Lamond.  Will you not come, then, little soul?

Seelchen.  Always to dance?

Lamond:  Not so!

The shutters of the houses are suddenly thrown wide.  In a lighted room on one aide of the Inn are seen two pale men and a woman, amongst many clicking machines.  On the other side of the Inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half clothed, making chains.

Seelchen. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look —­all!  What are they making?

In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines out, and in it is seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in gold-cloth studded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face, holding in one hand a glass of golden wine.

Seelchen.  It is beautiful.  What is it?

Lamond.  Luxury.

Seelchen.  What is it standing on?  I cannot see.

     Unseen, the wine HORN’S mandolin twangs out.

Lamond.  For that do not look, little soul.

Seelchen.  Can it not walk? [He shakes his head] Is that all they make here with their sadness?

     But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the
     houses; the door of the Inn grows dark.

Lamond.  What is it, then, you would have?  Is it learning?  There are books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars! [But Seelchen shakes her head] There is religion so deep that no man knows what it means. [But Seelchen shakes her head] There is religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle.  We have everything.

Seelchen.  Is God here?

Lamond.  Who knows?  Is God with your goats? [But Seelchen shakes her head] What then do you want?

Seelchen.  Life.

     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]