Ard. Might die? You mean ... my brothers.
They must be merciful.
Ber. With Charilus slain?
Ard. O, me! I too shall die. And that is best,
If anything we do be worst or best.
I've read within my father's secret script
That earth shall lose its heart of fire, and lie
Dead-cold and dark with no green thing upon it.
Then this black crust shall bear no form of man,
Nor trace of him. Why then such ceaseless pain
To look a little longer on the sun,
When he who seals his eyes this day with dust
But leagues with time to reach the journey's end
Without the journey's ache?
Ber. Hast lost thy faith?
My heart, say earth must be its own still grave,
Our destiny lies farther. But were life
A march to naught, I'd choose it for the sake
Of one bright wonder by the way—your love,
My Ardia.
Ard. You love me, yet would die. Thou'rt mine!
And I will hold thee, yea, on this warm earth,
Not in some strange and tearless world!
[While they speak Barca moves up the pass and listens]
Barca. My lord?
Ber. Ay, Barca?
Barca. Men are on the pass.
Ard. Above?
My brothers! Oh!