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An Old Man, bent with age, with a staff in his hand and a bag on his back, is trudging in front of him.
The Old Man.
[Stops.]
Dear, kind sir—a trifle to a houseless soul!
Peer.
Excuse me; I've got no small change in my pocket
The Old Man.
Prince Peer! Oh, to think we should meet again !
Peer.
Who are you?
The Old Man.
You forget the Old Man in the Rondë?
Peer.
Why, you're never ?
The Old Man.
The King of the Dovrë, my boy!
Peer.
The Dovrë-King? Really? The Dovrë-King? Speak!
The Old Man.
Oh, I've come terribly down in the world !
Peer.
Ruined?
The Old Man.
Ay, plundered of every stiver.
Here am I tramping it, starved as a wolf.