"Away, thou prince of Homburg, get thee back, Naught here for thee, away! The battle's field Will be our meeting place, when't pleases thee! No man obtains such favors in his dreams!" "The prince remains standing a moment with an expression of wonder before the door, then pondering descends from the terrace, laying his hand, in which he holds the glove, before his forehead, turns as soon as he is below and looks again toward the door." Out of this state the Hohenzollern returning awakens him. At the word "Arthur" the moonstruck prince collapses. "No better could a bullet have been aimed." Afterward of course he makes up some story in regard to his sleep walking, that he had slipped into the garden on account of the great heat. Only the princess's glove recalls to him what has happened in his sleep: "What is this dream so strange that I have dreamed? For all at once, with gold and silver gleaming, A royal castle flung its portals wide. While from the marble terraced heights above Thronged down to me the happy dancers all; Among them those my love has held most dear. Elector and electress, and--who is the third? --What name to call her?" For the name of the princess there is amnesia, as well as for the reason for his moon walking. Then he continues: "And he, the elector, with brow of mighty Zeus, A wreath of laurel holds within his hand. And pressing close before my very face Plucks from his neck the chain that's pendant there. His hand outstretched he sets it on my locks, My soul meanwhile enkindled high." Now again the complete forgetting of the loved one's name. He can only say: "High up, as though to deck the brow of fame, She lifts the wreath, on which the necklace swings, To crown a hero, so her purpose seems. With eager movement I my hands outstretch, No word, mere haste to seize it in my grasp. Down would I sink before her very feet. Yet, as the fragrance over valleys spread Is scattered by the wind's fresh blowing breath, Along the sloping terrace flees the throng. I tread the ramp--unending, far away It stretches up to heaven's very gate, I clutch to right, I clutch to left, and fear No one of all the treasures to secure, No one of all the dear ones to retain. In vain--the castle's door is rudely closed; A flash of brightness from within, then dark, The doors once more swing clatteringly together. And I awaking hold within my hand Naught but a glove, alas! as my reward, Torn from the arm of that sweet dream caught form A glove, ye Gods of power, only this!"