, dead pile of stone, they will put me on the top.
He laughs. Then he suddenly breaks of his laughter and assumes a haughty pose.
Who shall wrench the victory from the hands of Anathema? The strong I kill, the weak I force to whirl about in an intoxicating dance—a mad dance—a devilish dance.
He strikes the ground with his foot.