The Mayor.
Why;—that is Gerd;
The herdsman's worthy of the herd.
The Dean.
[Facetiously.]
When he has still'd his losing whim, This is the epitaph for him: "Here lieth Brand; his tale's a sad one; One soul he saved,—and that a mad one!" The Mayor.
[With his finger to his nose.]
But, on reflection, I have some Misgivings that the folk's decree A little lack'd humanity. The Dean.
[Shrugging his shoulders.]
<g>Vox populi vox Dei.</g> Come!
[They go
High up among the mountains. A storm is rising and chasing the clouds heavily over the snow-slopes; black peaks and summits appear here and there, and are veiled again by the mist.
Brand comes, bleeding and broken, up the mountain.
Brand.
[Stops and looks backward.]
From the vale they follow'd thronging,
Never one has reached the height.
Through all bosoms thrill'd the longing
For a greater Day's dawn-light;
