The quivering mist rolls into crimson clouds and scales the craggy cliffs; it dies softly away into the blue depths of the infinite sky. The valley glitters like a sea of light, throws back the dewy sunshine in a dazzling glare, for every hand is armed with sharp and sparkling blades and points of steel—and millions are seen pouring into its depths, numberless as they will pour into the vale of the Last Judgment.
A cathedral church in the castle of the Holy Trinity.
Lords, senators, dignitaries are seen seated on either side, each under the banner of a king or knight. Bands of nobles stand behind the banners. The Archbishop is in front of the high altar, a choir of stoled Priests kneel behind and around it. The Man appears, pauses a few moments on the threshold of the church, then advances slowly up the aisle to the Archbishop, holding a banner in his hand.
Chorus of Priests. O God of our fathers! we, Thy last priests, pray in the last church of Thy Son now standing upon earth for the faith of our ancestors! Deliver us from our enemies, O Lord our God!
First Count. See with what pride Count Henry regards us.
Second Count. As if the whole universe were at his feet.
Third Count. And yet he has done nothing but cut his way through the camp of the peasants at night!
First Count. He left one hundred, nay, it is reported, two hundred of their men dead upon the place of combat.
Second Count. Let us object to his appointment as general-in-chief.