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An Old Man, bent with age, with a staff in his hand and a bag on his back, is trudging in front of him.
The Old Man.
[Stops.]
Dear, kind sir—a trifle to a houseless soul!
Peer.
Excuse me; I've got no small change in my pocket
The Old Man.
Prince Peer! Oh, to think we should meet again!
Peer.
Who are you?
The Old Man.
You forget the Old Man in the Rondë?
Peer.
Why, you're never?
The Old Man.
The King of the Dovrë, my boy!
Peer.
The Dovrë-King? Really? The Dovrë-King? Speak!
The Old Man.
Oh, I've come terribly down in the world!
Peer.
Ruined?
The Old Man.
Ay, plundered of every stiver.
Here am I tramping it, starved as a wolf.
