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The Peasant.
Yes, men of olden time, maybe;
But nowadays he'd just be drowned.
Brand.
[Going.]
Farewell!
The Peasant.
You throw your life away!
Brand.
If God should haply need its loss,
Then welcome chasm, and flood, and foss.
The Peasant.
[To himself.]
Nay, but his wits are gone astray!
The Son.
[Half-crying.]
Come away, Father! see how black
With coming tempest is the wrack!
Brand.
[Stopping and approaching again]
Hear, peasant; you at first profess'd,
Your daughter by the fjordside lying,
Had sent you word that she was dying,
But could not with a gladsome breast,
Until she saw you, go to rest?
The Peasant.
That's certain, as I hope for bliss!
Brand.
And as her last day mentioned—<g>this</g>?
