And in the silent farms the roosters cry
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
It is the hour when the traveller, huddled among the cushions of his coach,
Awakes, and peers through the pane, and coughs, and sighs,
And souls new-born in the shadows of walls and forests,
Uttering feeble cries like little naked birds,
Fly back again, guided by flaring meteors, into the regions of obscurity.
—What is the hour?
Tête-d'or: The night is over.
Cébès: It is over!—And the daybreak that kindles the sea to flame and with far-reaching fires