you--and I go.

FAUST

We shall not meet again.

[_Brander goes out._

FAUST

He will go down
Not singing, no, not singing!...

(_He once more takes up the manuscript, and turns
to the last pages_)

And now, when from my shoulders like a load
Begins to slip the weariness of life,
And a new vigor fills me--now it seems
That death is hovering close. O Grisly One,
Whom once I thought a not unwelcome guest
To my cold troubled house, I am not glad
To hear thy steps without. For in my halls
Lights kindle, and the music sobs and sings
In ecstasy of other guests than thee....

(_He takes up his pen and turns to the end of the
manuscript, as if to write_)

Can this poor strength suffice me to complete
These final words? Nay, better to leave unsaid
The few last lines my vanity desires
To tell and justify my end and fall
Like flourish of bright trumpets. Let them sleep
Unuttered; for the burden of my song
Is voiced already in these labored leaves;
And it is well, unfinished and unclosed
Should stop this record, whose concluding words
Of fairer hope, of sheerer miracle,
Some greater hand than mine shall some day write
And seal the chronicle--nay, never seal it!

[_The butler enters._

BUTLER

There is a man waiting to see you, sir.

FAUST

Let him come in.

BUTLER

I beg your pardon, sir--
Can I do nothing for you?

FAUST

Thank you, nothing.

[_The butler goes out again, Satan enters. He is
dressed in a long black cloak of foreign cut; for
the first time, he has the look of sinister majesty
appropriate to the Prince of Hell._

SATAN

Master, your slave is here!

FAUST

This fooling still?

SATAN

What little service would my conqueror wish?

FAUST

Peace from your childish talk. The game is done.
Quite well you knew that, came I victor forth,
I would not, for all treasure in the world,
Have such an one as servant, who can serve
No end that I desire.

SATAN

Aha! At last
Light penetrates that cobwebbed cranium,
And I can laugh in public! All these months,
I several times have come perilously near
Bursting with mirth at the rare spectacle.

FAUST

Pray you, laugh freely.

SATAN

Nay, my mirth is spent.
My heart is moved even toward an enemy,
When on his head defeat its torrent pours.
I of