Leonardo. Imperia!…
Imperia. She is asleep. I kissed her upon the forehead, and she did not wake.
Leonardo. You kissed her upon the forehead?
Imperia. Leonardo, it is my duty to go, is it not?
Leonardo. Yes… Triumph, Imperia! It is the triumph of my ideal! But first, tell me—I must know it—when you kissed her forehead…
Imperia. Well?
Leonardo. Was it cold?
Imperia. Yes—if you must know. She was dead. And now death cannot hold me back. Do you wonder?
Leonardo. Your soul is great. I wonder and admire.
Imperia. To achieve anything in life we must subdue reality, and thrust aside its phantoms which confuse and hem us round, to follow the only reality, the flight of our witches' spirits as on Saturday Night they turn to their ideal—some toward evil, to be lost in its shadows forever like spectres of the night, others toward good, to dwell eternally in it, the children of love and of light. Good-by, Leonardo.
Leonardo. Good-by, Imperia.
Imperia. This is the kiss of the spirit which you gave me, grand as your ideal!
Curtain
