MARCOMIR.
They are gone ...
Besides, we must not wander—recollect!
CARLOMAN.
I do; I was a goatherd on those hills
Before my punishment [pointing to the prison].
How sad you look! Come with me; I will show you
The flock of goats leaping from crag to crag—
And have you ever drunk their milk? It foams;
Its thousand little bubbles seem themselves
Full of an airy life, and in the smack
Of the warm draught something exhilarates
And carries one along. Come to the hills!
MARCOMIR.
Dear Carloman—
CARLOMAN.
These cloisters are so dull
Where you sit brooding morn and eve; beyond
One sees the clouds laying their restless fingers
Across the scaurs.