[_She goes to the summer-house and looks out; he follows._ You listen—? SVANHILD. To another voice, that sings. Hark! every evening when the sun’s at rest, A little bird floats hither on beating wings,— See there—it darted from its leafy nest— And, do you know, it is my faith,—as oft As God makes any songless soul, He sends A little bird to be her friend of friends, And sing for ever in her garden-croft. FALK [_picking up a stone_]. Then must the owner and the bird be near, Or its song’s squandered on a stranger’s ear. SVANHILD. Yes, that is true; but I’ve discovered mine. Of speech and song I am denied the power, But when it warbles in its leafy bower, Poems flow in upon my brain like wine— Ah, yes,—they fleet—they are not to be won— [FALK _throws the stone._ SVANHILD _screams._ O God, you’ve hit it! Ah, what have you done! [_She hurries out to the right and then quickly returns._ O pity! pity! FALK [_in passionate agitation_]. No,—but eye for eye, Svanhild, and tooth for tooth. Now you’ll attend No further greetings from your garden-friend, No guerdon from the land of melody. That is my vengeance: as you slew, I slay. SVANHILD. I slew? FALK. You slew. Until this very day, A clear-voiced song-bird warbled in my soul; See,—now one passing bell for both may toll— You’ve killed it! SVANHILD. Have I? FALK. Yes, for you have slain My young, high-hearted, joyous exultation— [_Contemptuously._ By your betrothal! SVANHILD. How! But pray, explain—! FALK. O, it’s in full accord with expectation; He gets his licence, enters orders, speeds to A post,—as missionary in the West— SVANHILD [_in the same tone_]. A pretty penny, also, he succeeds to;— For it is Lind you speak of—? FALK. You know best Of whom I speak. SVANHILD [_with a subdued smile_]. As the bride’s sister, true, I cannot help— FALK. Great God! It is not you—? SVANHILD.