_King_. We pay more. We give out bit by bit from our own souls for our lives' nakedest necessities, and pay for each mouthful with a shred of joy--if indeed there be joy in clinging like a pitiable miser to one's last vacant remnants of hopeless hope. _Hans Lorbass_. If it be not happiness it is life. _King_. What a life! _Hans Lorbass_. Our wants are over now. I wager if I climbed up to the top of the hill, I should find not one but three ships to take us to Gotland. _King_. Cook us our supper first. _Hans Lorbass_. Good, good! [_During the foregoing he has been fetching cooking utensils, partly from the sack and partly from the outer wall of the tower, where they lie among tree-stumps, etc._] _King_. I shall come soon enough to Gotland, and soon enough shall see that refuge whence I once bore to save them those most daring wishes of my powerless youth. _Hans Lorbass_. Until a heron came. _King_. Hans, be still! _Hans Lorbass_. How can I, here in this place, where the sea and churchyard, yes, even the sea-wind itself, that strips the boughs with knife-like tongue, all vie with each other to tell us of that day when an old doting witch-wife with her cursed chatter, betrayed thee from thy confident path, to pause and play the hero? _King_. Where is she hiding, that I may rip that shriveled skin of hers about her ears? _Hans Lorbass_. She who played our fate in the world is not at home when we come back so worsted by it. _King_. Burial-wife! _Hans Lorbass_ [_laughs mockingly_]. Yes, call away, my friend!... Come here instead and sit down on this tub. The fire is singing,--the water will soon boil; come warm thyself. _King_. Thou art right. This cold sea wind pants like a bloodhound through the gorge. [_He sits down by the fire._] The country-people say that spring is coming. Is it true, I wonder? _Hans Lorbass_. What? _King_. Why, that spring is coming. _Hans Lorbass_. Then I believe it, for my leg that I lost begins to pain me. _King_. Listen! Back in the hedge a shepherd pipes upon his willow whistle. The streams are beginning to thaw and run down hill.... Brown buds come out on all the branches. The very sunsets are different. Look, high up in the blue the wild geese fly in their triangle. Northward they go. Not I.... I must. We both must, Hans, for we have grown old. _Hans Lorbass_. Because our heads are white? Thou art wrong, master. I dare venture many a conflict lies in our path before thou goest to thy fathers' lofty house, and anointest thyself with thy fathers' honors. _King_. Honors are the mail-coat of the weary. I have need of them. _Hans Lorbass_. Thou? _King_. More than thou thinkest for. [_Goes up, laughing bitterly._] _Hans Lorbass_. Whither now? _King_. Do not ask.