Enter Gretchen, suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him.
Gretchen. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief!
Rip. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor.
Gretchen. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [Throwing away the bottle.] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof.
Rip [slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity]. Eh! what?
Gretchen. Out, I say! you drink no more here.
Rip. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away?
Gretchen. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and you can't sell it.
Rip [rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the situation]. Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right—it is yours; I have got no home. [In broken tones, almost sobbing.] But where will I go?
Gretchen. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the door—never let your face darken it again.