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Down along the moorland swept.
For a finger it was treating,
That the hand might be its prize—!
Ha, the Spirit of Compromise!
Gerd.
[Comes with a rifle.]
Hast thou seen the falcon?
Brand.
Yea;
This time I have seen him.
Gerd.
Say,
Quick, which way thou saw'st him fly;
We will chase him, thou and I.
Brand.
Steel and bullet he defies;
Oftentimes you think he flies
Stricken by the mortal lead,—
But draw near to strike him dead,
Up he starts again, secure,
With the old cajoling lure.
Gerd.
See, the hunter's gun I've got,
Steel and silver is the shot;
'Trow, my wits are less astray
Than they reckon!
Brand.
Have thy way.
[Going.
