THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows.
My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The
lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running
of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood
hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity.

SEELCHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. He is strong!

The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together:

"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"

"Mountain air! Mountain air!"

THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me
under the stars!

SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid.

And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's
voice.

THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the
streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the
chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my
incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and
passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of
lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves.
and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in
the sunshine.