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.