Gustaf. Are you one of those Anabaptists?
Gert. Yes, I happened to get mixed up with them, but here I have a certificate proving that I belong to the asylum, the third department for incurables, cell number seven.
Gustaf (to Olof). Send word to the guard.
Gert. That isn't necessary, for I want nothing but justice, and it's something the guard doesn't handle.
Gustaf (looking hard at Gert). I suppose you have had a share in those outrages in the city churches?
Gert. Of course, I have! No sane person could behave so madly. We wanted only to make a few minor alterations in the style. They seemed too low in the ceiling.
Gustaf. What do you really want?
Gert. Oh, we want a great deal, although we haven't got through with one-half of it yet. Yes, we want so many things and we want them so quickly, that our reason cannot keep pace with them, and that's why it has been lagging behind a little. Yes, we wish among other things to change the furnishings a little in the churches, and to remove the windows because the air seems so musty. Yes, and there is a lot more we want, but that will have to wait for a while.
Gustaf (to Olof). That's a perilous disease—for anything else it cannot be.
Olof. Who knows?