CHANTECLER [Wildly.] Yes!  Yes! [But suddenly leaving her side he raises his head and in a ringing voice.] Cock-a-doodle-doo!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Taken aback.] Why are you crowing?

CHANTECLER
As a warning to myself,—­for thrice have I denied the thing I love!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
And what is that?

CHANTECLER
My life’s work! [To PATOU.] Up and about!  Come, let us go!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
What are you going to do?

CHANTECLER
Follow my calling.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
But what night is there for you to rout?

CHANTECLER
The night of the eyelid!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Pointing toward the growing glory of the dawn.] Very well, you will rouse sleepers—­

CHANTECLER
And Saint Peter!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
But can you not see that Day has risen without the benefit of your crowing?

CHANTECLER
I am more sure of my destiny than of the daylight before my eyes.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Pointing at the NIGHTINGALE who has already half disappeared into the earth.] Your faith can no more return to life than can that dead bird.

[From the tree above their heads suddenly rings forth the heart-stirring, limpid, characteristic note:  Tio!  Tio!]

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Struck with amazement.] Is it another singing?

PATOU
[With quivering ear.] And singing still better, if possible.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Looking up in a sort of terror at the foliage, and then down at the little grave.] Another takes up the song when this one disappears?

THE VOICE
In the forest must always be a Nightingale!

CHANTECLER [With exaltation.] And in the soul a faith so faithful that it comes back even after it has been slain.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
But if the Sun is climbing up the sky?

CHANTECLER
There must have been left in the air some power from my yesterday’s song.

[Flights of noiseless grey wings pass among the trees.]

THE OWLS
[Hooting joyfully.] He kept still!

PATOU [Raising his head and looking after them.] The Owls, fleeing from the newly risen light, are coming home to the woods.

THE OWLS
[Returning to their holes in the old trees.] He kept still!

CHANTECLER [With all his strength come back to him.] The proof that I was serving the cause of light when I sang is that the Owls are glad of my silence. [Going to the PHEASANT-HEN, with defiance in his mien.] I make the Dawn appear, and I do more than that!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Choking.] You do—­

CHANTECLER On grey mornings, when poor creatures waking in the twilight dare not believe in the day, the bright copper of my song takes the place of the sun! [Turning to go.] Back to our work!