"Why not?"
"The Christ wed Mary? The son the mother? No, though we are not what we represent, that would be impossible. I have become so accustomed to regard her as my mother that it would seem to me a profanation."
"But next winter, when the Play is over, it will be different."
"And you say this to me, Countess; you, after this morning?" cried Freyer, with a trembling voice. "Are you in earnest?"
"Certainly. I cannot expect you, for my sake, to neglect older claims upon your heart!"
"Countess, if I had older claims, would I have spoken to you as I did to-day, would the events have occurred which happened to-day? Can you believe such things of me? You are silent? Well, Countess, that may be the custom in your circle, but not in mine."
"Forgive me, Freyer!" stammered the lady, turning pale.
"Freyer shaded his eyes with his hand as if the sun dazzled him, in order to conceal his rising tears.
"For what are you looking?" asked the countess, who thought he was trying to see more distinctly.
He turned his face, eloquent with pain, full toward her. "I was looking to see where my dove had flown, I can no longer find her. Or was it all a dream?"