Olof. Oh, once I did have the flame of faith, and it burned wondrously, but the monkish gang smothered it with their holy water when they were trying to read the devil out of my body.

Lars. That was a fire of straw which had to flicker out; but now the Lord will light you a fire of logs by which the offspring of the Philistines shall be consumed. Do you know your own will, Olof?

Olof. No, but I feel myself choking when I think of these poor people who yearn for salvation. They are crying for water--for living water--but there is no one who can give it to them.

Lars. Tear down the crumbling old house first, you can do that. Then the Lord Himself will build them a new one.

Olof. Then they will be without a roof over their heads for a time.

Lars. They will at least get fresh air.

Olof. But to rob a whole nation of its faith--they will despair.

Lars. Yes, they will despair.

Olof. But they will decry me, and revile me, and drag me before the elders.

Lars. Are you afraid?

Olof. No--but the offence--

Lars. You were born to give offence, Olof; you were born to smite. The Lord will heal.

Olof. I can feel the pull of the current; I am still clinging to the sluice-gate, but if I let go, I shall be swept away.

Lars. Let go! There are more than enough who hold back.

Olof. Reach out your hand to me, Lars, if I get too far into the whirlpool.

Lars. That is not in my power, and into the whirlpool you must go, even if it be to perish.

Olof. What storms you have raised in my soul! A moment ago I sat here and played in the shadow of the trees, and it was Whitsun Eve, and it was spring, and all was peace. And now--how can the trees be still, and why is there no darkness in the sky? Put your hand on my forehead, feel the blood surging! Do not abandon me, Lars! I see an angel coming towards me with a cup--she is walking across the evening sky--her path is blood-red, and in her hand she is carrying a cross--No, it is more than I avail! I will return to my peaceful valley. Let others fight; I will look on--No, I will follow in their wake and heal the wounded and whisper words of peace into the ears of the dying--Peace!--No, I want to fight with the rest, but in the last ranks--Why should I lead?

Lars. Because you are the boldest.

Olof. Not the strongest?

Lars. The strong will come after you: and the strongest of all is by your side; it is He who summons you to battle.

Olof. Help me, O Lord! I go.

Lars. Amen!

Olof. And will you come with me?

Lars. You must go alone--with G.o.d!

Olof. Why do you turn back?

Lars. I was not born to be a warrior: your armorer is all that I can be. Your weapon is the pure Word of G.o.d, and with that you must arm the people. For the doors to the popish armory have been broken open at last, and hereafter every one calling himself a man must fight for the freedom of his own spirit.

Olof. But where is the enemy? I am burning for battle, yet see no one to fight against.

Lars. No need to summon them; they will come! Farewell! You may begin whenever you are ready, and may G.o.d be with you!

Olof. Don't go. I have much more to talk with you about.

Lars. Here comes the vanguard now--to arms!

[Exit Lars.]

(A crowd of townsmen with their women and children pa.s.s across the stage to the church door at the right. They stop in front of it, bare their heads, and make the sign of the cross.)

Gert the Printer (disguised as a townsman). It's Whitsun Eve, and n.o.body has rung the vesper bell--that's very strange.

A Townsman. The church door is closed. Maybe the priest is sick.

Gert. Or not yet out of bed.

Townsman. What do you mean?

Gert. Only that he might be sick abed.

Townsman. But there are a lot of acolytes, and one of them might be saying a ma.s.s for us in his place.

Gert. They are probably too busy.

Townsman. With what?

Gert. That's hard to tell.

Townsman. Take care, my good man! You seem to have a leaning towards Lutherism. Bishop Hans of Linkoping is here, and so's the King.

Gert. Is Brask in town?

Townsman. Indeed he is. But I suppose we had better try the church door to see if it be really closed.

Gert (runs up the steps and beats the church door with his fist).The house of G.o.d is closed this Whitsun Eve. The reverend clergy will grant no audience with the Lord to-day, and so the worshipful commonalty will have to go home and go to bed without any ma.s.s. Look here, good folk!

Here you have a door--mere wood, of course, but that matters little, as it is lined with copper. Just take a look at this door! If I say that the Lord is living within--this being His house; and if I say that the bishop's diaconus, or secretarius, or canonicus, or some other fellow ending in 'us'--for it's only these clerical gentlemen that end in 'us'; and if I say that some fellow of that kind has the key hanging on a nail in his bedroom: then I don't mean to say that he has locked up the Lord and put the key on a nail in his bedroom: but all I mean to say is that we can't get in, and that there will be no divine service for its to-night--for us who have toiled six days making shoes and coats--who have spent the whole week brewing and baking and butchering for the reverend clergy in order that the said clergy might have strength enough on the seventh day to celebrate divine service for its. Of course, I am not at all saying this in reproach of the right reverend members of this Chapter; for they, too, are nothing but human beings, you know, and it was only the Lord who could stand working six days and be satisfied with resting on the seventh.

Townsman. You're blaspheming G.o.d, master townsman!

Gert. Well, He can't hear it when the door is closed.

A Woman. Jesu Maria! He's an Antichrist!

Gert (beating at the door). Do you hear how hollow it sounds?--It is writ in the Bible that once upon a time the veil before the Holiest of Holies was rent in twain, and it must be true--but nothing is said in the Bible about the clerical gentlemen having sewed the veil together again, which, of course, is no reason why it shouldn't have been done.