Well, here is your goot held, und--
_Enter_ GRETCHEN, _suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him_.
GRETCHEN. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief!
RIP. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor.
GRETCHEN. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [_Throwing away
the bottle._] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof.
RIP [_slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity_].
Eh! what?
GRETCHEN. Out, I say! you drink no more here.
RIP. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away?
GRETCHEN. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that
ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and
you can't sell it.
RIP [_rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the
situation_]. Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right--it is yours; I have got no
home. [_In broken tones, almost sobbing._] But where will I go?
GRETCHEN. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the
door--never let your face darken it again.
RIP. What, Gretchen! are you goin' to drive me away like a dog on a
night like dis?
GRETCHEN.
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