Then came out old Salera with Athenais,--seized on ice for fire, and took his cold coin for warm,--praised her like a man, and his son like a father,--and said, as in a play, There comes himself. "Here, son," said he, "I set before thee thy happiness, if thou canst deserve it." Carlos had lost Lilia's heart,--his father's wish, the might of beauty, the omnipotence of loving beauty, stood before him, his longing and the thought of cruelty toward this goddess, and finally a world within him, which stood so near to her sun, prevailed over a double fidelity;--he sank on his knee before her, and said, "I am guiltless, if I am happy." The pair go off on one side; Salera on the other, and encounters Lilia, whose hand he takes, with the words, "You, as a friend of my house and son, certainly take the deepest interest in his latest happiness as the possessor of Athenais." So ended the third act, which, by its unjust, all-distorting allusions, filled and fired Albano with an exasperated desire for the end, merely that he might call Roquairol to account for this assassin-like brandishing of the tragic dagger. "The old fellow,"[131] said Gaspard, laughing, "fancies he is painting me too herein; I wish, however, he would take stronger colors." Before the fourth act commenced, the Spaniard threw up his left hand, and the black jay spoke immediately: "Sin punishes sin, and the foe the foe; untamable is love, untamable also vengeance. See, now comes the man whom they no more love, and brings with him his wounds and his wrath." There stood Hiort, as if before his grave, which drew down his head,--weeping and drinking enormously,--soft evening tones of music melted away with his dissolving life. "Ah, so it is," cried he, out of a deep, agonized breast,--"only throw them away at length, the two last roses of life:[132] too many bees and thorns lurk in them; they draw thy blood and give thee poison-- O, how I loved! thou Almighty One on high, how I loved!--but ah, not thee! And so now I stand empty and poor and old: nothing, nothing is left me,-not a single heart,--no, not my own: that is already gone down into the grave. The wick is drawn out of my life, and it runs away in darkness. O ye children of men! ye stupid children of men! why do ye then believe that there is still any love here below? Look at me, I have none. An airy colored ribbon of love, a rainbow, draws itself out and winds itself around under us shifting clouds, as if it would bind the clouds and bear them. Ridiculous! it is itself cloud and mere falling weather,--in the beginning glisten gay drops of gladness, then dash down black drops of rain!"