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The Throng.
[Shuddering.]
His child!
The Woman.
At once he knew
The horror of his deed of blood!
His grief ran brimming like a flood;
He struck himself the death-wound too.
Come, save him, save him from perdition,
Spite of wild water and wild sky!
He cannot live, and dare not die!
There lies he, clasping the dead frame,
And shrieking on the Devil's name!
Brand.
[Quietly.]
Yes, <g>here</g> is need.
Einar.
[Pale.]
Great God on high
The Mayor.
He doesn't live in my Division.
Brand.
[Curtly, to the Peasants.]
Unmoor a boat and row me there!
A Man.
When such a storm is <g>up</g>? Who dare?
The Mayor.
A path goes round the fjord
