ss: for from her father
Her husband takes her, she belongs to him,
Be he alive or resting in the earth.
Her next and latest master--that is Death.

MERCHANT.
Then wilt thou not, at least till break of day,
Return to rest at home?

SOBEIDE.
No, no, my friend.
All that is past. My road, once and for all,
Is not the common one, this hour divides
Me altogether from all maiden ways.
So let me walk it to its very end
In this one night, that in a later day
All this be like a dream, nor I have need
To feel ashamed.

MERCHANT.
Then go!

SOBEIDE.
I give thee pain?

[MERCHANT turns away.]

Permit a single draught from yonder goblet.

MERCHANT.
It was my mother's, take it to thyself.

SOBEIDE.
I cannot. Lord. But let me drink from it.

[Drinks.]

MERCHANT.
Drain this, and never mayst thou need in life
To quench thy thirst with wine from any goblet
Less pure than that.

SOBEIDE.
Farewell.

MERCHANT.
Farewell.

[She is already on the threshold.]

Hast thou no fear? Thou never yet hast walked
Alone. We dwell without the city wall.

SOBEIDE.
Dear friend, I feel above all weakling fear,
And light my foot, as never in the daytime.

[Exit.]

MERCHANT (after following her long with his eyes, with a
gesture of pain).
As if some plant were drawing quiet rootlets
From out my heart, to take wing after her,
And air were entering all the empty sockets!

[He steps away from the window.]

Does she not really seem to me less fair,
So hasty, so desirous to run thither,
Where scarce she knows if any wait her coming!
No: 'tis her youth that I must see aright;
This is a part of all things beautiful,
And all this haste becomes this creature just
As mute aspects become the fairest flowers.