Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/191



Woman, on the road to death, Free thy infant from thy doom; Free him from thy grief and gloom Of his birth I'll blot the brand.

Much, sooth, thou dost understand! Such a wonder none on earth Can, nor shall do, though he can! War on you that set the ban,— Wot ye where it was, that birth? In a ditch-side, on the ground, Gamblers drank and shouted round— Christen'd in the sleety slime, Cross'd with charcoal-ashes' grime, Suckled with a spirit-flask;— When his mother bore him first There were some stood by and cursed, Who could they be, do you ask? Bless you! Why, the baby's father, Or,—the baby's fathers rather!

Agnes?

Yes.

Thy duty's clear.

[Shuddering.]

Never! never! Brand, to her!

Give me, give me! Give me all!