ASTA. [Imploringly.] Oh, Alfred, don't sit staring out over the
fiord!

ALLMERS. [Not heeding her.] Over the surface, yes. But in the
depths--there sweeps the rushing undertow--

ASTA. [In terror.] Oh, for God's sake don't think of the depths!

ALLMERS. [Looking gently at her.] I suppose you think he is lying
close outside here? But he is not, Asta. You must not think that.
You must remember how fiercely the current sweeps gut here straight
to the open sea.

ASTA. [Throws herself forward against the table, and, sobbing,
buries her face in her hands.] Oh, God! Oh, God!

ALLMERS. [Heavily.] So you see, little Eyolf has passed so far--far
away from us now.

ASTA. [Looks imploringly up at him.] Oh, Alfred, don't say such
things!

ALLMERS. Why, you can reckon it out for yourself--you that are so
clever. In eight-and-twenty hours--nine-and-twenty hours--Let me
see--! Let me see--!

ASTA. [Shrieking and stopping her ears.] Alfred!

ALLMERS. [Clenching his hand firmly upon the table.] Can you
conceive the meaning of a thing like this?