Poet-Lore: A Quarterly Magazine of Letters

Hans. It is now scarce three years since we bore within the hall our master in his ash-hewn coffin. He raised his hand already cold, and pointed with his pallid, bony finger--not toward the bastard Danish conqueror, but towards his own true son, Prince Witte; and him he left his country's lord. The land was poor, the people rude, yet it had preserved its pride and loyalty un stained through a thousand murderous brawls. Three years ago as everybody knows, you would have murdered our young lord at summons of the Bastard and his fair promises; and now--what are you? Thieves, sand-fleas, loafers, riff-raff, haunting the moors and hiding in the thickets. Stop! I will build a gallows for you presently; my brave sword is too good for you. [He throws down his sword. They laugh.]

Sköll. Hanschen, has thou clean forgot who was the fiercest bloodhound of us all? Who was it always shouted "I will do it, I!"