Olof. What storms you have raised in my soul! A moment ago I sat here and played in the shadow of the trees, and it was Whitsun Eve, and it was spring, and all was peace. And now—how can the trees be still, and why is there no darkness in the sky? Put your hand on my forehead, feel the blood surging! Do not abandon me, Lars! I see an angel coming towards me with a cup—she is walking across the evening sky—her path is blood-red, and in her hand she is carrying a cross—No, it is more than I avail! I will return to my peaceful valley. Let others fight; I will look on—No, I will follow in their wake and heal the wounded and whisper words of peace into the ears of the dying—Peace!—No, I want to fight with the rest, but in the last ranks—Why should I lead?
Lars. Because you are the boldest.
Olof. Not the strongest?
Lars. The strong will come after you: and the strongest of all is by your side; it is He who summons you to battle.
Olof. Help me, O Lord! I go.
Lars. Amen!
Olof. And will you come with me?
Lars. You must go alone—with God!
Olof. Why do you turn back?
Lars. I was not born to be a warrior: your armorer is all that I can be. Your weapon is the pure Word of God, and with that you must arm the people. For the doors to the popish armory have been broken open at last, and hereafter every one calling himself a man must fight for the freedom of his own spirit.