THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Pointing at the_ NIGHTINGALE _who has already half disappeared into
the earth._] Your faith can no more return to life than can that
dead bird.
[_From the tree above their heads suddenly rings forth the
heart-stirring, limpid, characteristic note: Tio! Tio!_]
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Struck with amazement._] Is it another singing?
PATOU
[_With quivering ear._] And singing still better, if possible.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Looking up in a sort of terror at the foliage, and then down at the
little grave._] Another takes up the song when this one disappears?
THE VOICE
In the forest must always be a Nightingale!
CHANTECLER
[_With exaltation._] And in the soul a faith so faithful that it comes
back even after it has been slain.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
But if the Sun is climbing up the sky?
CHANTECLER
There must have been left in the air some power from my yesterday's song.
[_Flights of noiseless grey wings pass among the trees._]
THE OWLS
[_Hooting joyfully._] He kept still!
PATOU
[_Raising his head and looking after them._] The Owls, fleeing from the
newly risen light, are coming home to the woods.
THE OWLS
[_Returning to their holes in the old trees._] He kept still!
CHANTECLER
[_With all his strength come back to him._] The proof that I was serving
the cause of light when I sang is that the Owls are glad of my silence.
[_Going to the_ PHEASANT-HEN, _with defiance in his mien.
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