Felsman. [With fierce longing] Am I then no one?

Seelchen.  Thou?

     [The scene darkens with evening]

See!  Sleep has stolen the day!  It is night already.

     There come the female shadow forms of sleep, in grey cobweb
     garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her.

Seelchen.  Are you Sleep?  Dear Sleep!

Smiling, she holds out her arms to Felsman.  He takes her swaying form.  They vanish, encircled by the forms of sleep.  It is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly grown bright.  Then on his rock, to a faint gaping the goatherd sings: 

         “My goat, my little speckled one. 
          My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling. 
          Let moon and wind and golden sun
          And stars beyond all telling
          Make, every day, a sweeter grass. 
          And multiply thy leaping! 
          And may the mountain foxes pass
          And never scent thee sleeping! 
          Oh!  Let my pipe be clear and far. 
          And let me find sweet water! 
          No hawk nor udder-seeking jar
          Come near thee, little daughter! 
          May fiery rocks defend, at noon,
          Thy tender feet from slipping! 
          Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon—­
          Great Master, Goat-God—­skipping!”

There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-Good Pan; and with a long wail of the pipe the goatherd boy is silent.  Then the moon fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the false dawn creeping up, Seelchen is seen rising from the side of the sleeping Felsman.  The goatherd boy has gone; but by the rock stands the Shepherd of the cow Horn in his dock.

Seelchen.  Years, years I have slept.  My spirit is hungry. [Then as she sees the Shepherd of the cow Horn standing there] I know thee now—­Life of the earth—­the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the taste of thee, and all thy music.  I have passed thee and gone by. [She moves away]

Felsman. [Waking] Where wouldst thou go?

Seelchen.  To the edge of the world.

Felsman. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt not leave me!

     [But against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against
     solidity]

Seelchen.  Friend!  The time is on me.

Felsman.  Were my kisses, then, too rude?  Was I too dull?

Seelchen.  I do not regret.

     The Youth of the wine Horn is seen suddenly standing opposite
     the motionless Shepherd of the cow Horn; and his mandolin twangs
     out.