Hans Lorbass. I serve.
King. Is that the reason?
Hans Lorbass. A servant has no choice. Else had I torn from off its nail my spear which the worms are conquering, burnished my shield and mail, and with a shout of righteous anger which has gnawed its chain for years, I would leap forth--where? Thou knowest, master!
King [smiling bitterly]. What use? He serves a righteous cause.
Hans Lorbass. Master, I will not look longer upon this farce! Lay about thee, kindle flames, slay, torture, make a harvest of the people,--but laugh and feel thyself a man once more!
King. A man? A husband! That is the word! That is my office. And my virtue. Wouldst thou soar? Then load a burden on thy back. Art thou hungry? Then toss away thy food. Dost thou hear thy heart clamor within thee after freedom? Seek a prison, and lay thee down therein.
Hans Lorbass. Dost thou hate her so?
King. Hate her? Her--from whose soul a mildness like honey drops on mine? Her, in whose golden beauty the loveliness about her pales to a shadow? If I knew a blot which she had hidden from me, a single grain of dust upon the mirror of her soul, a single pretext however bald or hollow, then I should have a weapon with which to pierce my shame, to free me from this need of speaking out my humility--oh, might I hate her, my God, it would be well for me! But at that glance of sorrowing goodness with which she smiles on all our faults, all trace of defiant courage dies in me, and I am weaponless because she is.
Hans Lorbass. Then come, escape!
King [smiling wearily]. True, the door stands open.