This page needs to be proofread.
Brand.
Never will I hide my face
In the crowd that you command;
Let them seek me: here I stand.
The Mayor.
Are you sane?
Brand.
The path you pace
Is too narrow for my tread.
The Mayor.
And 'twill still grow less and less
As the people push ahead.
Zounds! They spurn at rod and check!
Parsons, Dean, and Corporation
Jostled to the brimming beck—!
Quickly, friend, make application
Of the scourge of your persuasion!
Ha, too late, they smash the line;
The procession is a wreck!
The multitude stream in, and break in wild disorder through the procession to the church.
Voices.
Priest!
Others.
[Pointing up to the Church steps, where
Brand stands.]
See yonder!
Others again.
Give the sign!
