of meeting or the sorrow over our loss. But thou didst reflect and didst think that greater was the loss which thou hadst suffered than the joy of again seeing thy mother. If thy father on his bier knew this, verily he would be at peace—but my heart somewhat repines . . . Well, blame me not for these foolish tears, which I cannot restrain; O, I cannot—
Radúz.—No mother, thou art mistaken! My heart is not cold; I did not reflect as thou hast supposed: I will tell thee all— (A mournful strain is heard from within the palace.)
Nyola.—O, Radúz, not a word more now! Already they are carrying thy father to the funeral pyre—O, Radúz!
The courtiers appear in mourning, carrying the body of the deceased king on a bier, beneath a pall.
Radúz.—O grievous, dark, terrible hour! . . . Set down the bier, I pray, and grant me leave to kiss once more his face and hand . . . Father, my father!
The bier is set down upon the ground.
Nyola (Drawing back the pall).—Behold! Bid him farewell and check not thy tears!
Radúz (Throwing himself on the body).—O my father, press me to thy heart! I am suffering, dost thou hear? I am suffering bitterly! At the moment when I should have embraced thee, I dreamed amid torments . . . And now thy stony arms refuse to embrace me . . . O, I feel as if thou hadst repulsed me in anger! . . . and the ground seems to quake beneath me!
(Sinks, overcome, beside the bier).
Nyola.—Woe, he perishes! How could he die! Radúz, wouldst thou too die as suddenly as he and leave me in sheer bereavement? Why dost thou gaze upon me with glassy eyes as if thou didst not know me? I am thy mother, dear Radúz, and for thee I would contend desperately with death itself. (Kisses him passionately.)
Radúz (Repulsing her violently, with a loud cry) —Woe! Thou dost murder me!
Nyola.—What means that desperate cry and that yet more desperate gesture? And why dost thou feebly grasp thy brow and why dost thou gaze as if wrapt in dreams, in so terrible and unearthly a guise? . . . My child, speak; what is happening to thee?
Radúz.—I myself know not. . . . Here in my head a terrible anguish grasped me, and it seemed as if a string had snapped here, here in my heart, in my very heart. . . . And
