id="id00204"> [Calling.] Margit, Margit,—he is coming!

MARGIT.

[Starting up.] Coming? Who is coming?

SIGNE.

Gudmund, our kinsman!

MARGIT.

Gudmund Alfson! Here! How can you think—?

SIGNE.

Oh, I am sure of it.

MARGIT.

[Crosses to the right.] Gudmund Alfson is at the wedding-feast in the King's hall; you know that as well as I.

SIGNE.

Maybe; but none the less I am sure it was he.

MARGIT.

Have you seen him?

SIGNE.

Oh, no, no; but I must tell you—

MARGIT.

Yes, haste you—tell on!

SIGNE.

'Twas early morn, and the church bells rang,
To Mass I was fain to ride;
The birds in the willows twittered and sang,
In the birch-groves far and wide.
All earth was glad in the clear, sweet day;
And from church it had well-nigh stayed me;
For still, as I rode down the shady way,
Each rosebud beguiled and delayed me.
Silently into the church I stole;
The priest at the altar was bending;
He chanted and read, and with awe in their soul,
The folk to God's word were attending.
Then a voice rang out o'er the fiord so blue;
And the carven angels, the whole church through,
Turned round, methought, to listen thereto.

MARGIT.

O Signe, say on! Tell me all, tell me all!

SIGNE.

'Twas as though a strange, irresistible call
Summoned me forth from the worshipping flock,
Over hill and dale, over mead and rock.
'Mid the silver birches I listening trod,
Moving as though in a dream;
Behind me stood empty the house of God;
Priest and people were lured by the magic 'twould seem,
Of the tones that still through the air did stream.
No sound they made; they were quiet as death;
To hearken the song-birds held their breath,
The lark dropped earthward, the cuckoo was still,
As the voice re-echoed from hill to hill.

MARGIT.

Go on.

SIGNE.

They crossed themselves, women and men;
     [Pressing her hands to her breast.

But strange thoughts arose within me then;
For the heavenly song familiar grew:
Gudmund oft sang it to me and you—
Ofttimes has Gudmund carolled it,
And all he e'er sang in my heart is writ.

MARGIT.

And you think that it may be—?

SIGNE.

I know it is he! I know it? I know it! You soon shall see!
     [Laughing.

From far-off lands, at the last, in the end,
Each song-bird homeward his flight doth bend!
I am so happy—though why I scarce know—!
Margit, what say you? I'll quickly go
And take down his harp, that has hung so long
In there on the wall that 'tis rusted quite;
Its golden strings I will polish bright,
And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.

MARGIT. [Absently.]

Do as you will—

SIGNE. [Reproachfully.]

         Nay, this in not right.
     [Embracing her.

But when Gudmund comes will your heart grow light—
Light, as when I was a child, again.

MARGIT.

So much has changed—ah, so much!—since then—

SIGNE.

Margit, you shall be happy and gay!
Have you not serving-maids many, and thralls?
Costly robes hang in rows on your chamber walls;
How rich you are, none can say.
By day you can ride in the forest deep,
Chasing the hart and the hind;
By night in a lordly bower you can sleep,
On pillows of silk reclined.

MARGIT. [Looking toward the window.]

And he comes to Solhoug! He, as a guest!

SIGNE.

What say you?

MARGIT. [Turning.]

           Naught.—Deck you out in your best.
That fortune which seemeth to you so bright
May await yourself.

SIGNE.

Margit, say what you mean!

MARGIT. [Stroking her hair.]

I mean—nay, no more! 'Twill shortly be seen—;
I mean—should a wooer ride hither to-night—?

SIGNE.

A wooer? For whom?

MARGIT.

For you.

SIGNE. [Laughing.]

                             For me?
That he'd ta'en the wrong road full soon he would see.

MARGIT.

What would you say if a valiant knight
Begged for your hand?

SIGNE.

                    That my heart was too light
To think upon suitors or choose a mate.

MARGIT.

But if he were mighty, and rich, and great?

SIGNE.

O, were he a king, did his palace hold
Stores of rich garments and ruddy gold,
'Twould ne'er set my heart desiring.
With you I am rich enough here, meseeems,
With summer and sun and the murmuring streams,
And the birds in the branches quiring.
Dear sister mine—here shall my dwelling be;
And to give any wooer my hand in fee,
For that I am too busy, and my heart too full of glee!

[SIGNE runs out to the left, singing.

MARGIT.

[After a pause.] Gudmund Alfson coming hither! Hither—to Solhoug? No, no, it cannot be.—Signe heard him singing, she said! When I have heard the pine-trees moaning in the forest afar, when I have heard the waterfall thunder and the birds pipe their lure in the tree-tops, it has many a time seemed to me as though, through it all, the sound of Gudmund's songs came blended. And yet he was far from here.—Signe has deceived herself. Gudmund cannot be coming.

[BENGT enters hastily from the back.

BENGT.

[Entering, calls loudly.] An unlooked-for guest my wife!

MARGIT.

What guest?

BENGT.

Your kinsman, Gudmund Alfson! [Calls through the doorway on the right.] Let the best