OLIVE.

You have a strange strength in this hour.

REDFEATHER.

This hour
I see with mortal eye as in one flash
The whole divine democracy of things,
And dare the stars to scorn a scavenge-heap.
Olive, I tell you every soul is great.
Weave we green crowns--how noble and how high;
Fling we white flowers--how radiant and how pure
Is he, whoe'er he be, who next shall cross
This scrap of grass....

[_Enter LORD ORM. _]

OLIVE [_screams_].

Ah!

REDFEATHER [_pointing to the chapel_].

Olive, go and pray
for a man soon to die. Good-day, my Lord.

[_She goes in._]

LORD ORM.