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Gerd.
[A girl of fifteen, running along the crest with
stones in her apron.]
Ho! Good aim!
He screams!
[She throws again.]
Brand.
Hullo, child, stop that game!
Gerd.
Without a hurt he's sitting now,
And swinging on a wind-swept bough!
[She throws again and screams.]
Now fierce as ever he's making for me.
Help! Hoo! With claws he'll rend and gore me!
Brand.
In the Lord's name
Gerd.
Whist! who are you?
Hold still, hold still; he's flying.
Brand.
Who?
Gerd.
Didn't you see the falcon fly?
Brand.
Here? no.
Gerd.
The laidly fowl with crest
Thwart on its sloping brow depress'd,
And red-and-yellow circled eye
