[She picks up
a little book that has dropped from LAMOND'S pocket] I have read
several books.
LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetry
here, and dream dreams, among your mountains?
SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See! It is the full moon.
While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters
a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden.
SEELCHEN. Hans!
FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me?
SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! [Whispering to him]
It is the celebrated London one.
FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible.
LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous Felsman?
FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn.
SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years!
LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can I
sleep here?
SEELCHEN. I will see; perhaps--
[She runs out up some stairs]
FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them on
the window seat] So!
As he goes out into the air. SEELCHEN comes slipping in again
with a lighted candle.
SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you.
LAMOND. Oh! thanks; but that's all right.
SEELCHEN. To please me!
LAMOND. May I ask your name?
SEELCHEN. Seelchen.
LAMOND. Little soul, that means--doesn't it? To please you I would
sleep with seven German gentlemen.
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