too proud to answer you. Nor do I think it would do any good.

Mother. Oh, that I should be thus rewarded for the sacrifice I
made when I let you go out into the world and study!

Olof. By heaven, your sacrifice shall not be wasted! It is you,
mother, I have to thank for this day when at last I can stand
forth with a free countenance and speak the words of truth.

Mother. How can _you_ talk of truth, you who have made yourself a
prophet of lies?

Olof. Those are hard words, mother!

Mother. Or perhaps I and my forbears have lived and worshipped
and died in a lie?

Olof. It wasn't a lie, but it has become one. When you were
young, mother, you were right, and when I grow old--well, perhaps
I may find myself in the wrong. One cannot keep apace with the
times.

Mother. I don't understand!

Olof. This is my one sorrow--the greatest one of my life: that
all I do and say with the purest purpose must appear to you a
crime and sacrilege.

Mother. I know what you mean to do, Olof--I know what error you
have fallen into--and I cannot hope to persuade you out of it,