Gregers.
My dear Hialmar, I almost think you have something of the wild duck in you.
Hialmar.
Something of the wild duck? How do you mean?
Gregers.
You have dived down and bitten yourself fast in the undergrowth.
Hialmar.
Are you alluding to the well-nigh fatal shot that has broken my father’s wing—and mine too?
Gregers.
Not exactly to that. I don’t say that your wing has been broken; but you have strayed into a poisonous marsh, Hialmar; an insidious disease has taken hold of you, and you have sunk down to die in the dark.