The Young Prince. Yes.
Queen. And goodnight!
[The Prince, Anna Goldhair, and the women go out.]
Queen. We are alone ... yet what a pity with too cool reason to chill the buds of the May evening, which plunges all the waking soul into sweet sickness.... But speak!
Cölestin. Lady, I know not how I shall begin. The words come stumbling from my lips. Thou knowest how we love him, and how, since thou hast given him thyself, there is no single life but stands prepared to serve him without a thought of self. And how does he reward us? He shuns our glance, a smouldering suspicion breaks out whenever we would speak in seriousness to him, and throws its shadows on us darkly. The people idolize him. They greet him, great and small, with clapping hands and waving kerchiefs,--why must we stand aloof? Is he ashamed of us?--or of himself? I know not. A mysterious sadness clouds his eye so falcon-bright, and even while our hearts still yearn upon him, he grows a stranger to us, who was never our friend.
Queen. It is your too easily wounded love complains of him.
Cölestin. If that danger--
Queen [without listening to him]. I see it, but I scarce can blame it. I blame no one. I have built for myself out of dreams and smiles a strong strong wall, outside of which you wait, thieves of my happiness--nay, my friend, look not so grieved!--and out of which you know not how to lure me, either by cunning or by clamor.
Cölestin. Still, hast thou never come upon that knowledge, deep within thy heart, which tells thee how in everything that is and was and needs must be throughout our lives, a never expiated wrong must weigh us down?
Queen. Never, my friend! In my soul there rings but one harp-tone, one voice, which says: be happy!