The dream-world opens again; and now it is a beautiful garden, close by
the ruins of an old abbey, and fine ladies are walking about there. But
what does he care for these marionettes uttering meaningless phrases?
They have no more interest for him than the sham ruins, so long as that
one bright, speaking, pathetic face is absent; and the story they are
carrying forward is for him no story at all, for he takes no heed of its
details in his anxious watching for her appearance. The sides of this
garden are mysteriously divided: by which avenue shall she approach?
Suddenly he hears the low voice--she comes nearer. Now let the world
laugh again! But, alas! when she does appear, it is in the company of
her lover, and it is only to bid him good-by. Why does the coward hind
take her at her word? A stick, a stone, a wave of the cold sea, would be
more responsive to that deep and tremulous voice, which has now no
longer any of the art of a wilful coquetry about it, but is altogether
as self-revealing as the generous abandonment of her eyes. The poor
cipher! he is not the man to woo and win and carry off this noble woman,
the unutterable soul surrender of whose look has the courage of despair
in it. He bids her farewell. The tailor's dummy retires. And she? in her
agony, is there no one to comfort her? They have demanded his sacrifice
in the name of duty, and she has consented: ought not that to be enough
to comfort her? then other people appear from other parts of the garden,
and there is a Babel of tongues. He hears nothing; but he follows that
sad face, until he could imagine that he listened to the throbbing of
her aching heart.

And then, as the phantasms of the stage come and go, and fortune plays
many pranks with these puppets, the piece draws near to an end. And now
as it appears, everything is reversed, and it is the poor lover who is
in grievous trouble, while she is restored to the proud position of her