_Out of a freshly dug grave on the right an invisible hand throws clods of earth, but stops as_ Coelestin _enters on the right, led by two young men. Behind them_, Miklas _and an old_ Fisherman. _Fisherman_. This is the place, my lord. _Coelestin_ [_much aged and broken_]. I thank thee, friend! That is the tower? _Fisherman_ [_nodding_]. And above it cross on cross. _Coelestin_. Let me rest a little, I am dizzy. The way hither was hard. Yet I rejoice to know that worn-out as I am, I still may serve our young Prince. And more than him, our dear and holy lady, our Queen. Else surely I had--remained at home. _Fisherman_ [_has meantime shaken the door of the tower_]. The tower seems empty. The door is barred. There was a storm quite late.... Who knows where she wanders now, scouting for new graves. _Coelestin_. Who speaks of graves? Fie! The hour will ripen all too soon for us to yield our withered sinful bodies to the worms. Build a fire for me, since we must wait. The evening lowers and this March wind blows cold on me. Make haste. [_To the old_ Fisherman.] Run thou to our sovereign Lady, who so honored thee as to share thy hut, and tell her I beg her wait therein until we come to fetch her as she said. _Fisherman_. Yes, my lord. [_Goes out._] _Coelestin_ [_to_ Miklas _while the young men build the fire_]. And thou, Miklas, tell us thy story again and on thy faith. It was last night the strangers knocked at thy door? _Miklas_. Yes, my lord. _Coelestin_. How many? _Miklas_. Two. _Coelestin_. And thou didst open it? _Miklas_. Yes. I had lain a long time in bed, but I arose. The moonlight fell bright through the window-bars. I saw them and was afraid. _Coelestin_. Why? _Miklas_. The first had long white hair hanging all wild and shaggy about a gloomy brow. One leg was hacked off, and a wooden one replaced it. _Coelestin_. Thou will still--? _Miklas_. Whoever looked into that eye, must know, my lord: Hans Lorbass stood before me. _Coelestin_. And the other? _Miklas_. It is hard to say. _Coelestin_. Still thou knowest him? _Miklas_. As I know myself, my lord. _Coelestin_. Consider. Full fifteen years have flown since that hour when he slew the cruel Duke. _Miklas_. Yes, my lord. His step indeed was heavier, his face was paler; and a gnawed and ragged beard hung about his mouth, stiffened with blood and sweat. Yet it was he, our King, our star, at very thought of whom our hearts must leap, to whose heroic deed we sing triumphant songs,--it was he, and that I swear by God the Father. _Coelestin_. Go on.