n the house of the wealthy MERCHANT. To the rear an
alcove with dark curtains. To the left a door, to the right a small
door leading into the garden, and a window. Candles.

Enter the MERCHANT and his old Servant, BAHRAM.

MERCHANT.
Speak, Bahram, gav'st thou heed unto my bride?

SERVANT.
Heed, in what sense!

MERCHANT.
She is not cheerful, Bahram.

SERVANT.
She is a serious girl. And 'tis a moment
That sobers e'en the flightiest, remember.

MERCHANT.
Not she alone: the more I bade them kindle
Lights upon lights, the heavier hung a cloud
About this wedding-feast. They smiled like masks,
And I could catch the dark or pitying glances
They flung to one another; and her father
Would oft subside into a dark reflection,
From which he roused himself with laughter forced,
Unnatural.

SERVANT.
My Lord, our common clay
Endureth none too well the quiet splendor
Of hours like these. We are but little used
To aught but dragging through our daily round
Of littleness. And on such high occasions
We feel the quiet opening of a portal
From which an unfamiliar, icy breath
Our spirit chills, and warns us of the grave.
As in a glass we then behold our own
Forgotten likeness come into our vision,
And easier 'twere to weep than to be merry.

MERCHANT.
She tasted not a morsel that thou placed
Before her.

SERVANT.
Lord, her modest maidenhood
Was like a noose about her throat; but yet
She ate some of the fruit.

MERCHANT.
Yes, one small seed,
I noticed that, 'twas a pomegranate seed.

SERVANT.
Then too she suddenly bethought herself
That wine, a blood-red flame in sparkling crystal,
Before her stood, and raised the splendid goblet
And drank as with a sudden firm resolve
The half of it, so that the color flooded
Her cheeks, and deep she sighed as with relief.

MERCHANT.
Methinks that was no happy resolution.
So acts the man who would deceive himself,
And veils his glance, because the road affrights him.

SERVAMT.