VERONIKA
Jan! Jan!

PIPER
He loves me.  He is happy.

VERONIKA
[passionately ]
  No! 
Without me?—­No.

PIPER
  He has not even once
Called you.

VERONIKA
[staggering]
Ah, ah! how cruel!  ’Tis the spell,
The spell.

PIPER
[touching his heart]
—­You hurt me, here.  What makes it, Woman?—­
Would you not have him happy?

VERONIKA
  O my God!

PIPER
[offering her water]
Drink here.  Take heart.  O Woman, they must stay! 
’T is better so.  No, no, I mock thee not. 
Thou foldest all about me like the Dark
That holds the stars.  I would I were thy child.|

VERONIKA
But I will find him.  I will find him—­

PIPER
  No,
It must not be!  Their life is bound with mine. 
If I be harmed, they perish.  Keep that word,
Go, go!

VERONIKA
[passionately]
  My longing will bring back my Own.

PIPER
Ah, long not so.

VERONIKA
  Yes, it will bring him back! 
He breathes.  And I will wish him home to me,
Till my heart break!

PIPER
Hearts never break in Hamelin. 
Go, then; and teach those other ones to long;
Wake up those dead!

VERONIKA
  Peace.  I shall draw him home.

PIPER
Not till he cries for thee.

VERONIKA
  Oh, that will be
Soon,—­soon.

PIPER
[gently]
  Remember,—­if one word of thine
Set on the hounds to track me down and slay me,
They will be lost forever; they would die,—­
They, who are in my keeping.

VERONIKA
  Yea, I hear. 
But he will come . . . oh, he will come to me,
Soon,—­soon.

[She goes, haltingly, and disappears along the road to Hamelin.—­The PIPER, alone, stands spell-bound, breathing hard, and looking after her.  Then he turns his head and comes down, doggedly.  Again he pauses.  With a sudden sharp effort he turns, and crosses with passionate appeal to the shrine, his arm uplifted towards the carven Christ as if he warded off some accusation.  His speech comes in a torrent.

PIPER
I will not, no, I will not, Lonely Man! 
I have them in my hand.  I have them all—­
All—­all!  And I have lived unto this day. 
You understand . . .
[He waits as if for some reply]
You know what men they are. 
And what have they to do with such as these? 
Think of those old as death, in body and heart,
Hugging their wretched hoardings, in cold fear
Of moth and rust!—­While these miraculous ones,
Like golden creatures made of sunset-cloud,
Go out forever,—­every day, fade by
With music and wild stars!—­Ah, but You know. 
The hermit told me once.  You loved them, too. 
But I know more than he, how You must love them: 
Their laughter, and their bubbling, skylark words
To cool Your heart.  Oh, listen, Lonely Man!—­