Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/71



Yes, see,— Astern he has it, and in lee!

A squall! It's caught them!

Look at that,— The wind has swept away his hat!

Black as a rook's wing, his wet hair Streams backward on the angry air.

All seethes and surges!

What a yell! Rang through the storm!

'Twas from the fell.

[Pointing up.]

See, there stands Gerd upon the cliff, Hallooing at the passing skiff!

She's flinging pebbles like witch-corn, And blowing through a twisted horn.

Now she has slung it like a wand, And pipes upon her hollow'd hand.