Anitra.
Oh, thank you; I'll get on without the soul.
But you asked for a sorrow
Peer.
[Rising.]
Ay, curse me, I did! A keen one, but short,—to last two or three days! Anitra. Anitra obeyeth the Prophet!—Farewell!
[Gives him a smart cut across the fingers, and dashes off, at a tearing gallop, back across the desert.
Peer.
[Stands for a long time thunderstruck.]
Well now, may I be!
SCENE NINTH. The same place, an hour later.
Peer Gynt is stripping off his Turkish costume, soberly and thoughtfully, bit by bit. Last of all, he takes his little travelling-cap out of his coat pocket, puts it on, and stands once more in European dress.
Peer.
[Throwing the turban far away from him.]
There lies the Turk, then, and here stand I!—
These heathenish doings are no sort of good.
It's lucky 'twas only a matter of clothes,
And not, as the saying goes, bred in the bone.—
