_King_. Hast called me? Was that it? I knew it well. _Queen_. And if thou hadst not called-- _King_. Thou wouldst still have come, to see that no thief was gliding up the steps of thy throne [_aside_] alone, alas, alone--a thief of fortune, such as pious women like thyself, whose longings form but to be granted, brew spectre-like in their porridge pots. Wouldst thou not? _Queen_. For God's sake, what burns there? _King_. My manhood! Let it burn, child, let it burn! While I sat piously amid thy flock, there came a flame of piety upon me, burning more fiercely than myself, and burned and burned, until I was consumed with piety.... But thou, woman, that thou mayst know how in this dark hour thou hast snatched the cup of freedom from my longing lips,--I ask thee, woman, what have I done to thee? What have I done, that thy love-longing--I will not mock, else I had said love-lust--should force me, who was naught to thee, to grovel in the dust here at thy feet? Now hast thou what thou wilt. Here stands thy spouse, the second father of thy son,--thy mock, thy love potion and thy sleeping-draught, catch-poll of the great, butt of the small, and to both a vent for every scorn. Yes, gaze upon me in my pride! This am I, this hast thou made of me!--speak, then, and stand not staring into space! Strike back, defend thyself; that is the way with happy married folk.... Well? _Queen_. Witte, Witte! _King_. Well? _Queen_. Witte, Witte! _King_. So piteously thou callest me, child! Thus piteously stands thy image in my soul's midst. _Queen_. No more. _King_. Well, then? _Queen_. It is past. It must be past. Alas, how many a night have I pictured myself thy happiness, thy refuge, thy solace,--oh, pardon me! I had so much love to give to thee, so wholly lay my trembling soul within thy hand, such streams of light and glory leaped and played about me,--how could I know that what was so precious and so dear to me was naught at all to thee? Now I know how I have deceived myself; it grieves me sorely, and for many a year must I endure and sorrow. But to thee I grant the one gift left for me to give,--thy freedom. Take it, but ah, believe, I love thee! _King_. Shall I be free, Maria? _Queen_. Free; and more than that; thou shalt be happy. I shall know thee so glad, so radiant, so buoyantly poised heaven-high above all black necessity, whether here or far away, so unfalteringly turned toward the light upon the eagle wing of thy desire, that a reflection of thy radiance shall laugh into my lonely darkness. _King_ [_takes her head between his hands and gazes at her steadily_]. Listen, Maria! Should I say: I thank thee,--how raw 'twould sound!... And yet I feel thy meaning; as I drank in thy words, there slipped away and fell from my breast a ... Maria, thou art weeping! _Queen_ [_smiling_]. What slipped away, what fell? Thou art silent again.