Kundry has abruptly vanished.
"What? Already at work?" muses Klingsor. "Ha ha! I knew the charm
which will always bring you back into my service!" Then turning
his attention once more to the youthful intruder filling his eyes
with the unimagined glories of the garden: "You there, fledgling!
Whatever prophecy may have had to say concerning you, too young
and green you have fallen into my power. Purity wrested from you,
you will become my willing subject!"

The tower, with Klingsor, vanishes from sight; there lies outspread
before us the enchanted garden, glowing, tropical, displaying the
last luxuriance of flowers; and we see for ourselves Parsifal standing
upon the wall, calmly gazing. A swarm of beautiful young creatures,
waked by the clash of arms have, even as their lovers turned and fled
to cover, rushed forth to discover what is the matter. With confused
cries they pour from the palace and, recognising in Parsifal the
whole of the enemy, assail him with abuse scarcely more unendurable
than a pelting with thorny rose-buds. "You there! You there! Why
did you do us this injury? A curse upon you! A curse upon you!"
As Parsifal undismayed leaps down into the garden, they fall to
twittering like angry sparrows: "Ha! You bold thing! Do you dare to
brave us? Why did you beat our beloved?" And the raw boy, acquitting
himself rather neatly for such a beginner: "Ought I not to have beaten
them? They were barring my passage to you!" "You wanted to come to
us? Had you ever seen us before?" "Never had I seen anything so
pretty. I speak rightly, do I not, in calling you lovely?" A rapid
change takes place in the attitude toward him of the exceedingly
pretty persons. They adorn themselves in haste, fantastically, to
charm him, with the flowers of the garden; singing a wooing song,
of the most melting, persuasive, irresistible, they weave around
him, circling as in a child's game of ring-a-rosy, sweeping the
heady perfumes of their garlands under his nostrils. They do not
appear wholly human, but rather like strange tall-stemmed animated
flowers, swaying and jostling in the wind, and whose odor should have
turned into music; or, better still, like incarnate emanations from
the intoxicating flower-beds of this magical Garden of the Senses.
Parsifal stands in their midst, pleased and watchful, fleetingly
again like Siegfried, with his cheerful calm and poise. "How sweet
you smell! ... Are you flowers?" They close around him more and