King. Where is she hiding, that I may rip that shriveled skin of hers about her ears?
Hans Lorbass. She who played our fate in the world is not at home when we come back so worsted by it.
King. Burial-wife!
Hans Lorbass [laughs mockingly]. Yes, call away, my friend!... Come here instead and sit down on this tub. The fire is singing,--the water will soon boil; come warm thyself.
King. Thou art right. This cold sea wind pants like a bloodhound through the gorge. [He sits down by the fire.] The country-people say that spring is coming. Is it true, I wonder?
Hans Lorbass. What?
King. Why, that spring is coming.
Hans Lorbass. Then I believe it, for my leg that I lost begins to pain me.
King. Listen! Back in the hedge a shepherd pipes upon his willow whistle. The streams are beginning to thaw and run down hill.... Brown buds come out on all the branches. The very sunsets are different. Look, high up in the blue the wild geese fly in their triangle. Northward they go. Not I.... I must. We both must, Hans, for we have grown old.
Hans Lorbass. Because our heads are white? Thou art wrong, master. I dare venture many a conflict lies in our path before thou goest to thy fathers' lofty house, and anointest thyself with thy fathers' honors.