Cölestin. To a ...? Stranger, there burns in me a fever of speech ... they chide the doting chatter of old men, and yet--
Prince. Thou hast chosen me for thy confidant ... I listen gladly.
Cölestin. Well then: our King, stricken with years, died and left us unprotected and afraid, for we had no guide nor saviour. The Queen, herself a child, carried trembling at her breast the babe she had borne him.... It is six years ago, and all this time have birds of prey scented the rich morsel from afar and come swooping down upon this fair land, where unmeasured riches lie. The danger grows--the people clamor for a master. And so our Queen, who had sat long sunk in modest grief, now divined in anguish her soul's call, the echo of the kingly duty, and guessed the sacrifice her land demanded. She tore in twain her widow's garlands, and made a vow that he who could bear all other suitors to her feet in battle, should be her lord and her country's king. The day has come. The lists are hung, the people crowd into the tournament. Woe to them! Their tears are doomed to fall, for all the princes who came hither have fled faint-heartedly before a single one, a man of terror, who is thus victorious without a struggle.
Prince. And this one--who is he?
[A clamor in the court below. A Noble enters.]
Noble. Sir Major-domo, I beg thee, hasten. The guard is in confusion. The people are already mounting the newly built lists in a countless throng.
Cölestin [pointing below]. Look, there is the flock; but where is the shepherd? Wait here, while I press into the thickest of the crowd and give the people a taste of my severity ... though I doubt much if it will aught avail. [He hastens down by the middle way with the Noble and the Page.]
Prince Witte. That which I long for lies not here. My sober judgment whispers warningly within my breast of delay and thoughtless dalliance. [He seats himself on a bench to the right of the stage and looks up at the sky.]
Sköll [in his sleep]. Quite right.
Hans. What's that? Eh, there, sleepy-head, wake up!