_Skoell_. Thou dost not go along? _Ottar_. Thou hadst gladly got us out of the way to dig all by thyself? O, we all know thee, thou filthy fool! _Skoell_ [_slapping him on the back_]. More pretty words, my friend? Go on! When we are our own men on shore again, I will see what I can do;--but till that time I spare my skin. [_The three come reeling backwards out of the tower, followed by the_ Burial-wife _with raised fist._] _Skoell_. What is this? _Ottar_. What do you call this? Seize her! _The First_. Seize her! Easy to say! Dost thou court the palsy? _The Second_. Or fits, at least! _Ottar_. Cowards! [_He advances upon her. The others, except_ Skoell, _follow him yelling._] _Hans_ [_snatches his sword, that hangs on a tree, and throws the assailants into confusion with a blow or two_]. Ho, there! Let her alone, or-- _Skoell_. Look! Hans Lorbass! _The Others_. Who? Our Hans? _Ottar_ [_rubbing his shoulder_]. How comest thou here? Thou still hast thy old strength, I find! _Skoell_. Tell us, old Hans, what brings thee here? Is she thy latest love? _All_ [_burst out laughing_]. Hans, Hans! Poor old Hans! _Hans_. Bandits! Just come on once! [_To the_ Burial-wife.] How is it? I hope they have not hurt thee. _Burial-wife_. None can harm me, none molest me, who has not first wronged himself and all his hopes. _Ottar_ [_sings_]. Ho, Hans is playing with his love! _Hans_. Have a care! [_The_ Burial-wife _goes slowly into the tower._] _Hans_. It is now scarce three years since we bore within the hall our master in his ash-hewn coffin. He raised his hand already cold, and pointed with his pallid, bony finger--not toward the bastard Danish conqueror, but towards his own true son, Prince Witte; and him he left his country's lord. The land was poor, the people rude, yet it had preserved its pride and loyalty un stained through a thousand murderous brawls. Three years ago as everybody knows, you would have murdered our young lord at summons of the Bastard and his fair promises; and now--what are you? Thieves, sand-fleas, loafers, riff-raff, haunting the moors and hiding in the thickets. Stop! I will build a gallows for you presently; my brave sword is too good for you. [_He throws down his sword. They laugh._] _Skoell_. Hanschen, has thou clean forgot who was the fiercest bloodhound of us all? Who was it always shouted "I will do it, I!" till everyone spread sail before him and left him to his work? Then wouldest thou come, wiping thy bloody hand, and laugh, and say: "My work is done!" And then one saw no more of thee. Now when we find thee and rejoice at sight of thee, thou scornest us like a pack of thieves or birds of such a feather, and playest the judge sitting above us;--fie, Hanschen, 'tis not kind of thee.