Viviane and Merlin in the Brocéliande Forest—Love scene.

Trumpet calls—King Arthur's men roam the forest in search of the sorcerer.

Merlin recalls his duty; he attempts to escape from Viviane's arms and flee.

The spell is cast—Viviane puts Merlin to sleep and wraps him in flowering hawthorns.

Is life but a series of preludes to that unknown song whose first, solemn note is intoned by death? Love is the enchanted dawn of all existence, but what fate is there whose first delights of happiness are not interrupted by some storm, whose mortal blast dissolves its beautiful illusions, consuming its altar as though by a fatal stroke of lightning? And what cruelly wounded soul, emerging from the tempest, does not seek to soothe its memories in the sweet calmness of the countryside? Yet man does not resign himself for long to the benevolent warmth of nature that first charmed him, and when the trumpet sounds the alarm, he takes to his post, however perilous the battle that calls him, so that he may recover in combat his entire consciousness of himself and the full possession of his energies.