Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/250



Priest, feed the people;—see, they sink.

A miracle! A miracle!

O, the slave-stamp has branded deep; The toil you shirk, the hire you crave. Up, and shake off this deadly sleep,— Or else, get back into the grave!

Ay, he is right; first face the foe; The hire comes afterwards, you know.

It shall, as sure as God looks forth Over the breadth and depth of Earth!

He's prophesying! He's prophesying

Hark, priest, will it be warm, this fight?

And bloody? And will it last till night?

[Aside.]

I trust there is no risk of dying?

Priest, must we really face the fire?