Brand.
A priest.
The Peasant.
Maybe; but one thing's clear at least;
Though you were dean and bishop too
Death will have laid his grip on you
Ere daybreak, if you dare to breast
The glacier's cavern-cloven crest.
[Approaching warily and insinuatingly.]
Hark, priest, the wisest, learned'st man
Cannot do more than what he can.
Turn back; don't be so stiff and stout!
A man has but a single life;—
What has he left if that goes out?
The nearest farm is two leagues off,
And for the fog, it's thick enough
To hack at with a hunting-knife.
Brand.
If the fog's thick, no glimmering ray
Of marsh-light lures our feet astray.
The Peasant.
All round lie ice-tarns in a ring,
And an ice-tarn's an ugly thing.
Brand.
We'll walk across.
The Peasant.
On waves you'll walk!
Your deeds will hardly match your talk.
Brand.
Yet one has proved,—whose faith is sound
May walk dry-footed on the sea.
