Hans [to himself]. A last hope,--but dare I venture it? I must. Lest he languish and slip hither beneath my eye. [Aloud.] Master, if thou cherishest a grief, thou hast then forgot the talisman--
King. The what?
Hans Lorbass [watching him]. The feathers thou didst once possess.
King [feeling in his breast. Angrily]. Be still.
Hans Lorbass. Since thou still wearest them on thy heart, why--
King. Be still, I tell thee, churl!
Hans Lorbass [bursts out]. Cursed be the churl that dog-like yields himself to thee. Yet I will be thy dog, that I may howl, for at least I have that right.
King. No one shall speak of them,--neither I nor thou. The door is closed upon the past. All is done, is spent, and these feathers are nothing but a mark of my violent downfall, a monument to my dead longing.
Hans Lorbass. It is dead, then? It lives and cries aloud,--so loud that even the deaf could hear! Have courage, wield the magic power, and call thy unknown bride to thee.
King. Here?