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Einar.
Alas
Only in Him? She is undone.
Brand.
What say you?
Einar.
Damn'd, to my regret.
Brand.
[Quietly.]
Go, scoundrel!
Einar.
<g>You</g> shall feel as well
The clutches of the Lord of hell;—
For both, eternal torments wait.
Brand.
You, wretch, dare sentence to the Fire!
Yourself late wallow'd in the mire
Einar.
On me no spot is to be seen;
The tub of Faith hath wash'd me clean;
Each splash has vanish'd, scraped and scored
On Holiness's washing-board;
In Vigilance's mangle I
Have wrung my Adam's-vesture dry;
And shine like snowy surplice fair,
Soap-lather'd with the suds of Prayer!
Brand.
Hold!
