a quieter tone._

I knew a young Indian once, a Hopi boy, who made songs and sang them to
his people. One evening we sat on the roof of the chief's house and
asked him to sing. He shook his head, and went away in the starlight.
The next morning, I found him among the rocks under the mesa, with an
empty bottle by his side.--He never sang again! Drunkenness had taken
him. He never sang again, or made another verse.

RHODA.

What has that to do with you? It's not--? You don't mean that you--?

MICHAELIS.

No. There is a stronger drink for such as I am!

RHODA.

_Forcing herself to go on._

What--"stronger drink"?

MICHAELIS.

_Wildly._

The wine of this world! The wine-bowl that crowns the feasting table of
the children of this world.

RHODA.

What do you mean by--the wine of this world?

MICHAELIS.

You know that! Every woman knows.

_He points out of the window, at the sky flushed with sunset
color._

Out there, at this moment, in city and country, souls, thousands upon
thousands of souls, are dashing in pieces the cup that holds the wine
of heaven, the wine of God's shed blood, and lifting the cups of
passion and of love, that crown the feasting table of the children of
this earth! Look! The very sky is blood-red with the lifted cups. And
we two are in the midst of them. Listen what I sing there, on the hills
of light in the sunset: "Oh, how beautiful upon the mountains are the
feet of my beloved!"

_A song rises outside, loud and near at hand--Michaelis listens,
his expression gradually changing from passionate excitement to
brooding distress._

_Vaguely, as the music grows fainter and dies away._

I--we were saying--.

_He grasps her arm in nervous apprehension._

For God's sake, tell me.--Are there many people--waiting--out there?

RHODA.

Hundreds, if not thousands.

MICHAELIS.

_Walks about._

Thousands.--Thousands of thousands!--

_He stops beside her._

You won't leave me alone?

RHODA.

_Hesitates, then speaks with decision._

No.

MICHAELIS.

_Continuing his walk._

Thousands of thousands!

_The hall door opens, Dr. Littlefield and a Clergyman, the Rev.
John Culpepper, enter. The latter stares inquiringly from Michaelis
to the Doctor, who nods affirmatively, and adjusts his glasses._

CULPEPPER.

_Mutters to Littlefield._

Nonsense! Sacrilegious nonsense!

LITTLEFIELD.

_Same t