Yes, what’s the use of plying whip and spur When there is not a penny of reward For him who tears him from the festal board, And mounts, and dashes headlong to perdition? Such doing for the deed’s sake asks a knight, And knighthood’s now an idle superstition. That was your meaning, possibly? SVANHILD. Quite right. Look at that fruit tree in the orchard close,— No blossom on its barren branches blows. You should have seen last year with what brave airs It staggered underneath its world of pears. FALK [_uncertain_]. No doubt, but what’s the moral you impute? SVANHILD [_with finesse_]. O, among other things, the bold unreason Of modern Zacharies who seek for fruit. If the tree blossom’d to excess last season, You must not crave the blossoms back in this. FALK. I knew you’d find your footing in the ways Of old Romance. SVANHILD. Yes, modern virtue is Of quite another stamp. Who now arrays Himself to battle for the truth? Who’ll stake His life and person fearless for truth’s sake? Where is the hero? FALK [_looking keenly at her_]. Where is the Valkyria? SVANHILD [_shaking her head_]. Valkyrias find no market in this land! When the faith lately was assailed in Syria, Did you go out with the crusader-band? No, but on paper you were warm and willing,— And sent the “Clerical Gazette” a shilling. [_Pause._ FALK _is about to retort, but checks himself, and goes into the garden._ SVANHILD. [_After watching him a moment, approaches him and asks gently:_ Falk, are you angry? FALK. No, I only brood,— SVANHILD [_with thoughtful sympathy_]. You seem to be two natures, still at feud,— Unreconciled— FALK. I know it well. SVANHILD [_impetuously_]. But why? FALK [_losing self-control_]. Why, why? Because I hate to go about With soul bared boldly to the vulgar eye, As Jock and Jennie hang their passions out; To wear my glowing heart upon my sleeve, Like women in low dresses. You, alone, Svanhild, you only,—you, I did believe,— Well, it is past, _that_ dream, for ever flown.—