he will again come to that tree which sprang up here so miraculously at the time of my husband’s burial. How is it that that mysterious poplar lures him with such unheard-of power?
Radovid.—Thou speakest of enchantment, lady, and I think that thou art not mistaken. That poplar is not like other trees. Its sudden growth is as enigmatic as its whole existence. When I see it from afar, it arouses within me the picture of some veiled woman, mourning and waiting somewhere near the road for someone who long has failed to come; and if I glance at it from near by, I imagine that it longs desperately to extend its branches even up to the windows of the room in which Radúz strangely dreams: I have the fancy that the entire poplar is a single eye and continually gazes fervently. And thus it suddenly occurred to my mind that perchance there lingers in that tree the soul of that mysterious maiden about whom I heard on my return from that mournful journey which I made along the border, proclaiming the death of the king.
Nyola.—Dost thou speak of that crazed maiden who at the funeral rites so vexed me? The very next day I had them seek her everywhere, but she had vanished as suddenly and as strangely as this tree suddenly and strangely appeared. I too have already felt the suspicion which thou hast now expressed. O, if I but knew that I were not mistaken, that through enchantment her whole soul were perchance in that poplar—then with my own hand I should overthrow it! This much I know clearly, that all my unhappiness proceeds from that cursed land where Radúz moaned in fetters. That maiden followed him thence, and with her came that evil which I now endure!
Radovid.—Take heed lest thou do her wrong. At least she showed no hatred, as thou thyself has told me. On the contrary she spoke of love, but in tears, despairingly.
Nyola.—It is all a riddle; the whole story is a mystery! But this I know, and everyone suspects, that this tree somehow has a share in my son’s madness. Why then should I long delay! I will have the poplar felled.
Radovid.—O, be not rash, my queen. Who knows what consequences may result from this? Radúz so passionately loves that tree, and all the people believe that it is sacred. No one approaches it without a sign of respect, and Radúz will not even permit that any one approach too near it; he himself crowns it with the most beautiful flowers. Perchance he is walking even now in the garden, to pluck flowers wherewith to adorn it.
