Stay! Am I, then, asleep? Are you indeed
Some imp of dreamland, sent to plague my soul
With fever shuttle-dances, a pied phantom
Painting the dark, and tinkling with your timbrel
These rafters of my riddle-tortured brain?—
If she should guess—If she should fail to guess!—
O Night, it is your Echo, mocking me:
’Tis but a Question, and beneath that mask
There are no lips to answer!
[Desperately, he throws himself down by the couch, burying his face against it. After a moment, the Figure approaches, cautious, surveys his prone form closely, bends as if to snatch at his robe, but draws back and stands hesitant; then with a gesture half frightened removes its mask, and speaks low]