For always. So you needn't keep yourself so frightfully in hand. (_He looks at her doubtfully_.) You needn't, really. (_He falls on his knees before her and hides his face in her lap_.) Beata (_stroking his hair_). "I knew a sad old tale of Tristram and Iseult"--How grey you've grown in these last few days! (_She kisses his hair_.) Don't get up yet--I want to look at you again--for the last time.--Only I can't see you--your face has been like a mask ever since yesterday.--Look at me just once as you used to--just once! Richard (_rising_). I've never changed to you. Beata. Haven't you?--Who knows?--We've grown old, you and I. There's a layer of ashes on our hearts--a layer of conventionality and good behaviour and weariness and disappointment.--Who knows what we were like before the fire went out? Not a trace is left to tell--not so much as a riband or a flower. The words are forgotten, the letters are destroyed, the emotions have faded. Here we sit like two ghosts on our own graves. (_Passionately_.) Oh, to go back just once to the old life, and then forget everything---- Richard. Do you really want to? Beata. You can work wonders--but not that! Richard. (_Draws out the letters, and opening one, begins to read it to her_.) "Rossitsch, June 13th, 1881. Two o'clock in the morning." Beata. What is that? Richard. Listen. (_Reading_.) "I don't want to sleep, dearest. The night is too bright and my happiness too great. The moonlight lies on Likowa, and already the dawn shows red through the network of elms. The blood beats like a hammer in my temples--I scarcely know how I am going to bear the riches of my new life. Oh, how I pray God to let me live it out beside you--not as your wife, that would be too wild a dream!--but as an unseen influence at your side, faint as the moonlight which rests upon your sleep, or as the first glow of dawn that wakes you to new endeavour." Beata. I must have been listening to Wagner. Let me see; did I really write that? (_She reads_.) "For I mean to make you the greatest among men, you, my discoverer and my deliverer--" That's not so bad, you know. (_Reads on_.) "If only heaven would let me die, and give you my life to live as well as your own." (_She rises suddenly with a strange look on her face_.) Richard. This letter and another have just been brought to me by--Meixner. If he had come yesterday we should have been saved. Now it is too late. Beata. Too late?--Oh, Richard, how ungrateful I've been! Why, every prayer of my youth has been granted--the long sad sweet dream at your side-- (_She breaks suddenly into laughter_.)