King. Well?
Queen. Witte, Witte!
King. So piteously thou callest me, child! Thus piteously stands thy image in my soul's midst.
Queen. No more.
King. Well, then?
Queen. It is past. It must be past. Alas, how many a night have I pictured myself thy happiness, thy refuge, thy solace,--oh, pardon me! I had so much love to give to thee, so wholly lay my trembling soul within thy hand, such streams of light and glory leaped and played about me,--how could I know that what was so precious and so dear to me was naught at all to thee? Now I know how I have deceived myself; it grieves me sorely, and for many a year must I endure and sorrow. But to thee I grant the one gift left for me to give,--thy freedom. Take it, but ah, believe, I love thee!
King. Shall I be free, Maria?
Queen. Free; and more than that; thou shalt be happy. I shall know thee so glad, so radiant, so buoyantly poised heaven-high above all black necessity, whether here or far away, so unfalteringly turned toward the light upon the eagle wing of thy desire, that a reflection of thy radiance shall laugh into my lonely darkness.
King [takes her head between his hands and gazes at her steadily]. Listen, Maria! Should I say: I thank thee,--how raw 'twould sound!... And yet I feel thy meaning; as I drank in thy words, there slipped away and fell from my breast a ... Maria, thou art weeping!
Queen [smiling]. What slipped away, what fell? Thou art silent again.