Grinning roll the rocks behind them:
"Mother, father!" hark, they cry;
Goodman, Goodwife, make reply;
Then, as fathers among sons,
Move among their buried ones;
Women lay their risen dead
At their bosoms to be fed,
Strutted scarce with prouder front
When they bore them to the font.
Life begins! The parson's fled!
Brand.
Get thee from me! Direr still
Grows the vision
Gerd.
Hark, he's mocking!
He that sits by yon way-border,
Where it rears to scale the hill,
All their names as they go flocking
In his book he writes in order;—
Ho! he's wellnigh all the pack;
For the parish-church is bare,
Lock and bar are bolted there,—
And parson's off on falcon-back!
[Leaps over the garden-fence and is lost in the moraine. Stillness.
Agnes.
[Approaches, and says in a low voice.]
Late we linger: let us go.
Brand.
[Looking fixedly at her.]
Shall our way be
[Points first to the garden-gate, then to the house-door.]
So?—or so?
