[Sitting beside the block temple, Arfi begins to play upon the reed.]
EGIL But this pipe—
THORDIS Do you not hear Her voice alluring us? It is a wood-sprite, The elf-child Harmony.
EGIL Where can she lead us? This is a prison.
THORDIS She can lead us forth Into the beauteous world. Hark! even now— Do you not see?—the walls are crumbling, bright With ivy-dew and morning.—Don’t you hear? The birds! the birds!—Now, Egil, now your hand! Now on the dance with me! We’ll follow her On—to the chase!
[Taking hands, they dance whilst Arfi blows the mellow pipe. Eager, impetuous, Egil becomes kindled by the sound and motion till, in the midst, dropping Thordis’s hand, he gropes toward the wall.]
EGIL The chase! the chase! the chase! Ho, torches for the chase!
ARFI [Stops playing, and rises.] A metaphor Transforms him.
EGIL Torches! [Stumbling against the blocks.] What is this?
ARFI Our temple; We’ve left it uncompleted.