[She turns her back to the window, clutches
the table, collapses and falls to her knees,
and remains thus, her face pressed to the
table, her body shaken with weeping. A
long pause.]
Merchant.
And if the first door I should open wide,
The only locked one on this road of love?
[He opens the small doorway leading into
the garden on the right; the moonlight
enters.]
Sobeide (still kneeling by the table).
Art thou so cruel as, in this first hour,
To make a silly pastime of my weeping!
Art thou so fain to put thy scorn upon me?
Art thou so proud of holding me securely?
Merchant (with the utmost self-control).
How much I could have wished that thou hadst learned
To know me otherwise, but now there is
No time for that.
Thy father, if 'tis this which so constrains thee,
Thy father owes me nothing now, indeed
Within some days agreements have been made
Between us twain, from which some little profit
And so, I hope, a much belated gleam
Of joyousness may come.
[She has crept closer to him on her knees,
listening.]
So then thou mightest—
Thou mayst, I mean to say, if it was this
That lamed thee most, if in this—alien dwelling
Again thou feel the will to live, which thou
Hadst lost, if, as from heavy sleep aroused,
Yet not awake, thou feel it is this portal
That leads thee out to pulsing, waking life—
Then in the name of God and of the stars
I give thee leave to go where'er thou wilt.
Sobeide (still on her knees).
What?
Merchant.
I do no more regard thee as my wife
Than any other maid who, for protection
From tempest or from robbers by the wayside,
Had entered for a space into my house,
And I renounce herewith my claim upon thee,
Just as I have no valid right to any,
Whom such a chance might cast beneath my roof.
Sobeide.
What sayest thou?