56 James Christian Limiberg 



Grib. Dost mean my joke is quite too coarse ? 



Thorer. Too coarse, 



My Grib; and there 's no time for joking now. 



Grib. Let 's then be serious. Hark, the raven screams 

 Anew. Come ! take thy booty. [Strikes the dagger into 

 Thorer's breast.] 



Thorer. [Falling.'] Curse thee slave; 



Thou 'st pierced my heart ! 



Grib. Ah no! What is it thou 



Dost call thy heart ? That icy lump of flesh 

 That lies within thy breast deserves not such 

 An honored name. It never felt for others, 

 How feels it then this thrust ? Impossible ! 



Thorer. Thou traitor ! 



Grib. Thou hast named thine own foul name. 



Thorer. Thou sayest the truth ! [Dies. 



Grib. Thou shouldst have recognized 



Thy weakness sooner; now it's quite too late. [Looks at him.] 

 Now there he lies bespattered with his blood. 

 Where now are all thy shrewdness, plots, intrigues ? 

 Why not invent some clever means by which 

 To still the blood ? How stupid, silent, now, 

 He lies, his face turned heavenward, and all 

 His life long subtle craft doth not suffice 

 To save his spirit from a writhing hell. 



[Enter Olaf, Carlsho\'ed, Jostein and foUozvers.] 



Olaf. [His szi'ord drazvn; to Grib.] 

 Where is thy master, slave ? 



Grib. [Pointing to the corpse.] Sir, there he lies. 



Olaf. What ? Thorer bleeding, Thorer Klake dead ? 



Grib. The waves of dark Elivagar^^ now bear 

 Him down toward Niflheim. 



Olaf. Who hath slain him ? 



Grib. Sir, 



His villainy, — he slew himself. , 



Olaf. Explain 1 



94 



