First Priest of Isis (to his brothers). A house of worship. How the awe of man persists. I thought I detected the rhythm of melody here.
Second Priest (tall and severely garbed, yet in the rich colors of his order). And I. It is melody. I feel the waves.
Third Priest (signing in the direction of the organist). There is the musician. He is arranging something. And here is a very present reminder of one of our earthly stupidities. We worshiped the forerunner of that in our day. (He motions to the church cat who strolls by with great dignity. They smile).
The Cat (surveying them with indifferent eyes). At least I am alive.
First Priest (a master of astrology). Small comfort. You will be dead within the year. I see the rock that ends you. Then no more airs for you.
The Monk of the Thebaid (to himself). This is a religious edifice—heavily material and of small pomp—christian, possibly. That spirit yonder (he surveys the minister of St. Giles) was also a priest of sorts, I take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They give themselves airs because of the thin memory of them and of their rites that endures in the world.
The Minister of St. Giles (surveying the monk). A sombre flagellant. I wonder has he outgrown his earthly illusion. (He approaches). Brother, do I not meet an emancipated spirit?
The Monk. You do. Centuries of observation have taught me what earthly search could not. I smile at the folly of this. (He waves an inclusive hand about him).
The Minister. And I, I also—though I was of stern faith in my day, and of this very creed—even now I suspect some discoverable power worthy of worship. My mere persistence causes me to wonder though it does not explain itself.
The Monk. Nor does mine to me, nor the persistence of their seeming reality to them. (He points through the transparent walls of the church to where outside moving streams of shadows—automobiles, belated wagons, and pedestrians are to be seen—and to the lovers). Yet there is no answer. They have their faith, futile as it is. A greater darkness has fallen on you and me. Endless persistence for us if we must, let us say, but merging at last into what?