In a steady voice.
They mean what my aunt said this morning. They mean that your great hour has come.
Michaelis.
My hour! my hour!
He comes nearer, and speaks in a quieter tone.
I knew a young Indian once, a Hopi boy, who made songs and sang them to his people. One evening we sat on the roof of the chief's house and asked him to sing. He shook his head, and went away in the starlight. The next morning, I found him among the rocks under the mesa, with an empty bottle by his side.—He never sang again! Drunkenness had taken him. He never sang again, or made another verse.
Rhoda.
What has that to do with you? It's not—? You don't mean that you—?
Michaelis.
No. There is a stronger drink for such as I am!