Stensgård.
Oh, I don't remember when; several years ago
Fieldbo.
There were probably disturbances somewhere in Europe, and you had been reading the newspapers after a heavy supper.
Stensgård.
The same shiver, the same thrill, that then ran down my back, I felt again to-night. Yes, I will give my whole soul utterance. I will be the Voice
Fieldbo.
Come, my dear Stensgård, pause and reflect. You will be the Voice, you say. Good! But where will you be the Voice? Here in the parish? Or at most here in the county! And who will echo you and raise the storm? Why, people like Monsen and Aslaksen,and that fat-headed genius, Mr. Bastian. And instead of the flying emperors and kings, we shall see old Lundestad rushing about after his lost seat in Parliament. Then what will it all amount to? Just what you at first saw in your dream—townsfolk in a wind.
Stensgård.
In the beginning, yes. But who knows how far the storm may sweep?
Fieldbo.
Fiddlesticks with you and your storm: And the first thing you go and do, hoodwinked and blinded and gulled as you are, is to turn your weapons precisely against all that is worthy and capable among us
