Ard. O, it was dear as death then seemed
To me!
Ber. Cast it away.
Ard. No, for love's sake
I'll keep it, and it shall do no work save God's.
Listen ... it prophesies.... I'll need it yet.
Ber. O, I was mad to send it! Would you wreck
This tent set fair upon the soul's long road,
By pain-craft wrought of every whiter dream,
Where God may sit with us and map the winds
That forward blow and back, the paths laid free
To His far end, and those where blind walls rise
Breast-piled with thwarted dust? Dear soul of me,
Would we know Heaven we must listen here,
And one word lost may mean a path all dark
When we fare outward. This is not for you,
This fear-born blade. Away with it!
[She clasps it closer]
Is not
Your danger past?
Ard. Not while Avesta loves.
Ber. O God! But tell me now the full, foul story,—
Yet not all foul, since you are here alive.
Ard. Your father——
Ber. I've no father!
Ard. —sent me forth
With my two servants. When we reached Avesta,
The prince met us with welcome, much too warm
Methought, so in the night we stole away
And reached the pass—all with some wit and care,
As you shall know hereafter. Now your word.
Ber. I was imprisoned.