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Brand.
[Shaking his head.]
Man must struggle till he falls.
Gerd.
Oh, not thou; thou art the head!
By the nails thy hands were gored;—
Thou art chosen; thou art Lord.
Brand.
I'm the meanest worm that crawls.
Gerd.
[Looks up; the clouds are lifting.]
Know'st thou where thou stand'st?
Brand.
[Gazing before him.]
Below
The first step of the ascent;
It is far, and I am faint.
Gerd.
[More fiercely.]
Say! Where art thou, dost thou know?
Brand.
Yes, now falls the misty shroud.
Gerd.
Yes, it falls: without a cloud
Svartetind impales the blue!
Brand.
[Looking up.]
Svartetind? The ice-church
