Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/284



An, bent with age, with a staff in his hand and a bag on his back, is trudging in front of him.

[Stops.]

Dear, kind sir—a trifle to a houseless soul!

Excuse me; I've got no small change in my pocket

Prince Peer! Oh, to think we should meet again!

Who are you?

You forget the Old Man in the Rondë?

Why, you're never?

The King of the Dovrë, my boy!

The Dovrë-King? Really? The Dovrë-King? Speak!

Oh, I've come terribly down in the world!

Ruined?

Ay, plundered of every stiver. Here am I tramping it, starved as a wolf.