Lost and afraid

Pelléas is lost in Mélisande’s hair. He’s totally drunk on its perfume. Her hair is a forest he staggers under. He sees only yellow, feels only silken strands. Pelléas would climb her locks like a ladder if he could tell up from down. Mélisande, far above him, would prefer a man with a strong hand. She calls to him. —Pelléas, I need someone to protect me. The king is is a jealous man. —Mélisande, I know; he’s my brother, but he’d never harm those he loves. —Pelléas, I’m afraid. Wolves howl at night and people talk. I hear them growl. —Mélisande, you don’t need to worry; they can’t touch you; you are far above them. —Pelléas, the night is dark, the moon is new; someone pulled my hair; was that you? —Mélisande, I don’t know; I think it wasn’t me. I think I could be lost; I wish I could see. The king’s assassins don’t announce themselves. A knife slices the dark with no one else to witness. Pelléas feels as if he’s falling. He passes out before he hits the bottom.