Brand.
Yonder is danger; go not near it!
Gerd.
[Pointing down.]
Yonder is foulness; thou must fear it!
Brand.
God's peace with you!
Gerd.
Nay, this way pass!
Yonder the cataract's singing Mass;
There on the crags the whistling weather
Preaches you hot and cold together.
Thither the hawk will ne'er steal in;
Down, down he sweeps from Svartetind,—
Yonder he sits, the ugly block,
Like my church-steeple's weathercock.
Brand.
Wild is thy way, and wild thy soul,—
A cittern with a shatter'd bowl.
Of dulness dulness is the brood,—
But evil's lightly won to good.
Gerd.
With whirring wings I hear him come!
I'll e'en make shift to get me home!
In yonder church I'm safe,—farewell;
He's on me,—hoo, how fierce and fell!
[She screams.]
I'll throw a stone! No nearer, now.
If thou hast talons, I've a bough!
[She runs off up the mountain.
