2d Peas.  If I do, pickle me in a barrel among cabbage.  She told me once, God’s curse would overtake me, For grinding of the poor:  her turn’s come now.

Guta.  Will you, then, help her?  She will pay you richly.

1st Peas.  Ay?  How, dame?  How?  Where will the money come from?

Guta.  God knows—­

1st Peas.  And you do not.

Guta.  Why, but last winter,
When all your stacks were fired, she lent you gold.

1st Peas.  Well—­I’ll be generous:  as the times are hard, Say, if I take your letter, will you promise To marry me yourself?

Guta.  Ay, marry you,
Or anything, if you’ll but go to-day: 
At once, mind. [Giving him the letter.]

1st Peas.  Ay, I’ll go.  Now, you’ll remember?

Guta.  Straight to her ladyship at Kitzingen. 
God and His saints deal with you, as you deal
With us this day. [Exit.]

2d Peas.  What! art thou fallen in love promiscuously?

1st Peas.  Why, see, now, man; she has her mistress’ ear; And if I marry her, no doubt they’ll make me Bailiff, or land-steward; and there’s noble pickings In that same line.

2d Peas.  Thou hast bought a pig in a poke:  Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain.

1st Peas.  Dost think?  Well—­I’ll not fret myself about it. 
See, now, before I start, I must get home
Those pigs from off the forest; chop some furze;
And then to get my supper, and my horse’s: 
And then a man will need to sit a while,
And take his snack of brandy for digestion;
And then to fettle up my sword and buckler;
And then, bid ’em all good-bye:  and by that time
’Twill be ’most nightfall—­I’ll just go to-morrow. 
Off—­here she comes again. [Exeunt.]

[Isentrudis and Guta enter, with the children.]

Guta.  I warned you of it; I knew she would not stay
An hour, thus treated like a slave—­an idiot.

Isen.  Well, ’twas past bearing:  so we are thrust forth
To starve again.  Are all your jewels gone?

Guta.  All pawned and eaten—­and for her, you know,
She never bore the worth of one day’s meal
About her dress.  We can but die—­No foe
Can ban us from that rest.

Isen.  Ay, but these children!—­Well—­if it must be,
Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand
My wedding-ring; the man who gave it me
Should be in heaven—­and there he’ll know my heart. 
Take it, girl, take it.  Where’s the Princess now? 
She stopped before a crucifix to pray;
But why so long?

Guta.  Oh! prayer, to her rapt soul,
Is like the drunkenness of the autumn bee,
Who, scent-enchanted, on the latest flower,
Heedless of cold, will linger listless on,
And freeze in odorous dreams.

Isen.  Ah! here she comes.

Guta.  Dripping from head to foot with wet and mire! 
How’s this?