(Still half kneeling, speaking in awed tones.) You are a spirit?
(Loveday is quite still.)
Gordon.
You are the goddess of the woods come to me in my pain! Tell me, you beautiful, you wonderful—tell me, what have I to do? Speak to me, speak to me!
(Loveday does not move; in a soft, penetrating voice, she intones, like a chant.)
Loveday.
The bodies of men that can fight are mown down like the grass.
The body of one young man, even if he is a prince among men cannot slay more than a hundred of his enemies.
But by thought a man’s brain might conceive of a way to kill or to save hundreds of thousands.