Anna Goldhair. Hans--dost thou know what the Queen says of me?
Hans Lorbass. Queens are no friends of thine; the women will have none of thee now. Thou'dst best befriend thyself, and be thine own queen. [He goes out.]
[Anna Goldhair cowers down again in the shadow of the throne. Then, from behind, the King.]
King [coming forward]. When I was yet a little boy I loved to put my ear down to the earth and shudder at the danger coming toward me in the thunder of the horses' hoofs. Even so now, the voice of the north wind wails aloud in the chimney how grim-visored death stands threatening upon my outer wall.... Was it for this the sea once rolled in music to my feet, for this my drawn sword thrilled in my hand, for this a woman beckoned me from out the clouds,--that here in this corner my young and lusty body should rot away to naught? Patience yet! I know my revenge! Though every broil burst out here, though my life itself were forfeit, though I became a very brute, scurvy and bleeding, goaded to despair, yet justice should be done! Only wait! I will die right joyfully, but fight--I will not. [He sees Anna Goldhair.] What, Goldhair, thou awake? Come here!--Come, I command thee! Thou wast no joyous guest at the feast, I warrant. Nor I.... Do not speak, Goldhair.... Hush! Lest they believe I vaunt my sin. But then, what they believe is naught to me. Come, give me thy hand. Thou art fettered to me,--yet thou wast only a plaything, only a splinter of glass wherein I saw my image, only the last string of a broken lute.... Lean down. I will entrust something to thy care: here, under my doeskin corselet I carry a treasure. It is not much to see, neither gold nor precious stone,--only a feather. I won it once, it was a prize,--that was long since.... Enough, that it was precious to me. If I should come to harm to-day, take it and throw it in the fire. Wilt thou?
Anna Goldhair. Yes, sire.
King. I thank thee. [Caressing her.] Why dost thou shroud thy pretty hair with a grey veil? It is still golden. Dost thou thus seek to shroud dreams of the past? What look'st thou at so? [Whispers.] Is thy sorrow for thy Queen.
[Anna Goldhair hides her face in her hands, shuddering.]
King. Then cease thy grief ... methinks the sword already clangs without to bring thee peace.
Hans Lorbass. Master.
King. Thou, Hans, here in my tower, which thou hast so avoided? What brings thee here?