Vasil. Wasn't he a great prince?
Soph. Yes. But a greater man.
Vasil. And Adrian could be a prince too. [Re-fastening chain] But he doesn't care at all. When I asked him if this was a piece of the sun, he said "No, the last of a great shadow." I know what he meant now. Why are you sad, princess?
Soph. Because I have been unkind to Adrian.
Vasil. Don't mind. He will forgive you. He forgives everybody everything.
Soph. But it isn't pleasant to be forgiven that way, as if we were anybody else. I want to be forgiven because I am myself.
Vasil. You can't with Adrian. His star is the soul, and in its light we are all alike.
Soph. And what is your star, Vasil?
Vasil. Mine? It is the same, only I call it love instead of soul. The great love—that makes one heart beat in another's body—that makes me faint in Russia when a beggar starves in India—that fades your cheek with the girl's at an English loom—that turns the comfortable American out of doors with the driven Jew—that gives one color to every flag, and makes the might of the strongest nation the right of the Kaffir babe. This is my star, as Adrian's, only I see it warm and golden instead of cold and white.