Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/273



Name it then!

The aged leech, Who has conn'd so many a page,— The unfathomably sage, He discovered where thou ailest. All the phantoms of thy strife, Three words conjured them to life. Them thou boldly must recall, From thy memory efface them, From thy conscience blot, erase them; At their bidding, lo, thou burnest In this maddening blast of bane;— O forget them, if thou yearnest To make white thy soul again!

Say, what are they?

Nought or all.

[Reeling back.]

Is it so?

So sure as I Am alive, and thou wilt die.

Woe on us! The sword once more Swings above us, as before!

Brand, be kind; my breast is warm;