Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 5).djvu/153

] Bathe thee in the fumes of wine, my pallid guest! Refresh thee. Feel, feel—it mounts aloft like the smoke of sacrifice.

The smoke of sacrifice does not always mount.

Why does that scar redden on thy brow? Nay, nay,—draw not the hair over it; What is it?

The mark.

H'm; no more of that. And what fruit has thy sin borne?

The most glorious.

What callest thou the most glorious?

Life.

And the ground of life?

Death.

And of death?

[Losing itself as in a sigh.] Ah, that is the riddle!