FORGAEL. Oh, no! DECTORA. And if there is, If there be half a hundred more, what matter? I’ll never give another thought to it; No, no, nor half a thought; but do not speak. Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted, Their heads being turned with praise and flattery; And that is why their lovers are afraid To tell them a plain story. FORGAEL. That’s not the story; But I have done so great a wrong against you, There is no measure that it would not burst. I will confess it all. DECTORA. What do I care, Now that my body has begun to dream, And you have grown to be a burning sod In the imagination and intellect? If something that’s most fabulous were true— If you had taken me by magic spells, And killed a lover or husband at my feet— I would not let you speak, for I would know That it was yesterday and not to-day I loved him; I would cover up my ears, As I am doing now. [_A pause._] Why do you weep? FORGAEL. I weep because I’ve nothing for your eyes But desolate waters and a battered ship. DECTORA. O, why do you not lift your eyes to mine? FORGAEL. I weep—I weep because bare night’s above, And not a roof of ivory and gold. DECTORA. I would grow jealous of the ivory roof, And strike the golden pillars with my hands. I would that there was nothing in the world But my beloved—that night and day had perished, And all that is and all that is to be, All that is not the meeting of our lips. FORGAEL. I too, I too. Why do you look away? Am I to fear the waves, or is the moon My enemy? DECTORA. I looked upon the moon, Longing to knead and pull it into shape That I might lay it on your head as a crown. But now it is your thoughts that wander away, For you are looking at the sea. Do you not know How great a wrong it is to let one’s thought Wander a moment when one is in love? [_He has moved away. She follows him. He is looking out over the sea, shading his eyes._] Why are you looking at the sea? FORGAEL. Look there! DECTORA. What is there but a troop of ash-grey birds That fly into the west? FORGAEL. But listen, listen! DECTORA. What is there but the crying of the birds? FORGAEL. If you’ll but listen closely to that crying You’ll hear them calling out to one another With human voices. DECTORA. O, I can hear them now. What are they? Unto what country do they fly? FORGAEL. To unimaginable happiness. They have been circling over our heads in the air, But now that they have taken to the road We have to follow, for they are our pilots; And though they’re but the colour of grey ash, They’re crying out, could you but hear their words, ‘There is a country at the end of the world Where no child’s born but to outlive the moon.’ [_The SAILORS come in with AIBRIC. They are in great excitement._