He points out of the window, at the sky flushed with sunset color.
Out there, at this moment, in city and country, souls, thousands upon thousands of souls, are dashing in pieces the cup that holds the wine of heaven, the wine of God's shed blood, and lifting the cups of passion and of love, that crown the feasting table of the children of this earth! Look! The very sky is blood-red with the lifted cups. And we two are in the midst of them. Listen what I sing there, on the hills of light in the sunset: "Oh, how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of my beloved!"
A song rises outside, loud and near at hand—Michaelis listens, his expression gradually changing from passionate excitement to brooding distress.
Vaguely, as the music grows fainter and dies away.
I—we were saying—.
He grasps her arm in nervous apprehension.
For God's sake, tell me.—Are there many people—waiting—out there?
Rhoda.
Hundreds, if not thousands.
Michaelis.