RITA. [Exasperated.] Alfred! Alfred—this is intolerable of you!
ALLMERS. [In a low voice, clenching his fists before her face.] In that hour you condemned little Eyolf to death.
RITA. [Wildly.] You, too! You, too—if it is as you say!
ALLMERS. Oh yes—call me to account, too—if you will. We have sinned, both of us. And so, after all, there was retribution in Eyolf's death.
RITA. Retribution?
ALLMERS. [With more self-control.] Yes. Judgment upon you and me. Now, as we stand here, we have our deserts. While he lived, we let ourselves shrink away from him in secret, abject remorse. We could not bear to see it—the thing he had to drag with him—
RITA. [Whispers.] The crutch.
ALLMERS. Yes, that. And now, what we now call sorrow and heartache—is really the gnawing of conscience, Rita. Nothing else.
RITA. [Gazing helplessly at him.] I feel as if all this must end in despair—in madness for both of us. For we can never—never make it good again.
ALLMERS. [Passing into a calmer mood.] I dreamed about Eyolf last night. I thought I saw him coming up from the pier. He could run like other boys. So nothing had happened to him—neither the one thing nor the other. And the torturing reality was nothing but a dream, I thought. Oh, how I thanked and blessed—[Checking himself.] H'm!