“I kiss the lips of no fair maid, Nor wet mine with the foaming wine Within the beaker’s gold. A cheek upon whose rose-leaf shade Mine eyes have lit a glow divine, A look which shyly seeketh mine,— These leave me still and cold. “Ah, come not in thy beauty’s glow, Señora, through yon terrace-door; I fear when thou art nigh! Cope and stole my shoulders know, The Virgin only I adore, And water-jugs hold comfort’s store; For ease to them I fly.” As he finished, Marianne came out on the balcony, dressed in black velvet and lace veil. She leaned over the balustrade and sang slowly and ironically: “Why tarry thus, thou holy man Beneath my window late or long? Dost pray for my soul’s weal?” Then suddenly, warmly and eagerly:— “Ah, flee, begone while yet you can! Your gleaming sword sticks forth so long. And plainly, spite your holy song, The spurs clank on your heel.” At these words the monk cast off his disguise, and Gösta Berling stood under the balcony in a knight’s dress of silk and gold. He heeded not the beauty’s warning, but climbed up one of the balcony supports, swung himself over the balustrade, and, just as Master Julius had arranged it, fell on his knees at the lovely Marianne’s feet. Graciously she smiled on him, and gave him her hand to kiss, and while the two young people gazed at one another, absorbed in their love, the curtain fell. And before her knelt Gösta Berling, with a face tender as a poet’s and bold as a soldier’s, with deep eyes, which glowed with wit and genius, which implored and constrained. Supple and full of strength was he, fiery and captivating. While the curtain went up and down, the two stood always in the same position. Gösta’s eyes held the lovely Marianne fast; they implored; they constrained. Then the applause ceased; the curtain hung quiet; no one saw them. Then the beautiful Marianne bent down and kissed Gösta Berling. She did not know why,—she had to. He stretched up his arms about her head and held her fast. She kissed him again and again. But it was the balcony, it was the moonlight, it was the lace veil, the knightly dress, the song, the applause, which were to blame. They had not wished it. She had not thrust aside the crowns which had hovered over her head, and spurned the millions which lay at her feet, out of love for Gösta Berling; nor had he already forgotten Anna Stjärnhök. No; they were blameless; neither of them had wished it. It was the gentle Löwenborg,—he with the fear in his eye and the smile on his lips,—who that day was curtain-raiser. Distracted by the memory of many sorrows, he noticed little of the things of this world, and had never learned to look after them rightly. When he now saw that Gösta and Marianne had taken a new position, he thought that it also belonged to the tableau, and so he began to drag on the curtain string. The two on the balcony observed nothing until a thunder of applause greeted them.