And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog its day!
(Michael turns slowly from the railing, heaves a deep sigh, and stands with clenched hands, rigid, looking straight before him with tragic eyes. The beautiful voice grows fainter in the distance. The sun is westering on the right, and sheds a golden light on the scene. Baldwin stands staring out into the sunset.)
Clare.
(From above.) Mike!
Michael.
Yes?
Clare.