The Young Prince. Wait! I will kill thee! [He has grasped the sword in both hands, and thrusting at Hans, who does not see him, he wounds him on the hand.]
Hans Lorbass [laughing grimly]. The fiend torment--
The Young Prince. Thou bleedest--O me!
Hans Lorbass. The very weakness of this child avenges itself in death.
The Young Prince. Wilt thou not scold me! [Unfastening his neckerchief] Take my kerchief,--ah, please! Wrap it about thy hand. Quick!
Hans Lorbass. Is it intended for a sign to me to turn back in my path? The wish was there, but who knows when he cherished it, whether he was not so rent by torment, so quite unmanned as to harbor a thought that sprang therefrom? He must ... Yea, and I must. The hour will slip away.... [Drums sound in the distance.] Hark, hark! There it is,--the time has come. [Drums.] Again!
The Young Prince. Is that the signal?
Hans Lorbass. What signal?
The Young Prince. For the attack?
Hans Lorbass. Yes. For the attack and--