Rhoda.
Oh, yes!
Michaelis.
There are no words to tell of it.
Rhoda.
Yet tell me. I need to know. Believe me, I need to know!
Michaelis.
Slowly, groping for his words.
It was one morning in the fourth spring. We were back in the mountains again. It was lambing time, and I had been up all night. Just before sunrise, I sat down on a rock to rest. Then—it came.
Rhoda.