The Peasant.
[Sitting and rubbing his arm.]
Ow, ow; his arm's an iron rod;
And that's what he calls serving God
[Calling as he gets up.]
Ho, priest!
The Son.
He's gone athwart the hill.
The Peasant.
Ay, but I see him glimmer still.
[Calling again.]
Hear me,—if you remember, say,
Where was it that we lost the way?
Brand.
[In the mist.]
You need no cross to point you right;—
The broad and beaten track you tread.
The Peasant.
God grant it were but as he said,
And I'd sit snug at home to-night.
[He and his Son retire eastwards.
Brand.
[Reappears higher up, and listens in the direction in
which the Peasant went.]
Homeward they grovel! Thou dull thrall,
If but thy feeble flesh were all,
If any spark of living will
Sprang in thee, I had help'd thee still.
With breaking back, and feet way-worn,
Lightly and swift I had thee borne;—
