At the rise of the curtain the NIGHT-BIRDS are discovered, motionless, black shapes with closed eyes.  The GRAND DUKE is perched upon a tree branch above the rest.  The SCREECH-OWL’S phosphorescent eyes alone are wide open.  He proceeds with the roll-call, and at every name two great round eyes brighten in the dark.

THE SCREECH-OWL [Calling.] Strix! [Two eyes light up.] Scops! [Two more eyes light up.] Grand-Duke! [Two more eyes.] Metascops! [Two more eyes.] Minor! [Two more eyes.]

ONE NIGHT-BIRD
[To the other.] The Great Bubo presides.

THE SCREECH-OWL
[Calling.] Owl of the Wall!  Of the Belfry!  Of the Cloister!  Of the
Yew! [At every name two more eyes have opened wide.]

A NIGHT-BIRD
[To another just arriving.] The roll is called!

THE OTHER
I know.  All there is to do is to open our eyes.

THE SCREECH-OWL
Asio!  Nictea!  Nyctalis! [Three more pairs of eyes have opened.]
Brachyotus! [No eye opening at the name, he repeats.] Brachyotus!

ONE OF THE NIGHT-BIRDS
He will be here directly.  He stopped to eat a linnet.

BRACHYOTUS
[Arriving.] Present!

THE SCREECH-OWL
Not one of them would miss, when the meeting relates to the Cock!

BRACHYOTUS
Not one!

THE SCREECH-OWL
Carine! [Two eyes open.] Caparacoch! [No eye opening, he repeats
emphatically.] Ca-pa-ra-coch!—­Well?—­Well?

CAPARACOCH [Arriving out of breath, opens his eyes, faltering an excuse. ] I live a long way off!

THE SCREECH-OWL [Dryly.] You should have started the earlier! [Looking around.] We are all present, I believe. [Calling.] Flammeolus!  And Flammeoline! [All the eyes are now open.]

THE GRAND-DUKE [Solemnly.] Before beginning, let us give, but not too loud, the cry which makes us all as one!

ALL
  Long live the Night!

And in a weird, savage, hurried chorus, interspersed with hoots and flapping of wings, all talking together and rocking themselves in hideous glee.

THE GRAND-DUKE
  Praise the Night, discreet, propitious,
  When with wadded wing and muted
    O’er the sleeping world we fly,
  And the partridge in the bracken
  Ne’er suspects the hovering presence
    Till we pounce without a cry.

THE SCREECH-OWL
  Praise the Night, convenient, secret,
  When in slaughtering baby rabbits
    We can do it at our ease,
  Daub the grass with blood in comfort,
  Spare the pains to look like heroes,
    Be ourselves where no one sees!

AN OLD HORNED-OWL
  Praise the density of darkness!

A WOOD-OWL
  The intensity of stillness
    Letting crunching bones be heard!