Act Third

Evening. Bright moonlight. Coloured lanterns are hung about the trees.
In the background are covered tables with bottles, glasses, biscuits, etc.
From the house, which is lighted up from top to bottom, subdued music
and singing are heard during the following scene. SVANHILD stands on
the verandah.

FALK comes from the right with some books and a portfolio under his arm.

The PORTER follows with a portmanteau and knapsack.

FALK.
That's all, then?

PORTER.
Yes, sir, all is in the pack,
But just a satchel, and the paletot.

FALK.
Good; when I go, I'll take them on my back.
Now off. See, this is the portfolio.

PORTER.
It's locked, I see.

FALK.
Locked, Peter.

PORTER.
Good, sir.

FALK.
Pray,
Make haste and burn it.

PORTER.
Burn it?

FALK.
Yes, to ash--
[Smiling.
With every draft upon poetic cash;
As for the books, you're welcome to them.

PORTER.
Nay,
Such payment is above a poor man's earning.
But, sir, I'm thinking, if you can bestow
Your books, you must have done with all your learning?

FALK.
Whatever can be learnt from books I know,
And rather more.

PORTER.
More? Nay, that's hard I doubt!

FALK.
Well, now be off; the carriers wait without.
Just help them load the barrow ere you go.
[The PORTER goes out to the left.

FALK [approaching SVANHILD who comes to meet him].
One moment's ours, my Svanhild, in the light
Of God and of the lustrous summer night.
How the stars glitter thro' the leafage, see,
Like bright fruit hanging on the great world-tree.
Now slavery's last manacle I slip,
Now for the last time feel the wealing whip;
Like Israel at the Passover I stand,
Loins girded for the desert, staff in hand.
Dull generation, from whose sight is hid
The Promised Land beyond that desert flight,
Thrall tricked with knighthood, never the more knight,
Tomb thyself kinglike in the Pyramid,--
I cross the barren desert to be free.
My ship strides on despite an ebbing sea;
But there the Legion Lie shall find its doom,
And glut one deep, dark, hollow-vaulted tomb.
[A short pause; he looks at her and takes her hand.
You are so still!

SVANHILD.
So happy! Suffer me,
O suffer me in silence still to dream.
Speak you for me; my budding thoughts, grown strong,
One after one will burgeon into song,
Like lilies in the bosom of the stream.

FALK.
O say it once again, in truth's pure tone
Beyond the fear of doubt, that thou art mine!
O say it, Svanhild, say--

SVANHILD [throwing herself on his neck].
Yes, I am thine!

FALK.
Thou