Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/187



[Folds his arms over his breast.]  My father he thieved; So his son must be thieving. My father received; Still his son is receiving. Thy lot shalt thou bear still; Thyself shalt thou be still. [Listening.]  Steps in the brushwood! Flee, flee! But where? The cavern is deep, And the Prophet great! [''They make off, leaving the booty behind them. The horsemen gradually disappear in the distance.''

[Enters, cutting a reed whistle.]

What a delectable morning-tide!— The dung-beetle's rolling his ball in the dust; The snail creeps out of his dwelling-house. The morning; ay, it has gold in its mouth.— It's a wonderful power, when you think of it,