_Hans Lorbass_. What is the matter? _King_. Come here. The grave is ready, but it is not empty. Look down and tell me what thou callest it, crouched there gray in the sand, that leers at me with staring eyes. Is it a corpse? Is it a spirit? _Hans Lorbass_. Oh look at it! The badger is at work. Thou hast her now. _King_. The Burial-wife? [Hans Lorbass _nods._] _King_. Out with her! _Hans Lorbass_ [_stopping him_]. Listen to me. Thou knowest I have known her longer than thou. Leave her alone. She was wont to lie thus for hours and days, and heed no words nor prayers; but seemed as dead. She is proof then against all summons and all blows; but when her time comes, then her limbs will stir, and she will come up out of the grave. [Coelestin _and the train with the young_ Prince _enter._] _Coelestin_. There they stand! _King_ [_turning fiercely and raising his sword_]. What do you want? A quarrel? We two are snarling dogs. We blindly seize on everybody near. Now come on! Speak! _The Young Prince_. My father! _King_. Wha--? _The Young Prince_. My King! _King_ You would mock the man that fled from you? _The Young Prince_. Down on your knees and honor him as I do! _King_ [_dazed_]. Hans!... But stand up!... Am I King? A hapless wretch,--naught but my man, my sword, and that pot of soup there, to call my own. I have no more. My very crown, the gloomy throne of Gotland must be fought for anew; stand up my son. [_He raises him, and will embrace him, but suddenly pales, staring past the men in great agitation._] Hans! Dost thou see who stands there in the twilight of the wood--how spirit-like, how severed from this world--[_He shrieks._] [_Enter the_ Queen. _Behind her at a short distance, two of her women._] _Queen_. Witte! _King_. Go! I know thee not. And yet--I know thee. Thou art my--peace. Thou art ... Naught art thou more for me.... My body withers and my strength is fallen asunder. Therefore I may not say: "Thou art." ... Only "Thou wast." Still thou wast once of a surety--my wife. _Queen_. I am to-day--I am a thousandfold! Hast thou forgot what I promised thee the day thou gavest thyself with hesitation to my service? I search thy face. I know thou turnest wearied back to thy northern home. Dost thou forget then where a balsam is prepared to heal thy bruised feet, dost thou forget where a thousand arms reach out to greet their loved one? Knowest thou not where thy home stands and calls to thee? Knowest thou not how well-nigh breathless with its joy my smile says unto thee: "I charm thee not?" _King_. Nay, charm me not. I am not worthy. Life has seared me, and put a shameful kiss upon my brow. _Queen_. Then let me cool it with my health-bringing hand, and thou wilt never feel the scar again. _King_. How can I feel that scar or even the happiness after which I longed, now that those hours are past which knew thy love for me?