There lies before us the plenty of the fields.
It is night. The meadow is thick with harvest and far away one can almost hear
The swish of the scythe in the lush grass.
Already the fires of the routed stars are paling.
And the nightingale who sings at intervals
When the ascension of the starry heavens above the earth begins....
(He stops.—cébès is dead.
(tête-d'or remains motionless for an instant, then he lays down the body, shuddering.
Oh, horrible!
(He sits down.