Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/232



Here's a knife!

[Seizing it.]                  Ah, how I shall lick up the ink now! Oh, what rapture to cut oneself! [Cuts his throat.

[Stepping aside.]

Pray do not sputter

[In increasing terror.]

Hold him!

Ay, hold me! That is the word! Hold! Hold the pen! On the desk with the paper! [Falls. I'm outworn. The postscript—remember it, pray: He lived and he died as a fate-guided pen

[Dizzily.]

What shall I! What am I? Thou mightyhold fast! I am all that thou wilt,—I'm a Turk, I'm a sinner A hill-troll; but help;—there was something that burst! [Shrieks. I cannot just hit on thy name at the moment;— Oh, come to my aid, thou—all madmen's protector!

[Sinks down insensible.