Olof. By heaven, your sacrifice shall not be wasted! It is you, mother, I have to thank for this day when at last I can stand forth with a free countenance and speak the words of truth.
Mother. How can you talk of truth, you who have made yourself a prophet of lies?
Olof. Those are hard words, mother!
Mother. Or perhaps I and my forbears have lived and worshipped and died in a lie?
Olof. It wasn't a lie, but it has become one. When you were young, mother, you were right, and when I grow old—well, perhaps I may find myself in the wrong. One cannot keep apace with the times.
Mother. I don't understand!
Olof. This is my one sorrow—the greatest one of my life: that all I do and say with the purest purpose must appear to you a crime and sacrilege.
Mother. I know what you mean to do, Olof—I know what error you have fallen into—and I cannot hope to persuade you out of it, for you know so much more than I do, and I am sure that the Lord will put you on the right path again—but I ask you to take care of your own life, so that you won't plunge headlong into perdition! Don't risk your life!
Olof. What do you mean? They won't kill me in the pulpit, will they?
Mother. Haven't you heard that Bishop Brask wants the Pope to introduce the law that sends all heretics to the stake?