King. I am smiling.
Queen. Yet sorrow looks from all thy features. My friend, I fear that thou canst never learn to yield thyself up to this country.
King. Yield thyself, thou sayest. Belie thyself,--it is the same. To me it is a polished farce, at which I play and play and play myself quite out, entangled sleepily in fog and mist. But sometimes comes a wandering south wind, and plays faintly with its wings upon my wearied soul, striking vague and half-audible dream tones.
Queen. Thou torturest thyself.
King. And thee, my wife,--forgive! I look at thee and know that thou hast long hung in imploring anguish on my neck; it shames me, for see, I love thee!
Queen [repeats half dreamily]. I love thee.
The Voice of the Young Prince. Papa.
King. Art thou still awake, my son?
The Voice of the Young Prince. Papa, may I come in?
King. Thou mayst. [Enter the young Prince with Anna Goldhair.]