(The Cemetery of the Convent of St. Clara. In the background appears a partly demolished convent building, from which a gang of workmen are carrying out timber and debris. At the left is a mortuary chapel. Its windows are lighted from within, and whenever the door is opened, a brilliantly illuminated crucifix on the chancel wall, with a sarcophagus standing in front of it, becomes visible. A number of the graves have been opened. The moon is just rising from behind the ruined convent. Windrank is seated outside the chapel door. Singing is heard from within the chapel.)

[Enter Nils.]

Nils (goes up to Windrank). Good evening, Windrank.

Windrank. Please don't talk to me.

Nils. What's the matter now?

Windrank. Didn't you hear what I told you?

Nils. Has your scurvy ending as a skipper affected you so badly that you think of turning monk?

Windrank. 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57.

Nils. You haven't lost your reason, have you?

Windrank. 58, 59, 60—In the name of Jesu, get away from here!

Nils. You had better have a little nightcap with me.

Windrank. 64, 65—That's what I expected! Get you gone, tempter! I'll never take a drink again—until the day after to-morrow.

Nils. But it's a fine remedy against the plague, and with all this cadaverous stuff about, you had better be careful.

Windrank. 70—So you really think it's good for the plague?

Nils. Excellent!

Windrank. Only a drop, then! (He drinks from the bottle offered him by Nils.)

Nils. Only a drop! But tell me, are you suffering from vertigo since you are counting to a hundred?

Windrank. Hush! Hush! There's an epoch coming.

Nils. An epoch?

Windrank. Yes, the day after to-morrow.

Nils. And that's why you keep counting like that?

Windrank. No, it's only because I find it so hard to hold my tongue. Now, for heaven's sake, keep quiet! Please go away, or you'll get me into trouble!—71, 72, 73.

Nils. Who's inside?

Windrank. 74, 75.

Nils. Is it a funeral?

Windrank. 76, 77.—Go to hell, won't you!

Nils. Just another tiny drop, and the counting will be easier.

Windrank. Just a little one—I will! (He drinks. Singing is heard outside.)

Nils. Here come the nuns of St. Clara to celebrate the memory of their saint for the last time.

Windrank. That's fine mummery in days like these when everybody is getting educated.

Nils. They have obtained the King's permission. You see, the plague broke out in the parish of St. Clara, and some believe it was because of the godless destruction of St. Clara's convent.

Windrank. And now they mean to drive away the plague with singing—as if that bugaboo were a hater of music. But, of course, it wouldn't be a wonder if he did flee from their hoarse screeching.

Nils. Will you please tell me who has dared to invade this last sanctuary—for it's here the bones of the Saint are to be deposited before the place is torn down entirely.

Windrank. Then there'll be a fight, I fear.

[The singing has drawn nearer. A procession enters, made up of Dominican friars and Franciscan nuns, headed by MÅrten. They come to a halt and continue singing, while the workmen are making a great deal of noise in the background.]

MÅrten (to the Abbess). You can see, my sister, how the abode of the Lord has been despoiled.

Abbess. The Lord who has delivered us into the hands of the Egyptians will also set its free in due time.

MÅrten (to the workmen). Cease working, and do not disturb our pious task!

Overseer. Our orders are to work day and night until this den has been torn down.

Abbess. Alas, that unbelief has spread so far down among the people!

MÅrten. We are celebrating this feast with the permission of the King.

Overseer. Well, I don't mind!

MÅrten. And therefore I command you to cease your noise. I'll appeal directly to your workmen, whom you have forced into this shameless undertaking.—I'll ask them if they have any respect whatever left for holy—

Overseer. You had better not, for I am in command here. Furthermore, I can tell you that they are glad enough to have a chance of tearing down these hornets' nests for which they themselves have had to pay—and then, too, they are pretty thankful to earn something during a time of famine. (He goes toward the background.)

MÅrten. Let us forget the wickedness and tumult of this world. Let us enter the sacred place and pray for them.

Abbess. Lord, Lord, the cities of Thy sanctuary are laid waste! Zion is laid waste, and Jerusalem is lying desolate!

Windrank. 100.—Nobody can get in here!

The Conspirators (within the chapel). We swear!

MÅrten. Who has dared to invade the chapel?

Windrank. It's no more a chapel since it has become a royal storehouse.

Abbess. That's why the godless one gave us his permission!

[The door of the chapel is thrown open and the conspirators appear; among them Olof, Lars Andersson, Gert, the German, the Dane, the Man from Smaland, and others.]

Olof (much excited). What kind of buffoonery is this?

MÅrten. Make way for the handmaidens of St. Clara!

Olof. Do you think your idols can keep away the plague that God has sent you as a punishment? Do you think the Lord will find those pieces of bone you carry in the box there so pleasant that He forgives all your dreadful sins? Take away that abomination! (He takes the reliquary from the Abbess and throws it into one of the open graves.) From dust you have come, and to dust you shall return, even if your name was Sancta Clara da Spoleto and you ate only three ounces of bread a day and slept among the swine at night! (The nuns scream.)

MÅrten. If you fear not what is holy, fear at least your temporal ruler. Look here! He has still so much respect left for divine things that he dreads the wrath of the saint. (He shows a document to Olof.)

Olof. Do you know what the Lord did with the king of the Assyrians when he permitted the worship of idols? He smote him and all his people. Thus the righteous is made to suffer with the unrighteous. In the name of the one omnipotent God, I declare this worship of Baal abolished, even if all the kings of the earth give their permit. The Pope wanted to sell my soul to Satan, but I tore the contract to pieces—you remember? Should I then fear a King who wants to sell his people to the Baalim? (He tears the document to pieces.)

MÅrten (to his followers). You are my witnesses that he has defamed the King.

Olof (to his followers). And you are my witnesses before God that I have led the people of a godless King away from him!

MÅrten. Listen, ye faithful! It is because of this heretic that God has smitten us with the plague—it is the punishment of God, and it fell first of all on his mother.

Olof. Listen, ye faithless papists! It was the punishment of the Lord on me because I had served Sennacherib against Judah. I will atone my crime by leading Judah against the kings of the Assyrians and the Egyptians.

(The moon has risen in the meantime. It is very red, and a fiery glare pervades the place. The crowd is frightened.)

Olof (mounting one of the graves). Heaven is weeping blood over your sins and your idolatry. Punishment shall be meted out, for those in authority have fallen into wrongdoing. Can't you see that the very graves are yawning for prey—

(Gert seizes Olof by the arm, whispers to him, and leads him down from the mound. The crowd is panic-stricken.)

Abbess. Give us back our reliquary, so that we may abandon this home of desolation.

MÅrten. It is better to let the bones of the Saint remain in this consecrated soil than to have them touched by the vile hands of heretics!

Olof. You are afraid of the plague, cowards that you are! Is your faith in the sacred bones no stronger?

(Gert whispers to Olof again. The procession has in the meantime scattered, so that only a part of it remains on the stage.)

Olof (to MÅrten). Now you should be satisfied, you hypocrite! Go and tell him whom you serve that a box of silver is about to be buried here, and he'll dig it out of the earth with his own nails. Tell him that the moon, which is usually made of silver, has turned into gold, merely to make your master raise his eyes toward heaven for once. Tell him that you, by your blasphemous buffooneries, have succeeded in provoking an honest man's wrath—

[Exeunt MÅrten and the members of the procession.]

Gert. Enough, Olof! (To all the conspirators except Olof and Lars.) Leave us, please!

[Exeunt the conspirators, exchanging whispers.]

Gert (to Olof and Lars). It's too late to back down now!

Olof. What do you want, Gert—speak!

Gert (showing them a bound volume). Before you two, servants of God, a people steps forth to make its confession. Do you acknowledge your oath?

Olof and Lars. We have sworn!

Gert. This book is the result of my silent labors. On every page you will find a cry of distress, a sigh from thousands who have been blind enough to think it God's will that they should suffer the tyranny of one man—who have thought it their duty not even to hope for liberation. (Olof takes the volume and begins to read.) You shall hear complaints all the way from the primeval forests of Norrland down to the Sound. Out of the wreckage from the churches the King is building new castles for the nobility and new prisons for the people. You shall read how the King is bartering away law and justice by letting murderers escape their punishment if they seek refuge at the salt-works. You shall read how he is taxing vice by letting harlots pay for the right to ply their traffic. Yea, the very fishes of the rivers, the water of the sea itself, have been usurped by him. But the end is in sight. The eyes of the people have been opened. There is seething and fermenting everywhere. Soon the tyranny will be crushed, and the people shall be free!

Olof. Who wrote the songs in this book?

Gert. The people! These are songs of the people—so they sing who feel the yoke pressing. I have visited city and country, asking them: "Are you happy?" These are the answers! I have held assizes. Here are the verdicts entered. Do you believe that a million wills may conquer one? Do you believe that God has bestowed this land with all its human souls and all its property upon a single man, for him to deal with as it suits his pleasure? Or do you not rather believe that he should do the will of all?—You do not answer? You are awed, I see, by the thought that it may come to an end! Listen to my confession! Tomorrow the oppressor dies, and you shall all be free!

Olof and Lars. What are you saying?

Gert. You didn't understand what I was talking about at our meetings.

Olof. You have deceived us!

Gert. Not at all! You are perfectly free. Two voices less mean nothing. Everything is prepared.

Lars. Have you considered the consequences?

Gert. Fool! Is it not for the sake of the consequences that I have done all this?

Olof. Supposing Gert be right—what do you say, Lars?

Lars. I wasn't born to lead.

Olof. All are born to lead, but all are not willing to sacrifice the flesh.

Gert. Only he who has the courage to face scorn and ridicule can lead. For hatred is as nothing compared with the laughter that kills.

Olof. And if it should miscarry?

Gert. Dare to face that, too! You don't know that Thomas MÜnster has established a new spiritual kingdom at Muhlhausen. You don't know that all Europe is in revolt. Who was Dacke, if not a defender of the oppressed? What have the Dalecarlians meant by all their rebellions, if not to defend their freedom against him who broke his plighted faith? He does such things and goes unpunished, but when they want to defend themselves, then he raises the cry of revolt and treason.

Olof. So this is the point to which you wanted to lead me, Gert?

Gert. Have you not been led here by the current? You will, but do not dare! To-morrow, in the church, the mine will go off, and that will be a signal for the people to rise and choose a ruler after their own heart.

Olof (turning over the leaves of the book). If it be the will of all, then nobody can stop it. Gert, let me take this book to the King and show him what is the will of his people, and he will grant them their rights.

Gert. Oh, you child! For a moment he may be scared, and perhaps restore a silver pitcher to some church. Then he'll point toward heaven and say: "It is not by my own will that I sit here and do you wrong, but by the will of God!"

Olof. Then the will of God be done!

Gert. But how?

Olof. He must die that all may live. Murderer, ingrate, traitor—those will be my names, perchance. I am sacrificing everything, even my honor, my conscience, and my faith—could I possibly give more for those pitiable ones who are crying for salvation? Let us go ere I repent!

Gert. Even if you did, it would already be too late. Don't you know that MÅrten is a spy, and perhaps sentence has already been pronounced against the rebel!

Olof. Well, I won't repent—and why should I repent of an act that implies the carrying out of God's own judgment? Forward, then, in the name of the Lord. [Exeunt.]

[Enter Harlot, who kneels at a grave which she has strewn with flowers.]

Harlot. Hast Thou punished me enough now, O Lord, to pardon me?

[Enter Christine quickly.]

Christine. Have you seen Master Olof, goodwife?

Harlot. Are you his friend or his enemy?

Christine. Do you mean to insult me?

Harlot. Pardon me! I haven't seen him since the last time I prayed.

Christine. You look so sorrowful! Oh, I know you now! It was you to whom Olof was talking that night in Greatchurch.

Harlot. You mustn't let it be seen that you are talking to me. You don't know who I am, do you?

Christine. Oh, yes, I know.

Harlot. You know—so they have told you?

Christine. Olof told me.

Harlot. O my God! And don't you despise me?

Christine. You are an unfortunate, down-trodden woman, Olof told me. Why should I despise misfortune?

Harlot. Then you cannot be happy yourself?

Christine. No, we have shared the same fate.

Harlot. I am not the only one, then! Tell me, who was the worthless man to whom you gave your love?

Christine. Worthless?

Harlot. Oh, pardon—to one who loves, no one seems worthless! To whom did you give your love?

Christine. You know Master Olof, don't you?

Harlot. Oh, tell me that it is not true! Don't rob me of my faith in him, too! It is the only thing I have left since God took my child!

Christine. You have had a child? Then you have been happy once.

Harlot. I thank God, who did not permit my son to find out the unworthiness of his mother.

Christine. Have you been guilty of any crime, that you speak so?

Harlot. I have just buried it.

Christine. Your child? How can you! And I pray God every day to grant me a little one—so that I may at least have one creature to love!

Harlot. Oh, poor child, pray to God that He preserve you from it!

Christine. I don't understand you, goodwife!

Harlot. Don't call me that! You know who I am, don't you?

Christine. Well, don't they offer prayers in the churches for those who have hopes?

Harlot. Not for such as we!

Christine. Such as we?

Harlot. They pray for the others and curse us.

Christine. What do you mean by "the others"? I don't understand you at all.

Harlot. Do you know the wife of Master Olof?

Christine. Why, that is I!

Harlot. You? Oh, why didn't I guess at once? Can you forgive me a moment's doubt? How could vice look like you and him? Alas! You must leave me. You are a child, still ignorant of wickedness. You must not be talking to me longer. God bless you! Good-bye! (She starts to leave.)

Christine. Don't leave me! Whoever you be, for God's sake, stay! They have broken into our house, and my husband is not to be found. Take me away from here—home to yourself—anywhere. You must be a good woman—you cannot be wicked—

Harlot (interrupting her). If I tell you that the brutality of the crowd wouldn't hurt you half so much as my company, then perhaps you will forgive me for leaving—

Christine. Who are you?

Harlot. I am an outcast on whom has been fulfilled that curse which God hurled at woman after the fall of our first parents. Ask me no more, for if I told you more, your contempt would goad me to a self-defence that would be still more contemptible.—Here comes somebody who perhaps will be generous enough to escort you, if you promise to let him have your honor and virtue and eternal peace for his trouble—for that is probably the least he will accept for his protection at such a late hour as this! Please forgive me—it is not at you that I am railing.

[Enter Windrank, intoxicated.]

Windrank. Why the devil can't a fellow be left alone, even here among the corpses? See here, my good ladies, please don't ask me anything, for now I can't guarantee that I won't answer. The day after to-morrow I'll tell you all about it, for then it'll be too late. Perhaps you're some of those nuns that have been made homeless? Well, although women are nothing but women, I don't think I have any right to be impolite, for all that the sun set long ago. Of course, there is an old law saying that nobody can be arrested after sunset, but though the law is a bugbear, I think it's too polite to insist on anything when it's a question of ladies. Hush, hush, tongue! Why, the old thing is going like a spinning-wheel, but that comes from that infernal gin! Why should I be dragged into this kind of thing? Of course, I'll get well paid and be a man of means, but don't believe that I am doing it for the sake of the money! It's done now, but I don't want to—I don't want to! I want to sleep in peace nights and have no ghosts to trouble me. Suppose I goo and tell? No, then they'll arrest me. Suppose somebody else would go and tell? Perhaps one of you nuns might be so kind as to do it?

Christine (who has been conferring with the Harlot). If you have anything on your conscience that troubles you, please tell us.

Windrank. Am I to tell? That's just what I want to get out of, but this is horrible, and I can't stand it any longer. I am forced to do it. Why should I be the one? I don't want to.

Christine. My dear man, you mean to commit—

Windrank. A murder. Who told you? Well, thank God that you know! By all means, go ahead and tell about it—at once—or I'll have no peace—no peace in all eternity!

Christine (recovering from the first shock). Why should you murder him?

Windrank. Oh, there are such a lot of reasons. Just look at the way he is tearing down your nunneries.

Christine. The King?

Windrank. Yes, of course! The father and liberator of his country! Of course, he's an oppressor, but that's no reason why he should be murdered.

Christine. When is it going to happen?

Windrank. Why, to-morrow—in Greatchurch—right in church! [At a signal from Christine, the Harlot leaves.]

Christine. How could they pick you for such a deed?

Windrank. Well, you see, I gave a connection or two among the church attendants, and then I am poor, of course. What the devil does it matter who puts the match to the powder, if only some shrewd fellow is pointing the gun? And then we have several other little schemes in reserve, although I'm to fire the first shot. But why don't you run off and tell about it?

Christine. It has already been done.

Windrank. Well, God be thanked and praised! Goodbye, there goes all my money!

Christine. Tell me who you are, you conspirators.

Windrank. No, that I won't tell!

[Enter Nils. He crosses the stage followed by a troop of soldiers and a crowd of people.]

Christine. Do you see that they are already looking for you?

Windrank. I wash my hands of it.

Nils (goes up to Windrank without noticing Christine). Have you seen Olof Pedersson?

Windrank. Why?

Nils. Because he is wanted.

Windrank. No, I haven't seen him. Are there others wanted?

Nils. Yes, many.

Windrank. No, I haven't seen any of them.

Nils. Well, it will soon be your turn. [Exit.]

Christine. Are they looking for the conspirators?

Windrank. What a question! Now I'm going to clear out. Good-bye!

Christine. Tell me before you go—

Windrank. Haven't time!

Christine. Is Master Olof one of them?

Windrank. Of course! (Christine sinks down unconscious on one of the graves. Windrank is suddenly sobered and genuinely moved.) Good Lord in heaven, it must be his wife! (He goes to Christine.) I think I've killed her! Oh, Hans, Hans, all you can do now is to get a rope for yourself! What business did you have to get mixed up with the high and mighty?—Come here, somebody, and help a poor woman!

[Enter Olof, led by soldiers carrying torches as he catches sight of Christine, he tears himself loose and throws himself on his knees beside her.]

Olof. Christine!

Christine. Olof! You're alive! Come away from here and let us go home!

Olof (overwhelmed). It's too late!

(Within Greatchurch. Olof and Gert, dressed as penitents, stand in the pillory near the entrance. The organ is playing and the bells are ringing. The service is just ended, and the people are leaving the church. The Sexton and his wife are standing by themselves in a corner near the footlights.)

Sexton. Lars the Chancellor, he was pardoned, but not Master Olof.

Wife. The Chancellor has always been a man of peace and has never stirred up any trouble, so I can't understand how he could want to have anything to do with such dreadful things.

Sexton. The Chancellor has always had a queer streak, although he has never said much, and though he was pardoned, it cost him everything he had. I can't help being sorry for Master Olof; I have always had a liking for him, even though he has been a fire-brand.

Wife. Well, what's the use of making a young fellow like that pastor?

Sexton. Of course, he's rather young, and that has been his main fault, but I'm sure time will cure it.

Wife. What nonsense you are talking, seeing that he's going to die to-day.

Sexton. Well, Lord, Lord, if I hadn't clean forgotten about it! But then it doesn't seem quite right to me, either.

Wife. Do you know if he has repented?

Sexton. I doubt very much, for I am sure his neck is just as stiff as ever.

Wife. But I suppose he'll thaw out a little now, when he sees his class of children whom they wouldn't let him prepare for confirmation.

Sexton. Well, I must say that the King can be pretty mean when he turns that side to. Now he is making the pastor do church penance the very same day his children are being confirmed. It's almost as bad as when he made the dean drink with the headsman, or when he sent those two prelates riding through the city with crowns of birch bark on their heads.

Wife. And his own brother Lars has been sent to shrive him.

Sexton. See, here come the children! How sad they're looking—well, I don't wonder. I think I'll have to go in and have a cry myself—

(Enter the children about to be confirmed, boys and girls. They begin to march past Olof, carrying bunches of flowers in their hands. They look sad and keep their eyes on the ground. A number of older people accompany the children. A few curious persons point out Olof and are rebuked by others. Last of all the children in the procession comes Vilhelm, one of the scholars with whom Olof was seen playing in the First Act. He stops timidly in front of him, kneels, and drops his bunch of flowers at the feet of Olof, who does not notice it because he has pulled down the hood of his penitential robe so that it hides his face. Some of the people mutter disapprovingly, while others show signs of pleasure. MÅrten comes forward to take away the flowers, but is pushed back by the crowd. Soldiers clear a path for Lars Pedersson, who appears in canonicals. The crowd disappears gradually, leaving Lars, Olof, and Gert alone on the stage. The playing of the organ ceases, but the bells continue to toll.)

Lars. Olof, the King has refused to listen to the petition for pardon submitted by the City Corporation. Are you prepared to die?

Olof. I am not able to think so far.

Lars. I have been ordered to prepare you.

Olof. That will have to be done in haste, for my blood is still running quickly through my veins.

Lars. Have you repented?

Olof. No!

Lars. Do you want to pass into eternity with an unforgiving mind?

Olof. Oh, put aside the formulas, if you want me to listen to you. I can't think that I am going to die now—there 's far too much of life and strength left in me.

Lars. I must tell you that I don't think so either, and that it is for a new life in this world I am trying to prepare you.

Olof. Then I may live?

Lars. If you will admit that you were mistaken in the past, and if you will take back what you have said about the King.

Olof. How could I? That would be to die indeed!

Lars. This was what I had to tell you. Now you must decide for yourself.

Olof. One doesn't parley about one's convictions.

Lars. Even a mistake may turn into conviction. I shall leave you to think the matter over. [Exit.]

Gert. Our harvest wasn't ready. It takes a lot of snow to make the fall crops ripen—nay, centuries must pass before you will even see the first shoots. All the conspirators are under arrest, they say, and te deums are sung on that account. But they are mistaken; conspirators are abroad everywhere—in the royal apartments, in the churches, and in the market-places—but they dare not do what we have dared. And yet they'll reach that point some time. Good-bye, Olof! You must live a little longer, for you are young. I shall die with the utmost pleasure. The name of every new martyr becomes the rallying-cry for a new host. Don't believe that a human soul was ever set on fire by a lie. Don't ever distrust those feelings that shake you to your inmost soul when you have seen some one suffer spiritual or physical oppression. If the whole world tell you that you are wrong, believe your own heart just the same—if you are brave enough to do so. The day when you deny your self—then you are dead, and eternal perdition will seem a mercy to one who, has been guilty of the sin against the Holy Ghost.

Olof. You speak of my release as though it were a certainty.

Gert. The Corporation has offered 500 ducats for your ransom, and if it cost only 2000 to get Birgitta declared a saint, then 500 should suffice to get you declared guiltless. The King doesn't dare to take your life!

[Enter the Lord High Constable, followed by the Headsman and soldiers.]

Constable. Take away Gert the Printer.

Gert (to Olof, as he is being led away). Good-bye, Olof! Take care of my daughter, and don't ever forget the great Whitsunday!

Constable. Master Olof, you are a young man who has been led astray. The King will pardon you for the sake of your youth, but as a safeguard he demands a retraction wherein you take back whatever you have ventured beyond and against his orders.

Olof. Then the King is still in need of me?

Constable. There are many more who need you, but don't rely on his mercy until you have fulfilled his condition. Here is the King's warrant. In a moment your fetters may be shed, if so be your will, but it will be just as easy to tear up this sheet of paper.

Olof. One who contents himself with 500 ducats is not likely to care very much for a retraction—

Constable. That is a lie! The headsman is waiting for you. But pray listen to a few words from an old man. I, too, have been young, and moved by strong passions. They belong to youth; but those passions are meant to be killed. I did as you do. I went around telling the truth, and all I got in return was ingratitude, or, at the best, a smile of derision. I, too, wanted to build a little heaven here on earth—(speaking with marked emphasis) of course, on other foundations than yours—but soon I came to my senses, and the chimeras were sent packing. I have no desire to make you out a man wishing to gain notoriety by getting himself talked about—I don't believe anything of the kind. You are moved by good intentions, but they are such as must cause harm. Your blood is hot, and it blinds you because you exercise no self-control. You preach freedom, and you are plunging thousands into the slavery of license. Retrace your steps, young man, and make atonement for your errors! Restore what you have torn down, and your fellow-men will bless you!

Olof (agitated to a point of desperation). It is the truth you speak; I hear it, but who taught you to speak like that?

Constable. Experience—that which you lack!

Olof. Can I have lived and fought for a lie? Must I now declare my whole youth and the best part of my manhood lost, useless, wasted? Oh, let me rather die together with my mistake!

Constable. You should have broken loose from your dreams earlier. But calm yourself! Your life is still ahead of you. The past has been a school—hard, to be sure, but all the more wholesome. Hitherto you have given your life to whims and follies. Now you have some inkling of what reality demands of you. Outside that door your creditors are waiting with their claims. Here are their bills. The clergy of the young Church demand that you live to finish what you have begun so splendidly. The City Corporation demands its secretary for the Council. The congregation demands its shepherd. The children of the confirmation class demand their teacher. Those are your legal creditors. But there is one more waiting outside, to whom perhaps you owe more than all the rest, and who yet demands nothing at all—your young wife. You have torn her from her father's side and set her adrift in the storm. You have broken down her childhood faith and filled her mind with restlessness. Your reckless deeds have goaded the brutal mob into driving her out of her own home. Yet she does not even demand your love: all she asks of you is permission to spend a life of suffering by your side.—Now you can see that we, too, give a little consideration to other people, although you call us selfish.—Let me open this door, which will lead you back into the world. Discipline your heart before it hardens, and thank God for granting you more time to work for mankind.

Olof (breaking into tears). I am lost!

(Constable gives a sign to the Headsman, who removes the fetters and the garb of penitence from Olof; then the Constable opens the door to the sacristy, and delegates from the lords, the clergy, and the city guilds enter.)

Constable. Olof Pedersson, formerly pastor of the city church at Stockholm, do you hereby repent of your misdeeds and retract what you have said beyond and against the King's order? Do you declare your willingness to keep your oath to the sovereign of this realm, and to serve him faithfully?

(Olof remains silent. Lars Pedersson and Christine approach him, while many of those present make pleading gestures.)

Olof (in a cold and determined voice). Yes!

Constable. In the name of the King, I set you free!

(Olof and Christine embrace. A number of persons come forward to press his hand and utter words of congratulation.)

Olof (in the same cold voice). Before I leave this room, let me be alone a moment with my God. I need it! Once upon a time I struck the first blow right here, and here—

Lars. Right here you have won your greatest victory this very day!

(All leave the room except Olof, who falls on his knees.)

[Enter Vilhelm cautiously. He looks very much surprised at seeing Olof alone and free.]

Vilhelm. I come to bid you farewell, Master Olof, before you pass on to another life.

Olof (rising). You have not deserted me, Vilhelm! Help me, then, to mourn those happy moments of my youth that are now nothing but a memory!

Vilhelm. Before you die I want to thank you for all that you have done for us. It was I who gave you those flowers, which you haven't noticed.—They have been trampled on, I see. I wanted to bring you a reminder of the days when we were playing under the lindens in the convent close at StrÄngnÄs. I thought it might do you good to hear that we have never thanked God, as you said we would, because you didn't return to us. We have never forgotten you, for it was you who relieved us of those cruel penances, and it was you who flung open the heavy convent doors and gave us back our freedom and the blue sky and the happiness of living. Why you must die, we do not know, but you could never do anything wrong. And if you die because you have rendered help to some of those that were oppressed, as they tell us, then you should not be sorry, although it hurts very, very much. Once you told us how Hus was burned because he had dared to tell the truth to those in power. You told us how he went to the stake and joyfully commended himself into the hands of God, and how he prophesied about the swan that should come singing new songs in praise of awakened freedom. That's the way I have thought that you would meet your death—with your head thrown back, and your eyes toward the sky, and the people crying: "So dies a witness!"

(Olof leans against the pillory, his face showing how the words of Vilhelm strike home to him.)

Gert (his voice heard from a distant part of the church.) Renegade!

(Olof sinks down overwhelmed at the foot of the pillory.)