Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/25



And not a vestige of the track.

[Crying out.]

Hold, man! God's death—! The very ground Is but a shell! Don't stamp the snow!

[Listening.]

I hear the roaring of a fall.

A beck has gnawed its way below; Here's an abyss that none can sound; 'Twill open and engulf us all!

As I have said, I must go on.

That's past the power of any one. I tell you—the ground's a rotten crust— Hold, hold, man! Death is where it's trod

A great one gave me charge; I must.

What is his name?

His name is God.

And what might you be, pray?