peace!

MARGIT.

Nearer? What mean you?

KNUT.

Have you not heard, then, that Gudmund Alfson has come back to Norway? He came with the Chancellor Audun of Hegranes, who was sent to France to bring home our new Queen.

MARGIT.

True enough, but in these very days the King holds his wedding- feast in full state at Bergen, and there is Gudmund Alfson a guest.

BENGT.

And there could we too have been guests had my wife so willed it.

ERIK.

[Aside to KNUT.] Then Dame Margit knows not that—?

KNUT.

[Aside.] So it would seem; but keep your counsel. [Aloud.] Well, well, Dame Margit, I must go my way none the less, and see what may betide. At nightfall I will be here again.

MARGIT.

And then you must show whether you have power to bridle your unruly spirit.

BENGT.

Aye, mark you that.

MARGIT.

You must lay no hand on your axe—hear you, Knut Gesling?

BENGT.

Neither on your axe, nor on your knife, nor on any other weapon whatsoever.

MARGIT.

For then can you never hope to be one of our kindred.

BENGT.

Nay, that is our firm resolve.

KNUT.

[To MARGIT.] Have no fear.

BENGT.

And what we have firmly resolved stands fast.

KNUT.

  That I like well, Sir Bengt Gauteson. I, too, say the same; and
I have pledged myself at the feast-board to wed your kinswoman.
You may be sure that my pledge, too, will stand fast.—God's peace
till to-night!

     [He and ERIK, with their men, go out at the back.
     [BENGT accompanies them to the door. The sound of the bells
       has in the meantime ceased.

BENGT.

[Returning.] Methought he seemed to threaten us as he departed.

MARGIT.

[Absently.] Aye, so it seemed.

BENGT.

Knut Gesling is an ill man to fall out with. And when I bethink me, we gave him over many hard words. But come, let us not brood over that. To-day we must be merry, Margit!—as I trow we have both good reason to be.

MARGIT.

[With a weary smile.] Aye, surely, surely.

BENGT.

Tis true I was no mere stripling when I courted you. But well I wot I was the richest man for many and many a mile. You were a fair maiden, and nobly born; but your dowry would have tempted no wooer.

MARGIT.

[To herself.] Yet was I then so rich.

BENGT.

What said you, my wife?

MARGIT.

Oh, nothing, nothing. [Crosses to the right.] I will deck me with pearls and rings. Is not to-night a time of rejoicing for me?

BENGT.

I am fain to hear you say it. Let me see that you deck you in your best attire, that our guests may say: Happy she who mated with Bengt Gauteson.—But now must I to the larder; there are many things to-day that must not be over-looked.

[He goes out to the left.

MARGIT. [Sinks down on a chair by the table on the right.]

'Twas well he departed. While here he remains
Meseems the blood freezes within my veins;
Meseems that a crushing mighty and cold
My heart in its clutches doth still enfold.
     [With tears she cannot repress.

He is my husband! I am his wife!
How long, how long lasts a woman's life?
Sixty years, mayhap—God pity me
Who am not yet full twenty-three!
     [More calmly after a short silence.

Hard, so long in a gilded cage to pine;
Hard a hopeless prisoner's lot—and mine.
     [Absently fingering the ornaments on the table, and beginning
       to put them on.

With rings, and with jewels, and all of my best
By his order myself I am decking—
But oh, if to-day were my burial-feast,
'Twere little that I'd be recking.
     [Breaking off.

But if thus I brood I must needs despair;
I know a song that can lighten care.
     [She sings.

The Hill-King to the sea did ride;
   —Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
To woo a maiden to be his bride.
   —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

The Hill-King rode to Sir Hakon's hold;
   —Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
Little Kirsten sat combing her locks of gold.
   —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

The Hill-King wedded the maiden fair;
   —Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
A silvern girdle she ever must wear.
   —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

The Hill-King wedded the lily-wand,
   —Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
With fifteen gold rings on either hand.
   —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

Three summers passed, and there passed full five;
   —Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
In the hill little Kirsten was buried alive.
   —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

Five summers passed, and there passed full nine;
   —Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
Little Kirsten ne'er saw the glad sunshine.
   —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

In the dale there are flowers and the birds' blithe song;
   —Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
In the hill there is gold and the night is long.
   —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—
     [She rises and crosses the room.

How oft in the gloaming would Gudmund sing
This song in may father's hall.
There was somewhat in it—some strange, sad thing
That took my heart in thrall;
Though I scarce understood, I could ne'er forget—
And the words and the thoughts they haunt me yet.
     [Stops horror-struck.

Rings of red gold! And a belt beside—!
'Twas with gold the Hill-King wedded his bride!
     [In despair; sinks down on a bench beside the table on
       the left.

Woe! Woe! I myself am the Hill-King's wife!
And there cometh none to free me from the prison of my life.

     [SIGNE, radiant with gladness, comes running in from
       the back.

SIGNE.