She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. Deep silences came between them. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. The late afternoon, en effet. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the knight, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break.
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