ENZOLLERN. The Ramin

THE PRINCE. No, no, old fellow!

HOHENZOLLERN. Bork? Or Winterfeld?

THE PRINCE. No, no! My word! You fail to see the pearl
For the bright circlet that but sets it off!

HOHENZOLL. Damn it, then, tell me! I can't guess the face!
What lady do you mean?

THE PRINCE. Well, never mind.
The name has slipped from me since I awoke,
And goes for little in the story.

HOHENZOLLERN. Well,
Let's have it then!

THE PRINCE. But now, don't interrupt me!--
And the Elector of the Jovelike brow,
Holding a wreath of laurel in his hand,
Stands close beside me, and the soul of me
To ravish quite, twines round the jeweled band
That hangs about his neck, and unto one
Gives it to press upon my locks--Oh, friend!

HOHENZOLL. To whom?

THE PRINCE. Oh, friend!

HOHENZOLLERN. To whom then? Come, speak up!

THE PRINCE. I think it must have been the Platen girl.

HOHENZOLL. Platen? Oh, bosh! Not she who's off in Prussia?

THE PRINCE. Really, the Platen girl. Or the Ramin?

HOHENZOLL. Lord, the Ramin! She of the brick-red hair?
The Platen girl with those coy, violet eyes--
They say you fancy _her_.

THE PRINCE. I fancy her--

HOHENZOLL. So, and you say she handed you the wreath?

THE PRINCE. Oh, like some deity of fame she lifts
High up the circlet with its dangling chain
As if to crown a hero. I stretch forth,
Oh, in delight unspeakable, my hands
I stretch to seize it, yearning with my soul
To sink before her feet. But as the odor
That floats above green valleys, by the wind's
Cool breathing is dispelled, the group recedes
Up the high terrace from me; lo, the terrace
Beneath my tread immeasurably distends
To heaven's very gate. I clutch at air
Vainly to right, to left I clutch at air,
Of those I loved hungering to capture one.
In vain! The palace portal opes amain.
A flash of lightning from within engulfs them;
Rattling, the door flies to. Only a glove
I ravish from the sweet dream-creature's arm
In passionate pursuing; and a glove,
By all the gods, awaking, here I hold!

HOHENZOLL. Upon my word--and, you assume, the glove
Must be her glove?

THE PRINCE. Whose?

HOHENZOLLERN. Well, the Platen girl's.

THE PRINCE. Platen! Of course. Or could it be Ramin's

HOHENZOLLERN (_with a laugh_).
Rogue that you are with your mad fantasies!
Who knows from what exploit delectable
Here in a waking hour with flesh and blood
The