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
Do what you will for me. [He seats himself at his loom.] I stay here.
GOTTLIEB
[After a short struggle.] I'm going to work too—come what may.
[Goes out.
[The Weavers' Song is heard, sung by hundreds of voices quite close at hand; it sounds like a dull, monotonous wail.
INMATES OF THE HOUSE
[In the entry-room.] "Oh, mercy on us! there they come swarmin' like ants!"—"Where can all these weavers be from?"—"Don't shove like that, I want to see too."—"Look at that great maypole of a woman leadin' on in front!"—"Gracious! they're comin' thicker an' thicker."