[_Frenzied._] It's you that there's no help for! Tatter-breeched scarecrows--that's what you are--an' not men at all. Whey-faced gutter-scrapers that take to your heels at the sound of a child's rattle. Fellows that says "thank you" to the man as gives you a hidin'. They've not left that much blood in you as that you can turn red in the face. You should have the whip taken to you, an' a little pluck flogged into your rotten bones. [_She goes out quickly._ [_Embarrassed pause._] MOTHER HILSE What's the matter with Liesl, father? OLD HILSE Nothin', mother! What should be the matter with her? MOTHER HILSE Father, is it only me that's thinkin' it, or is the bells ringin'? OLD HILSE It'll be a funeral, mother. MOTHER HILSE An' I've got to sit waitin' here yet. Why must I be so long a-dyin', father? [_Pause._] OLD HILSE [_Leaves his work, holds himself up straight; solemnly._] Gottlieb!--you heard all your wife said to us. Look here, Gottlieb! [_He bares his breast._] Here they cut out a bullet as big as a thimble. The King knows where I lost my arm. It wasn't the mice as ate it. [_He walks up and down._] Before that wife of yours was ever thought of, I had spilled my blood by the quart for King an' country. So let her call what names she likes--an' welcome! It does me no harm--Frightened? Me frightened? What would I be frightened of, will you tell me that? Of the few soldiers, maybe, that'll be comin' after the rioters? Good gracious me! That would be a lot to be frightened at! No, no, lad; I may be a bit stiff in the back, but there's some strength left in the old bones; I've got the stuff in me yet to make a stand against a few rubbishin' bay'nets.--An' if it came to the worst! Willin', willin' would I be to say good-bye to this weary world. Death'd be welcome--welcomer to me to-day than to-morrow. For what is it we leave behind? That old bundle of aches an' pains we call our body, the care an' the oppression we call by the name o' life. We may be glad to get away from it,--But there's something to come after, Gottlieb!--an' if we've done ourselves out o' that too--why, then it's all over with us! GOTTLIEB Who knows what's to come after? Nobody's seen it. OLD HILSE Gottlieb! don't you be throwin' doubts on the one comfort us poor people have. Why has I sat here an' worked my treadle like a slave this forty year an' more?--sat still an' looked on at him over yonder livin' in pride an' wastefulness--why? Because I have a better hope, something as supports me in all my troubles. [_Points out at the window._] You have your good things in this world--I'll have mine in the next. That's been my thought. An' I'm that certain of it--I'd let myself be torn to pieces. Have we not His promise? There's a Day of Judgment comin'; but it's not us as are the judges--no: Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. [_A cry of_ "Weavers, come out!" _is heard outside the window._ OLD HILSE