The mandolin twangs out.

Lamond. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life.

Seelchen.  Ah! but I do not love.

Lamond.  When a feather dies, is it not loving the wind—­the unknown?  When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow.  If darkness and light did not change, could we breathe?  Child!  To live is to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [And as she draws nearer] See!  To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the little grey flower, to climb down!  It has wings; it has flown—­again you must climb; it shivers, ’tis but air in your hand—­you must crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not there—­for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its wings is all you shall catch.  But your eyes shall be shining, your cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting—­Ah! little heart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes—­there it is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall you grasp that wanton thing—­but life shall be lovely. [His voice dies to a whisper.  He stretches out his arms]

Seelchen. [Touching his breast] I will come.

Lamond. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me!

Seelchen.  I love!

The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all glamorous; and they pass through.  Illumined by the glimmer of the lamp the Youth of the wine Hour is seen again.  And slowly to the chords of his mandolin he begins to sing: 

         “The windy hours through darkness fly
          Canst hear them little heart? 
          New loves are born, and old loves die,
          And kissing lips must part.

“The dusky bees of passing years
Canst see them, soul of mine—­
From flower and flower supping tears,
And pale sweet honey wine?

[His voice grown strange and passionate]

          “O flame that treads the marsh of time. 
          Flitting for ever low. 
          Where, through the black enchanted slime. 
          We, desperate, following go
          Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! 
          Into dark air above. 
          The golden gipsy thins away—­
          So has it been with love!”

While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies.  It falls dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands.  But as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp goes out—­the wine Horn becomes shadow.  Then from the doorway of the Inn, in the shrill grey light Seelchen comes forth.  She is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the powdery whiteness of her face.

Seelchen.  My heart is old.