t you.

CALAF.

Have you lost your wits?
Let go of me! If _you_ are weak, _I_ am not!

(_Pushes him aside, and lifts the picture up._)

I tell you: woman's loveliness hath never
Fettered even for a second's space my eyes,
Much less my heart: I mean the loveliness
Of _living_ women. And now a daub or so,
Cast on a canvas by some colour-grinder,
Will stagger me, you think! Am I a child?

(_Sighs._)

Mine is no case of love...

(_Is about to look at the picture, when BARAK
quickly lays his hand upon it and prevents him._)

BARAK.

Prince, close your eyes,
For Heaven's sake!

CALAF.

Offend me not. Let go!

(_Looks at the picture, makes a gesture of
surprise, and is seen to be in a state
of ecstasy that grows with gazing._)

BARAK (_in anguish_).

Disaster, take thy course!

CALAF.

O Barak, what
Do I behold? How can it be that this
Sweet face, these gentle eyes, this soft, white breast,
Should harbour such a heart as thou hast said,
A heart cold as the snows of yesteryear?

BARAK.

Unhappy man!

CALAF.

O worshipped rosy cheeks!
O magic-breathing lips! O angel eyes!...

BARAK.

Unhappy man!

CALAF.

What son of earth shall be
So brimmed with bliss, so blessed of the gods,
That he shall hold thee, breathing, animate
Perfection, in the hollow of his arms?

BARAK.

Unhappy man!

CALAF (_looks up for a moment, resolved_).

This is the turn of fate!
The loveliest lady of the whole round earth,
Yea, and the richest empire time hath known,
I by a game of riddles now shall win--
Or else, thou turbid life of mine, farewell!

BARAK.

Unhappy man!

CALAF (_gazing at the picture again_).

Thou sweetest promise! Thou
Pledge of my hope! Lo! a new sacrifice
Is coming to thy riddles and to thee.
Vouchsafe one smile, sweet lady, lady mine!--
O Barak, tell me, tell me, shall I once,
Before they murder me, behold her face?

(_A new roll of drums from the centre of the
city, sounding nearer than the first._
CALAF _hearkens, though his eyes are
still riveted on the picture._ _The executioner
appears on the city wall, a fearful
sight, his bare arms bespattered with
blood._ _He plants the head of the_
PRINCE Of SAMARKAND _on the vacant
pole and then disappears_.)

BARAK.

Stop looking on her face and look on that!
That head up yonder, smoking yet with blood,
Is the last lunatic's. And the same headsman
Who set it there to-morrow will be yours.

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