Radúz.—O, terrible words! . . . Mahulena, Mahulena! (Awakens with a start. The tree darkens.)
Mahulena (In a dying voice). —Ah! . . .
Radúz (Starting to his feet)—Dreams full of horror! . . . Blood . . . her blood? Whose? That name . . . ah, again it is extinguished as a spark on which one tramples. . . . O terrible suffering in my head! . . . There was a thought here, here behind this brow. . . . But again it has flown away; again it is empty here and desolate! O frightful suffering! Grief and woe! (Throws himself on the ground.)
Nyola (Steps forth with Radovid from the hiding place, holding the axe.).—My son Radúz! (Dropping the axe and hastening towards him). What tortures thee and is killing thee? O, torture not thyself, my soul! My comforting star!
Radúz.—Comforting star! Those words, mother, say them once more! . . . I have already heard them at some time! Where and when? O, if thou knowest, then tell me quickly; perchance like a chain I can draw up the rest, which here, here behind this brow has become extinguished! Those words, mother, where have I heard them?
Nyola.—Thou tremblest like a leaf! Those words are simple, and thou mayst have heard them many a time! Perchance I myself have said them to thee many a time when thou wert a child and some childish grief troubled thee.
Radúz.—No, no! O memory, my memory! Mother, do but aid me; I will, I will, I must recover it! My very life and happiness depend upon it! And that name, which the tree whispers me in my dreams! At least tell me that name! Ah, you know it, but you wish to torture me; you know not what compassion means: thou, mother, art hard; and thou too, Radovid!
Radovid.—My prince! (Covers his face.)
Nyola (Weeping).—That thou shouldst do me such injustice, my son! I perish and die, seeing thee suffer so, and I would give my heart’s blood if I could heal thee! Woe upon me!
Radúz.—Forgive me, forgive me, mother! What have I said? I know not what I have said. And yet thy words sounded like an echo. . . . Thou didst speak of blood and of salvation. Hold! Now I know . . . thus the tree also whispered. Blood? It desires my blood? . . . O, I will give it!
Radovid.—Thy mind wanders, prince!
Nyola.—This it is impossible to bear; this it is impossible to endure! My son, go, go hence . . . Cursèd be that tree!
