Cath. What has been the matter?—(She starts at the sight of Aleftson.)—My husband!—no—‘tis Aleftson—what makes you look so like him?—you don’t look like yourself.
Aleft. (aside to the peasant.) Take that waistcoat out of the way.
Cath. (looking round, sees the knapsack.) What’s there?—Oh, I recollect it all now.—(To Aleftson) Look there! look there! your brother! your brother’s dead! Poor fool, you have no feeling.
Aleft. I wish I had none.
Cath. Oh, my husband!—shall I never, never see you more—never more hear your voice—never more see my children in their father’s arms?
Aleft. (takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are fixed.) But we are not sure this is Christiern’s.
Charles (snatching it from him). Don’t show it to her again, man!—you’ll drive her mad.
Aleft. (aside.) Let me alone; I know what I’m about. (Aloud) ‘Tis certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him wear; but perhaps—
Cath. It is his—it is his—too well I know it—my own work—I gave it to him the very day he went away to the wars—he told me he would wear it again the day of his coming home—but he’ll never come home again.
Aleft. How can you be sure of that?