Engstrand. Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small question?
Manders. Ask away.
Engstrand. Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up the fallen?
Manders. Of course it is.
Engstrand. And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honour?
Manders. Certainly he is; but—
Engstrand. At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this Englishman—or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they call 'em—well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused me once or twice before; she only had eyes for good-looking men in those days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence will remember how I had ventured up into a dancing-saloon where seafaring men were revelling in drunkenness and intoxication, as they say. And when I tried to exhort them to turn from their evil ways—
Mrs. Alving (coughs from the window). Ahem!
Manders. I know, Engstrand, I know—the rough brutes threw you downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The affliction to your leg is a credit to you.
Engstrand. I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But what I wanted to tell you was that she came then and confided in me with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it went to my heart to hear her.