CARLOMAN.
Go, dash yourself into the Rhone and die!
There is no secret hid in life—illusion,
That is the great discovery.
MARCOMIR.
O listen!
I am left poor and lonely in the world,
So poor, so lonely, not a soul that needs,
That ever can have need of me! Unloved
And undesired, with just the sun to hail,
The spring to welcome till I die, no more.
And yet—
If they should thrust me in a prison-cell
I should sing on in rapture.
CARLOMAN.
Undesired!
She desires no one ... but you dote on her,
And that will set you singing.
MARCOMIR.
On my lips
Already there is savour of rich song.
That is the joy I spoke of. Oh, to spread
The fame of my dead lady through the lands,
To sing of Geneviva!
CARLOMAN.
She is dead?
Come closer. Chafe my hands—