[After a quick glance.] Dead! Oh, my God! [For a moment, with incredulous eyes, he watches the delicate, rhythmic bending and swaying of the young forms; then, with a smothered cry, he rushes forward and raises indignant hands to stop them. And as, in their grave and gay abandon they dance on, Martin, seeming to derive fresh support from the backward glance he flings the body, tries to catch Lydia by her curls. Martin indignantly.] How dare you, you little—little——
[But, untouched, Lydia glides past him, her light laughter mingling with the wind. Then, as Martin slinks back, beaten, his eyes full of wonder, an impalpable tremor passes over the garden. The violins fade; the moonlight shivers blue and chill, and Lydia runs with a cry to Richard.
Lydia.
Oh, my dearest—not yet! Not yet!
Richard.
[Tremulously, holding her fast.] We had just begun! We had waited a whole year!
Lydia.
[In a panic of longing.] Oh, Richard! Richard! The church clock has struck! In a moment—— [Pointing a trembling finger within.] our clock!
Richard.
[As the whirring noise begins that precedes the stroke.] My darling—next year——