ill distinct.
Isolde listens again: No! Brangaene, she believes, is deceived by
her over-great anxiety, deceived by the rustling of the leaves.
"You," Brangaene retorts, "are deceived by the impetuosity of your
desire! I hear the sound of the horns." Isolde again listens. "No!"
she discourses in her over-running tender exhilaration, "the sound
of horns was never so pleasing as that! It is the soft purling of
the fountain whose music comes so sweetly borne to us; how could
I hear it, if hunting-horns were still blaring near by? In the
silence, all I hear is the murmured laughter of the fountain. The
one who is waiting for me in the hushed night, are you determined to
keep him away from me as if horns were still close at hand?"--"The
one who is waiting for you--do but listen to my warning," Brangaene
pleads, "there are spies in the night lying in wait for him! Because
you are blind, do you believe the eyes of the world dulled to your
actions and his?" Against Melot she warns her, Melot, who, when
he came aboard the ship with King Mark to receive the bride,--and
the kindly King was engrossed by anxiety for the condition of the
pale and fainting princess,--with treacherous, suspicious eye,
Brangaene had seen it, scrutinised the countenance of Tristan, to
read in it what might thereafter serve his purpose. Often since
then she has come upon him eavesdropping. Against Melot let Isolde
be warned!... Melot? Isolde rejects the idea with light scorn. Is
not he Tristan's dearest friend? When Tristan is forced to keep
afar from her, with whom does he spend the time but Sir Melot?
"The thing which makes him suspicious to me, to you endears him!"
cries Brangaene, in despair at such wilful blindness. "From Tristan
to Mark lies Melot's road. He there sows evil seed. This nocturnal
hunting-party, so hurriedly concerted, has in view a nobler quarry
than your fancy deems!"--"Melot," Isolde persists in his defence,
"invented the stratagem, out of compassion for his friend. And do
you make it into a reproach to him? He cares for me better than do
you. He opens to me that which you close. Oh, spare me the misery
of hesitation! The signal, Brangaene, give the signal! Extinguish
the light to its last flicker. Beckon to the Night, that she may
completely bend over us. Already she has poured her silence upon
grove and house. Already she has filled the heart with her happy
trepidation. Quench the light! Smother its frightening glare! Throw
open