Nyola.—Art thou too led astray by enchantment? O, how I hate it, that tree! Verily it already seems to me that I am no longer mistress in my own house nor mother of my own son! The people have more honor for that tree than for me, and my son cleaves to it with almost an idolatrous love, and for that poplar forgets me. When I detain himin the palace, sitting beside him, and speak with him, and kiss his hair; then, Radovid, I observe with agony that in his absent mood he scarcely sees me or hears me, that his eyes do but follow the shadow of the poplar, which like a dark serpent creeps ingratiatingly along the white tiling of the hall to his feet; and should a cloud flit over the sun and the shadow of the tree thus vanish, then Radúz sighs, sighs—O, Radovid, how can I rid myself of this curse? Yet I know the way, I know! Here in this bush lies my salvation; it is a large, heavy axe: it has long been lying in wait here like an executioner—Come, wouldst thou see it? It glitters in the moon light as if it laughed, anticipating its work! (She approaches the shrubbery beneath the birches.)
Radovid.—O, be not rash, my queen! I wring my hands! Some sudden terror seizes me, as it were a foreboding.
Nyola.—Silence! Behold! Radúz! He is wandering through the garden, carrying an armful of flowers. He walks as if in dreams. Let us step aside here and observe him! (They go behind a clump of birches.)
Radúz (Approaching, walking in his sleep). A gray dove perches upon a tomb and laments! In that tomb its happiness is buried . . . Why does it cast upon me its meek glance? . . . Why do those sad eyes reproach me? In some song they sing that the meek dove committed no wrong, that it perched on a cliff and that it drank water—and yet they strangled it . . . Ah, to me also, I think, a white dove used to lift meek glances . . . No, some maiden stood in a terrible desert and to my parched lips offered water from her hand, . . . and I strangled her! O, terrible phantoms! . . . And nowhere peace, nowhere contentment, but continually depression and deceitful visions! But it is not true that I did that—and yet? . . . (Kneels before the tree.) Only here, only here is there relief for that affliction! Here only is sweet slumber possible! Thou whispering, belovèd poplar, O lull me to sleep again! Lo, I bring thee a fragrant offering . . . (Adorns the tree.) In yonder palace it is so sad and desolate, but near thee there is happiness. Mother earth has many, many children;
