Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/101



[Shakes his head.]

Till she of her offence repent I have no comfort to bestow.

She is your mother.

It were sin To worship idols in my kin.

Brand, you are stern!

To you?

Oh no

I warn'd you that the way was steep.

[Smiling.]

It was not true; you did not keep Your word.

Yes, here the ice-wind rives; Your cheek has lost its youthful glow, Your tender heart is touch'd with snow. Our home is built where nothing thrives, Amid a barren waste of stone.

It lies the safer, then! So prone Beetles yon jutting mountain-wall,