Michael
  His lean throat freeze!—­But she—­
Barbara!  Barbara!—­

Piper
  Patience.  She will come,
Dressed like a bride.

Michael
  Ah, do not mock me so.

Piper
I mock not.

Michael
She will never look at me.

Piper
Rather than be a nun, I swear she will
Look at thee twice,—­and with a long, long look.
[Chant approaches in the distance, coming from Hamelin.

Voices
Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.

Quantus tremor est futurus,
Quando judex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus!

Piper
Bah, how they whine!  Why do they drag it so?

Michael
[overcome]
Oh, can it be the last of all?  O Saints!—­
O blessed Francis, Ursula, Catherine! 
Hubert—­and Crispin—­Pantaleone—­Paul! 
George o’ the Dragon!—­Michael the Archangel!

Piper
Michael Sword-eater, canst not swallow a chant? 
The well, the well!—­Take care.

Voices
[nearer]
  Inter oves locum praesta,
  Et ab hoedis me sequestra,
  Statuens in parte dextra.

  Confutatis maledictis,
  Flammis acribus addictis: 
  Voca me cum benedictis.

[Michael climbs down the ancient well, reaching his head up warily, to see.

The piper waves to him debonairly, points to the tree-tops, left, and stands a moment showing in his face his disapproval of the music.  He fingers his pipe.  As the hymn draws near, he scrambles among the bushes, left, and disappears.

Enter slowly, chanting, the company of burghers from Hamelin,—­men together first, headed by priests; then the women.—­Anselm and all the townsfolk appear (saving Veronika, the wife of Kurt); Jacobus is meek; Kurt very stern.—­As they appear, the piping of the Dance-spell begins softly, high in air.  The hymn wavers; when the first burghers reach the centre of the stage, it breaks down.

They look up, bewildered:  then, with every sign of consternation, struggle, and vacant fear, they begin to dance, willy-nilly.  Their faces work; they struggle to walk on; but it is useless.  The music whirls them irresistibly into a rhythmic pace of 3/4 time, and jogs their words, when they try to speak, into the same dance-measure.  One by one,—­two and two they go,—­round and round like corks at first, with every sign of struggle and protest, then off, on the long road to Rudersheim.  Fat priests waltz together.—­Kurt the fierce and Jacobus the sleek hug each other in frantic endeavor to be released.  Their words jolt insanely.

KURT, JACOBUS

  ( No, no.—­No, no—­No, no.—­No, no!
  ( Yes, yes.—­I, yes.—­Yes, yes.—­Yes, yes!