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Brand.
And not a vestige of the track.
The Peasant.
[Crying out.]
Hold, man! God's death—! The very ground
Is but a shell! Don't stamp the snow!
Brand.
[Listening.]
I hear the roaring of a fall.
The Peasant.
A beck has gnawed its way below;
Here's an abyss that none can sound;
'Twill open and engulf us all!
Brand.
As I have said, I <g>must</g> go on.
The Peasant.
That's past the power of any one.
I tell you—the ground's a rotten crust—
Hold, hold, man! Death is where it's trod
Brand.
A great one gave me charge; I <g>must</g>.
The Peasant.
What is his name?
Brand.
His name is God.
The Peasant.
And what might you be, pray?
