Bravely done, Elina! Ha-ha, Sir Knight, now is it my turn!

                                   ELINA.

        My mother—you are so strange. Ah, yes—I know—’tis my
        unloving ways that have angered you.

                                LADY INGER.

        Not so, dear Elina! You are an obedient child. You have
        opened your door to him; you have hearkened to his soft
        words. I know full well what it must have cost you; for I
        know your hatred——

                                   ELINA.

        But, my mother——

                                LADY INGER.

        Hush! We have played into each other’s hands. What wiles did
        you use, my subtle daughter? I saw the love shine out of his
        eyes. Hold him fast now! Draw the net closer and closer
        about him; and then—Ah, Elina, if we could but rend asunder
        his perjured heart within his breast!

                                   ELINA.

        Woe is me—what is it you say?

                                LADY INGER.

        Let not your courage fail you. Hearken to me. I know a word
        that will keep you firm. Know then— [_Listening._] They are
        fighting before the gate. Courage! Now comes the pinch!
        [_Turns again to_ ELINA.] Know then: Nils Lykke was the man
        that brought your sister to her grave.

                                   ELINA.

        [_With a shriek._] Lucia!

                                LADY INGER.

        He it was, as truly as there is an Avenger above us!

                                   ELINA.

        Then Heaven be with me!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Appalled._] Elina——?!

                                   ELINA.

        I am his bride in the sight of God.

                                LADY INGER.

        Unhappy child,—what have you done?

                                   ELINA.

        [_In a toneless voice._] Made shipwreck of my
        soul.—Good-night, my mother!

                                        [_She goes out to the left._

                                LADY INGER.

        Ha-ha-ha! It goes down-hill apace with Inger Gyldenlöve’s
        house. _There_ went the last of my daughters.

        Why could I not keep silence? Had she known nought, it may
        be she had been happy—after a kind.

        It _was_ to be so. It is written up yonder in the stars that
        I am to break off one green branch after another till the
        trunk stand leafless at last.

        ’Tis well, ’tis well! I shall have my son again. Of the
        others, of my daughters, I will not think.

        My reckoning? To face my reckoning?—It falls not due till
        the last great day of wrath.—_That_ comes not yet awhile.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Calling from outside on the right._] Ho—shut the gate!

                                LADY INGER.

        Count Sture’s voice——!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Rushes in, unarmed, and with his clothes torn, and shouts
        with a laugh of desperation._] Well met again, Inger
        Gyldenlöve!

                                LADY INGER.

        What have you lost?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        My kingdom and my life!

                                LADY INGER.

        And the peasants? My servants?—where are they?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        You will find the carcasses along the highway. Who has the
        rest, I cannot tell you.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Outside on the right._] Count Sture! Where are you?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Here, here!

                [OLAF SKAKTAVL _comes in with his right hand wrapped
                    in a clout._

                                LADY INGER.

        Alas, Olaf Skaktavl, you too——!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Twas impossible to break through.

                                LADY INGER.

        You are wounded, I see!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        A finger the less; that is all.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Where are the Swedes?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        At our heels. They are breaking open the gate——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Oh, God! No, no! I _cannot_—I _will_ not die.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        A hiding-place, Lady Inger! Is there no corner where we can
        hide him?

                                LADY INGER.

        But if they search the castle——?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, ay; they will find me! And then to be dragged away to
        prison, or be strung up——! No, no, Inger Gyldenlöve,—I know
        full well,—you will never suffer that to be!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Listening._] There burst the lock.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_At the window._] Many men rush in at the gateway.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        And to lose my life _now_! Now, when my true life was but
        beginning! Now, when I have so lately learnt that I have
        aught to live for. No, no, no!—Think not I am a coward,
        Inger Gyldenlöve! Might I but have time to show——

                                LADY INGER.

        I hear them now in the hall below.

                                         [_Firmly to_ OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        He _must_ be saved—cost what it will!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Seizes her hand._] Oh, I knew it;—you are noble and good!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        But how? Since we cannot hide him——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ah, I have it! I have it! The secret——!

                                LADY INGER.

        The secret?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Even so; yours and mine!

                                LADY INGER.

        Merciful Heaven—you know it?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        From first to last. And now when ’tis life or death—Where is
        Nils Lykke?

                                LADY INGER.

        Fled.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Fled? Then God help me; for he alone can unseal my lips.—But
        what is a promise against a life! When the Swedish captain
        comes——

                                LADY INGER.

        What then? What will you do?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Purchase life and freedom;—tell him all.

                                LADY INGER.

        Oh no, no;—be merciful!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Nought else can save me. When I have told him what I know——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Looks at him with suppressed agitation._] You will be
        safe?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, safe! Nils Lykke will speak for me. You see, ’tis the
        last resource.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Composedly, with emphasis._] The last resource? Right,
        right—the last resource all are free to try. [_Points to the
        left._] See, meanwhile you can hide in there.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_In a low voice._] Trust me—you will never repent of this.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Half to herself._] God grant that you speak the truth!

                [NILS STENSSON _goes out hastily by the furthest
                    door on the left._ OLAF SKAKTAVL _is following;
                    but Lady Inger detains him._

                                LADY INGER.

        Did you understand his meaning?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        The dastard! He would betray your secret. He would sacrifice
        your son to save himself.

                                LADY INGER.

        When life is at stake, he said, we must try the last
        resource.—’Tis well, Olaf Skaktavl,—let it be as he has
        said!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        What mean you?

                                LADY INGER.

        Life against life! One of them must perish.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ah—you would——?

                                LADY INGER.

        If we close not the lips of him that is within ere he come
        to speech with the Swedish captain, then is my son lost to
        me. But if, on the other hand, he be swept from my path,
        when the time comes I can claim all his rights for my own
        child. Then shall you see that Inger Ottis’ daughter has
        metal in her yet. Of this be assured—you shall not have long
        to wait for the vengeance you have thirsted after for twenty
        years.—Hark! They are coming up the stairs! Olaf
        Skaktavl,—it lies with you whether tomorrow I shall be no
        more than a childless woman, or ——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        So be it! I have yet one sound hand left.

        [_Gives her his hand._] Inger Gyldenlöve—your name shall not
        die out through me.

                      _Follows_ NILS STENSSON _into the inner room._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Pale and trembling._] But dare I——?

                [_A noise is heard in the room; she rushes with a
                    scream towards the door._

        No, no,—it must not be!

                [_A heavy fall is heard within; she covers her ears
                    with her hands and hurries back across the hall
                    with a wild look. After a pause she takes her
                    hands cautiously away, listens again, and says
                    softly:_

        Now it is over. All is still within——

        Thou sawest it, God—I repented me! But Olaf Skaktavl was too
        swift of hand.

                      [OLAF SKAKTAVL _comes silently into the hall._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_After a pause, without looking at him._] Is it done?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        You need fear him no more; he will betray no one.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_As before._] Then he is dumb?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Six inches of steel in his breast. I felled him with my left
        hand.

                                LADY INGER.

        Ay, ay—the right was too good for such work.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        That is your affair;—the thought was yours.—And now to
        Sweden! Peace be with you meanwhile! When next we meet at
        Östråt, I shall bring another with me.

                      [_Goes out by the furthest door on the right._

                                LADY INGER.

        Blood on my hands. Then ’twas to come to that!—He begins to
        be dear-bought now.

                [BIÖRN _comes in, with a number of Swedish_
                    MEN-AT-ARMS, _by the first door on the right._

                          ONE OF THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

        Pardon, if you are the lady of the house——

                                LADY INGER.

        Is it Count Sture ye seek?

                              THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

        The same.

                                LADY INGER.

        Then you are on the right track. The Count has sought refuge
        with me.

                              THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

        Refuge? Pardon, my noble lady,—you have no power to harbour
        him; for——

                                LADY INGER.

        That the Count himself has doubtless understood; and
        therefore he has—ay, look for yourselves—therefore he has
        taken his own life.

                              THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

        His own life!

                                LADY INGER.

        Look for yourselves, I say. You will find the corpse within
        there. And since he already stands before another judge, it
        is my prayer that he may be borne hence with all the honour
        that beseems his noble birth.—Biörn, you know my own coffin
        has stood ready this many a year in the secret chamber. [_To
        the_ MEN-AT-ARMS.] I pray that in it you will bear Count
        Sture’s body to Sweden.

                              THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

        It shall be as you command. [_To one of the others._] Haste
        with these tidings to Jens Bielke. He holds the road with
        the rest of the troop. We others must in and——

                _One of the_ MEN-AT-ARMS _goes out to the right; the
                    others go with_ BIÖRN _into the room on the
                    left._

                                LADY INGER.

                       [_Moves about for a time in uneasy silence._]

        If Count Sture had not taken such hurried leave of the
        world, within a month he had hung on a gallows, or had lain
        for all his days in a dungeon. Had he been better served
        with such a lot?

        Or else he had bought his life by betraying my child into
        the hands of my foes. Is it _I_, then, that have slain him?
        Does not even the wolf defend her cubs? Who dare condemn me
        for striking my claws into him that would have reft me of my
        flesh and blood?—It had to be. No mother but would have done
        even as I.

        But ’tis no time for idle musings now. I must to work.

                              [_Sits down by the table on the left._

        I will write to all my friends throughout the land. They
        must rise as one man to support the great cause. A new
        king,—regent first, and then king——

                _Begins to write, but falls into thought, and says
                    softly:_

        Who will be chosen in the dead man’s place?—A king’s
        mother—? ’Tis a fair word. It has but one blemish—the
        hateful likeness to another word.—King’s _mother_ and—king’s
        _murderer_.[21]—King’s murderer—one that takes a king’s
        life. King’s mother—one that gives a king life.

                                                       [_She rises._

        Well, then; I will make good what I have taken.—My son shall
        be a king!

                _She sits down again and begins writing, but pushes
                    the paper away again, and leans back in her
                    chair._

        There is ever an eerie feeling in a house where lies a
        corpse. ’Tis therefore my mood is so strange. [_Turns her
        head to one side as if speaking to some one._] Not
        therefore? Why else should it be?

                                                      [_Broodingly._

        Is there such a great gulf, then, between openly striking
        down a foe and slaying one—thus? Knut Alfson had cleft many
        a brow with his sword; yet was his own as peaceful as a
        child’s. Why then do I ever see this—[_makes a motion as
        though striking with a knife_]—-this stab in the heart—and
        the gush of red blood after?

                _Rings, and goes on speaking while shifting about
                    her papers._

        Hereafter I will have nought to do with such ugly sights. I
        will be at work both day and night. And in a month—in a
        month my son will be here——

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Entering._] Did you strike the bell, my lady?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Writing._] Bring more lights. See to it in future that
        there are many lights in the room.

                                [BIÖRN _goes out again to the left._

                                LADY INGER.

        _After a pause, rises impetuously._] No, no, no;—I cannot
        guide the pen to-night! My head is burning and throbbing——

                                               [_Startled, listens._

        What is _that_? Ah, they are screwing the lid on the coffin.

        They told me when I was a child the story of Sir Aage,[22]
        who rose up and walked with his coffin on his back.—If _he_
        in there bethought him one night to come with the coffin on
        his back, and thank me for the loan? [_Laughs quietly._]
        H’m—what have we grown people to do with childish fancies?
        [_Vehemently._] Nevertheless, such stories do no good! They
        give uneasy dreams. When my son is king, they shall be
        forbidden.

                _Paces up and down once or twice; then opens the
                    window._

        How long is it, commonly, ere a body begins to rot? All the
        rooms must be aired. ’Tis not wholesome here till that be
        done.

                BIÖRN _comes in with two lighted
                    branch-candlesticks, which he places on the
                    tables._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Who has set to work at the papers again._] It is well. See
        you forget not what I have said. Many lights on the table!

        What are they about now in there?

                                   BIÖRN.

        They are still screwing down the coffin-lid.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Writing._] Are they screwing it down _tight_?

                                   BIÖRN.

        As tight as need be.

                                LADY INGER.

        Ay, ay—who can tell how tight it needs to be? Do you see
        that ’tis well done.

                [_Goes up to him with her hand full of papers, and
                    says mysteriously:_

        Biörn, you are an old man; but _one_ counsel I will give
        you. Be on your guard against all men—both those that are
        dead and those that are still to die.—Now go in—go in and
        see to it that they screw the lid down tightly.

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Softly, shaking his head._] I cannot make her out.

                       [_Goes back again into the room on the left._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Begins to seal a letter, but throws it down half-closed;
        walks up and down awhile, and then says vehemently:_] Were I
        a coward I had never done it—never to all eternity! Were I a
        coward, I had shrieked to myself: Refrain, while there is
        yet a shred of hope for the saving of thy soul!

                [_Her eye falls on Sten Sture’s picture; she turns
                    to avoid seeing it, and says softly:_

        He is laughing down at me as though he were alive! Pah!

             [_Turns the picture to the wall without looking at it._

        Wherefore did you laugh? Was it because I did evil to your
        son? But the other,—is not he your son too? And he is _mine_
        as well; mark that!

                    [_Glances stealthily along the row of pictures._

        So wild as they are to-night, I have never seen them yet.
        Their eyes follow me wherever I may go. [_Stamps on the
        floor._] I will not have it! I will have peace in my house!
        [_Begins to turn all the pictures to the wall._] Ay, if it
        were the Holy Virgin herself——Thinkest thou _now_ is the
        time——? Why didst thou never hear my prayers, my burning
        prayers, that I might have my child again? Why? Because the
        monk of Wittenberg is right: There is no mediator between
        God and man!

                [_She draws her breath heavily, and continues in
                    ever-increasing distraction._

        ’Tis well that I know what to think in such things. There
        was no one to see what was done in there. There is none to
        bear witness against me.

                   [_Suddenly stretches out her hands and whispers:_

        My son! My beloved child! Come to me! Here I am!—Hush! I
        will tell you something: They hate me up there—beyond the
        stars—because I bore you into the world. ’Twas their will
        that I should bear the Lord God’s standard over all the
        land. But I went my own way. That is why I have had to
        suffer so much and so long.

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Comes from the room on the left._] My lady, I have to tell
        you—Christ save me—what is this?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Has climbed up into the high-seat by the right-hand
        wall._] Hush! Hush! I am the King’s mother. My son has been
        chosen king. The struggle was hard ere it came to this—for
        ’twas with the Almighty One himself I had to strive.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Comes in breathless from the right._] He is saved! I have
        Jens Bielke’s promise. Lady Inger,—know that——

                                LADY INGER.

        Peace, I say! look how the people swarm.

                    [_A funeral hymn is heard from the room within._

        There comes the coronation train. What a throng! All men bow
        themselves before the King’s mother. Ay, ay; has she not
        fought for her son—even till her hands grew red
        withal?—Where are my daughters? I see them not.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        God’s blood!—what has befallen here?

                                LADY INGER.

        My daughters—my fair daughters! I have none any more. I had
        _one_ left, and her I lost even as she was mounting her
        bridal bed. [_Whispers._] In it lay Lucia dead. There was no
        room for two.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ah—it has come to this! The Lord’s vengeance is upon me.

                                LADY INGER.

        Can you see him? Look, look! ’Tis the King. It is Inger
        Gyldenlöve’s son! I know him by the crown and by Sten
        Sture’s ring that he wears round his neck. Hark, what a
        joyful sound! He is coming! Soon will he be in my arms!
        Ha-ha!—who conquers, God or I?

                      [_The_ MEN-AT-ARMS _come out with the coffin._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Clutches at her head and shrieks._] The corpse!
        [_Whispers._] Pah! ’Tis a hideous dream.    [_Sinks back
        into the high-seat._

                                JENS BIELKE.

        [_Who has come in from the right, stops and cries in
        astonishment._] Dead! Then after all——

                          ONE OF THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

        ’Twas he himself that——

                                JENS BIELKE.

        [_With a look at_ NILS LYKKE.] He himself——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Hush!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Faintly, coming to herself._] Ay, right;—now I remember
        all.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        [_To the_ MEN-AT-ARMS.] Set down the corpse. It is not Count
        Sture.

                          ONE OF THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

        Your pardon, Captain;—this ring that he wore around his
        neck——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Seizes his arm._] Be still!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Starts up._] The ring? The ring!

                        [_Rushes up and snatches the ring from him._

        Sten Sture’s ring! [_With a shriek._] Oh God, oh God—my son!

                               [_Throws herself down on the coffin._

                              THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

        Her son?

                                JENS BIELKE.

        [_At the same time._] Inger Gyldenlöve’s son?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        So is it.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        But why did you not tell me——?

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Trying to raise her up._] Help! help! My lady—what ails
        you? what lack you?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_In a faint voice, half raising herself._] What lack I? One
        coffin more. A grave beside my child——

                [_Sinks again, senseless, on the coffin._ NILS LYKKE
                    _goes hastily out to the right. General
                    consternation among the rest._

-----

Footnote 12:

          Pronounce _Knoot_.

Footnote 13:

          Pronounce _Stoorë_.

Footnote 14:

          Pronounce _Stayn Stoorë_.

Footnote 15:

          Pronounce _Tronyem_.

Footnote 16:

          Pronounce _Mayraytë_.

Footnote 17:

          Pronounce _Loonghë_.

Footnote 18:

          Pronounce _Ahkers-hoos_.

Footnote 19:

          That is, Peter the Chancellor.

Footnote 20:

          King Christian II. of Denmark (the perpetrator of the
          massacre at Stockholm known as the Blood-Bath) fled to
          Holland in 1523, five years before the date assigned to
          this play, in order to escape death or imprisonment at the
          hands of his rebellious nobles, who summoned his uncle,
          Frederick I., to the throne. Returning to Denmark in 1532,
          Christian was thrown into prison, where he spent the last
          twenty-seven years of his life.

Footnote 21:

          The words in the original are “Kongemoder” and
          “Kongemorder,” a difference of one letter only.

Footnote 22:

          Pronounce _Oaghë_.

-----

                          THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG
                                 (1856)

                      THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE
                             SECOND EDITION

    I wrote _The Feast at Solhoug_ in Bergen in the summer of 1855—that
    is to say, about twenty-eight years ago.

    The play was acted for the first time on January 2, 1856, also at
    Bergen, as a gala performance on the anniversary of the foundation
    of the Norwegian Stage.

    As I was then stage-manager of the Bergen Theatre, it was I myself
    who conducted the rehearsals of my play. It received an excellent, a
    remarkably sympathetic interpretation. Acted with pleasure and
    enthusiasm, it was received in the same spirit. The “Bergen
    emotionalism,” which is said to have decided the result of the
    latest elections in those parts, ran high that evening in the
    crowded theatre. The performance ended with repeated calls for the
    author and for the actors. Later in the evening I was serenaded by
    the orchestra, accompanied by a great part of the audience. I almost
    think that I went so far as to make some kind of speech from my
    window; certain I am that I felt extremely happy.

    A couple of months later, _The Feast at Solhoug_ was played in
    Christiania. There also it was received by the public with much
    approbation, and the day after the first performance Björnson wrote
    a friendly, youthfully ardent article on it in the _Morgenblad_. It
    was not a notice or criticism proper, but rather a free, fanciful
    improvisation on the play and the performance.

    On this, however, followed the real criticism, written by the real
    critics.

    How did a man in the Christiania of those days—by which I mean the
    years between 1850 and 1860, or thereabouts—become a real literary,
    and in particular dramatic, critic?

    As a rule, the process was as follows: After some preparatory
    exercises in the columns of the _Samfundsblad_, and after having
    frequently listened to the discussions which went on in Treschow’s
    café or at “Ingebret’s” after the play, the future critic betook
    himself to Johan Dahl’s bookshop and ordered from Copenhagen a copy
    of J. L. Heiberg’s _Prose Works_, among which was to be found—so he
    had heard it said—an essay entitled _On the Vaudeville_. This essay
    was in due course read, ruminated on, and possibly to a certain
    extent understood. From Heiberg’s writings the young man, moreover,
    learned of a controversy which that author had carried on in his day
    with Professor Oehlenschläger and with the Sorö poet, Hauch. And he
    was simultaneously made aware that J. L. Baggesen (the author of
    _Letters from the Dead_) had at a still earlier period made a
    similar attack on the great author who wrote both _Axel and Valborg_
    and _Hakon Jarl_.

    A quantity of other information useful to a critic was to be
    extracted from these writings. From them one learned, for instance,
    that taste obliged a good critic to be scandalised by a hiatus. Did
    the young critical Jeronimuses of Christiania encounter such a
    monstrosity in any new verse, they were as certain as their
    prototype in Holberg to shout their “Hoity-toity! the world will not
    last till Easter!”

    The origin of another peculiar characteristic of the criticism then
    prevalent in the Norwegian capital was long a puzzle to me. Every
    time a new author published a book or had a little play acted, our
    critics were in the habit of flying into an ungovernable passion and
    behaving as if the publication of the book or the performance of the
    play were a mortal insult to themselves and the newspapers in which
    they wrote. As already remarked, I puzzled long over this
    peculiarity. At last I got to the bottom of the matter. Whilst
    reading the Danish _Monthly Journal of Literature_ I was struck by
    the fact that old State-Councillor Molbech was invariably seized
    with a fit of rage when a young author published a book or had a
    play acted in Copenhagen.

    Thus, or in a manner closely resembling this, had the tribunal
    qualified itself, which now, in the daily press, summoned _The Feast
    at Solhoug_ to the bar of criticism in Christiania. It was
    principally composed of young men who, as regards criticism, lived
    upon loans from various quarters. Their critical thoughts had long
    ago been thought and expressed by others; their opinions had long
    ere now been formulated elsewhere. Their æsthetic principles were
    borrowed; their critical method was borrowed; the polemical tactics
    they employed were borrowed in every particular, great and small.
    Their very frame of mind was borrowed. Borrowing, borrowing, here,
    there, and everywhere! The single original thing about them was that
    they invariably made a wrong and unseasonable application of their
    borrowings.

    It can surprise no one that this body, the members of which, as
    critics, supported themselves by borrowing, should have presupposed
    similar action on my part, as author. Two, possibly more than two,
    of the newspapers promptly discovered that I had borrowed this,
    that, and the other thing from Henrik Hertz’s play, _Svend Dyring’s
    House_.

    This is a baseless and indefensible critical assertion. It is
    evidently to be ascribed to the fact that the metre of the ancient
    ballads is employed in both plays. But my tone is quite different
    from Hertz’s; the language of my play has a different ring; a light
    summer breeze plays over the rhythm of my verse; over that of
    Hertz’s brood the storms of autumn.

    Nor, as regards the characters, the action, and the contents of the
    plays generally, is there any other or any greater resemblance
    between them than that which is a natural consequence of the
    derivation of the subjects of both from the narrow circle of ideas
    in which the ancient ballads move.

    It might be maintained with quite as much, or even more, reason that
    Hertz in his _Svend Dyring’s House_ had borrowed, and that to no
    inconsiderable extent, from Heinrich von Kleist’s _Käthchen von
    Heilbronn_, a play written at the beginning of this century.
    Käthchen’s relation to Count Wetterstrahl is in all essentials the
    same as Ragnhild’s to the knight, Stig Hvide. Like Ragnhild,
    Käthchen is compelled by a mysterious, inexplicable power to follow
    the man she loves wherever he goes, to steal secretly after him, to
    lay herself down to sleep near him, to come back to him, as by some
    innate compulsion, however often she may be driven away. And other
    instances of supernatural interference are to be met with both in
    Kleist’s and in Hertz’s play.

    But does any one doubt that it would be possible, with a little
    good- or a little ill-will, to discover among still older dramatic
    literature a play from which it could be maintained that Kleist had
    borrowed here and there in his _Käthchen von Heilbronn_? I, for my
    part, do not doubt it. But such suggestions of indebtedness are
    futile. What makes a work of art the spiritual property of its
    creator is the fact that he has imprinted on it the stamp of his own
    personality. Therefore I hold that, in spite of the above-mentioned
    points of resemblance, _Svend Dyring’s House_ is as incontestably
    and entirely an original work by Henrik Hertz as _Käthchen von
    Heilbronn_ is an original work by Heinrich von Kleist.

    I advance the same claim on my own behalf as regards _The Feast at
    Solhoug_, and I trust that, for the future, each of the three
    namesakes[23] will be permitted to keep, in its entirety, what
    rightfully belongs to him.

    In writing of _The Feast at Solhoug_ in connection with _Svend
    Dyring’s House_, George Brandes expresses the opinion, not that the
    former play is founded upon any idea borrowed from the latter, but
    that it has been written under an influence exercised by the older
    author upon the younger. Brandes invariably criticises my work in
    such a friendly spirit that I have all reason to be obliged to him
    for this suggestion, as for so much else.

    Nevertheless I must maintain that he, too, is in this instance
    mistaken. I have never specially admired Henrik Hertz as a
    dramatist. Hence it is impossible for me to believe that he should,
    unknown to myself, have been able to exercise any influence on my
    dramatic production.

    As regards this point and the matter in general, I might confine
    myself to referring those interested to the writings of Dr. Valfrid
    Vasenius, lecturer on Æsthetics at the University of Helsingfors. In
    the thesis which gained him his degree of Doctor of Philosophy,
    _Henrik Ibsen’s Dramatic Poetry in its First Stage_ (1879), and also
    in _Henrik Ibsen: The Portrait of a Skald_ (Jos. Seligman & Co.,
    Stockholm, 1882), Vasenius states and supports his views on the
    subject of the play at present in question, supplementing them in
    the latter work by what I told him, very briefly, when we were
    together at Munich three years ago.

    But, to prevent all misconception, I will now myself give a short
    account of the origin of _The Feast at Solhoug_.

    I began this Preface with the statement that _The Feast at Solhoug_
    was written in the summer of 1855.

    In 1854 I had written _Lady Inger of Östråt_. This was a task which
    had obliged me to devote much attention to the literature and
    history of Norway during the Middle Ages, especially the latter part
    of that period. I did my utmost to familiarise myself with the
    manners and customs, with the emotions, thoughts, and language, of
    the men of those days.

    The period, however, is not one over which the student is tempted to
    linger, nor does it present much material suitable for dramatic
    treatment.

    Consequently I soon deserted it for the Saga period. But the Sagas
    of the Kings, and in general the more strictly historical traditions
    of that far-off age, did not attract me greatly; at that time I was
    unable to put the quarrels between kings and chieftains, parties and
    clans, to any dramatic purpose. This was to happen later.

    In the Icelandic “family” Sagas, on the other hand, I found in
    abundance what I required in the shape of human garb for the moods,
    conceptions, and thoughts which at that time occupied me, or were,
    at least, more or less distinctly present in my mind. With these
    Old-Norse contributions to the personal history of our Saga period I
    had had no previous acquaintance; I had hardly so much as heard them
    named. But now N. M. Petersen’s excellent translation—excellent, at
    least, as far as the style is concerned—fell into my hands. In the
    pages of these family chronicles, with their variety of scenes and
    of relations between man and man, between woman and woman, in short,
    between human being and human being, there met me a personal,
    eventful, really living life; and as the result of my intercourse
    with all these distinctly individual men and women, there presented
    themselves to my mind’s eye the first rough, indistinct outlines of
    _The Vikings at Helgeland_.

    How far the details of that drama then took shape, I am no longer
    able to say. But I remember perfectly that the two figures of which
    I first caught sight were the two women who in course of time became
    Hiördis and Dagny. There was to be a great banquet in the play, with
    passion-rousing, fateful quarrels during its course. Of other
    characters and passions, and situations produced by these, I meant
    to include whatever seemed to me most typical of the life which the
    Sagas reveal. In short, it was my intention to reproduce
    dramatically exactly what the Saga of the Volsungs gives in epic
    form.

    I made no complete, connected plan at that time; but it was evident
    to me that such a drama was to be my first undertaking.

    Various obstacles intervened. Most of them were of a personal
    nature, and these were probably the most decisive; but it
    undoubtedly had its significance that I happened just at this time
    to make a careful study of Landstad’s collection of Norwegian
    ballads, published two years previously. My mood of the moment was
    more in harmony with the literary romanticism of the Middle Ages
    than with the deeds of the Sagas, with poetical than with prose
    composition, with the word-melody of the ballad than with the
    characterisation of the Saga.

    Thus it happened that the fermenting, formless design for the
    tragedy, _The Vikings at Helgeland_, transformed itself temporarily
    into the lyric drama, _The Feast at Solhoug_.

    The two female characters, the foster sisters Hiördis and Dagny, of
    the projected tragedy, became the sisters Margit and Signë of the
    completed lyric drama. The derivation of the latter pair from the
    two women of the Saga at once becomes apparent when attention is
    drawn to it. The relationship is unmistakable. The tragic hero, so
    far only vaguely outlined, Sigurd, the far-travelled Viking, the
    welcome guest at the courts of kings, became the knight and
    minstrel, Gudmund Alfson, who has likewise been long absent in
    foreign lands, and has lived in the king’s household. His attitude
    towards the two sisters was changed, to bring it into accordance
    with the change in time and circumstances; but the position of both
    sisters to him remained practically the same as that in the
    projected and afterwards completed tragedy. The fateful banquet, the
    presentation of which had seemed to me of the first importance in my
    original plan, became in the drama the scene upon which its
    personages made their appearance; it became the background against
    which the action stood out, and communicated to the picture as a
    whole the general tone at which I aimed. The ending of the play was,
    undoubtedly, softened and subdued into harmony with its character as
    drama, not tragedy; but orthodox æstheticians may still, perhaps,
    find it disputable whether, in this ending, a touch of pure tragedy
    has not been left behind, to testify to the origin of the drama.

    Upon this subject, however, I shall not enter further at present. My
    object has simply been to maintain and prove that the play under
    consideration, like all my other dramatic works, is an inevitable
    outcome of the tenor of my life at a certain period. It had its
    origin within, and was not the result of any outward impression or
    influence.

    This, and no other, is the true account of the genesis of _The Feast
    at Solhoug_.

                                                       HENRIK IBSEN.

    ROME, April, 1883.

-----

Footnote 23:

      Heinrich von Kleist, Henrik Hertz, Henrik Ibsen.

-----

                               CHARACTERS

    BENGT GAUTESON, _Master of Solhoug._
    MARGIT, _his wife._
    SIGNË, _her sister._
    GUDMUND ALFSON, _their kinsman._
    KNUT GESLING, _the King’s sheriff._
    ERIK OF HEGGË, _his friend._
    A HOUSE-CARL.
    ANOTHER HOUSE-CARL.
    THE KING’S ENVOY.
    AN OLD MAN.
    A MAIDEN.
    GUESTS, BOTH MEN AND LADIES.
    MEN OF KNUT GESLING’S TRAIN.
    SERVING-MEN AND MAIDENS AT SOLHOUG.

                                -------

         _The action passes at Solhoug in the Fourteenth Century._

        PRONUNCIATION OF NAMES: Gudmund = _Goodmoond_. The g in
        “Margit” and in “Gesling” is hard, as in “go,” or, in
        “Gesling,” it may be pronounced as y—“Yesling.” The first o
        in “Solhoug” ought to have the sound of a very long “oo.”

                          THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG
                           PLAY IN THREE ACTS

                               ACT FIRST

        _A stately room, with doors in the back and to both sides.
            In front, on the right, a bay window with small round
            panes, set in lead, and near the window a table, on
            which is a quantity of feminine ornaments. Along the
            left wall, a longer table with silver goblets, beakers
            and drinking-horns. The door in the back leads out to a
            passage-way,[24] through which can be seen a spacious
            fiord-landscape._

        BENGT GAUTESON, MARGIT, KNUT GESLING _and_ ERIK OF HEGGË
            _are seated around the table on the left. In the
            background are_ KNUT’S _followers, some seated, some
            standing; one or two flagons of ale are handed round
            among them. Far off are heard church bells, ringing to
            Mass._

                                   ERIK.

        [_Rising at the table._] In one word, now, what answer have
        you to make to my wooing on Knut Gesling’s behalf?

                                   BENGT.

        [_Glancing uneasily towards his wife._] Well, I—to me it
        seems—[_As she remains silent._] H’m, Margit, let us first
        hear your thought in the matter.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Rising._] Sir Knut Gesling, I have long known all that
        Erik of Heggë has told of you. I know full well that you
        come of a lordly house; you are rich in gold and gear, and
        you stand in high favour with our royal master.

                                   BENGT.

        [_To_ KNUT.] In high favour—so say I too.

                                  MARGIT.

        And doubtless my sister could choose her no doughtier mate—

                                   BENGT.

        None doughtier; that is what _I_ say too.

                                  MARGIT.

        —if so be that you can win her to think kindly of you.

                                   BENGT.

        [_Anxiously, and half aside._] Nay—nay, my dear wife—

                                   KNUT.

        [_Springing up._] Stands it so, Dame Margit! You think that
        your sister—

                                   BENGT.

        [_Seeking to calm him._] Nay, nay, Knut Gesling! Have
        patience, now. You must understand us aright.

                                  MARGIT.

        There is naught in my words to wound you. My sister knows
        you only by the songs that are made about you—and these
        songs sound but ill in gentle ears.

                  No peaceful home is your father’s house.
                    With your lawless, reckless crew,
                  Day out, day in, must you hold carouse—
                    God help her who mates with you.
                  God help the maiden you lure or buy
                    With gold and with forests green—
                  Soon will her sore heart long to lie
                    Still in the grave, I ween.

                                   ERIK.

        Aye, aye—true enough—Knut Gesling lives not overpeaceably.
        But there will soon come a change in that, when he gets him
        a wife in his hall.

                                   KNUT.

        And this I would have you mark, Dame Margit: it may be a
        week since, I was at a feast at Heggë, at Erik’s bidding,
        whom here you see. The ale was strong; and as the evening
        wore on I vowed a vow that Signë, your fair sister, should
        be my wife, and that before the year was out. Never shall it
        be said of Knut Gesling that he brake any vow. You can see,
        then, that you must e’en choose me for your sister’s
        husband—be it with your will or against it.

                                  MARGIT.

        Ere _that_ may be, I must tell you plain,
        You must rid yourself of your ravening train.
        You must scour no longer with yell and shout
        O’er the country-side in a galloping rout;
        You must still the shudder that spreads around
        When Knut Gesling is to a bride-ale bound.
        Courteous must your mien be when a-feasting you ride;
        Let your battle-axe hang at home at the chimney-side—
        It ever sits loose in your hand, well you know,
        When the mead has gone round and your brain is aglow.
        From no man his rightful gear shall you wrest,
        You shall harm no harmless maiden;
        You shall send to no man the shameless hest
        That when his path crosses yours, he were best
        Come with his grave-clothes laden.
        And if you will so bear you till the year be past,
        You may win my sister for your bride at last.

                                   KNUT.

        [_With suppressed rage._] You know how to order your words
        cunningly, Dame Margit. Truly, you should have been a
        priest, and not your husband’s wife.

                                   BENGT.

        Oh, for that matter, I too could—

                                   KNUT.

        [_Paying no heed to him._] But I would have you take note
        that had a sword-bearing man spoken to me in such wise—

                                   BENGT.

        Nay, but listen, Knut Gesling—you must understand us!

                                   KNUT.

        [_As before._] Well, briefly, he should have learnt that the
        axe sits loose in my hand, as you said but now.

                                   BENGT.

        [_Softly._] There we have it! Margit, Margit, this will
        never end well.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To_ KNUT.] You asked for a forthright answer, and that I
        have given you.

                                   KNUT.

        Well, well; I will not reckon too closely with you, Dame
        Margit. You have more wit than all the rest of us together.
        Here is my hand;—it may be there was somewhat of reason in
        the keen-edged words you spoke to me.

                                  MARGIT.

        This I like well; now are you already on the right way to
        amendment. Yet one word more—to-day we hold a feast at
        Solhoug.

                                   KNUT.

        A feast?

                                   BENGT.

        Yes, Knut Gesling: you must know that it is our wedding-day;
        this day three years ago made me Dame Margit’s husband.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Impatiently, interrupting._] As I said, we hold a feast
        to-day. When Mass is over, and your other business done, I
        would have you ride hither again, and join in the banquet.
        Then you can learn to know my sister.

                                   KNUT.

        So be it, Dame Margit; I thank you. Yet ’twas not to go to
        Mass that I rode hither this morning. Your kinsman, Gudmund
        Alfson, was the cause of my coming.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Starts._] He! My kinsman? Where would you seek him?

                                   KNUT.

        His homestead lies behind the headland, on the other side of
        the fiord.

                                  MARGIT.

        But he himself is far away.

                                   ERIK.

        Be not so sure; he may be nearer than you think.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Whispers._] Hold your 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 overlooked.

                                         [_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 might 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 Håkon’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 my 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.

                [SIGNË, _radiant with gladness, comes running in
                    from the back._

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Calling._] Margit, Margit,—he is coming!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Starting up._] Coming? Who is coming?

                                   SIGNË.

        Gudmund, our kinsman!

                                  MARGIT.

        Gudmund Alfson! Here! How can you think—?

                                   SIGNË.

        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.

                                   SIGNË.

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

                                  MARGIT.

        Have you seen him?

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, no, no; but I must tell you—

                                  MARGIT.

        Yes, haste you—tell on!

                                   SIGNË.

        ’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 Signë, say on! Tell me all, tell me all!

                                   SIGNË.

        ’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.

                                   SIGNË.

                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—?

                                   SIGNË.

                                         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 homewards 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—

                                   SIGNË.

                             [_Reproachfully._]

                          Nay, this is not right.

                                                   [_Embracing her._

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

                                  MARGIT.

                              [_To herself._]

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

                                   SIGNË.

        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 towards the window._]

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

                                   SIGNË.

        What say you?

                                  MARGIT.

                                [_Turning._]

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

                                   SIGNË.

                             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—?

                                   SIGNË.

        A wooer? For whom?

                                  MARGIT.

                            For you.

                                   SIGNË.

                               [_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?

                                   SIGNË.

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

                                  MARGIT.

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

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, 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, meseems,
        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!

                             [SIGNË _runs out to the left, singing._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_After a pause._] Gudmund Alfson coming hither! Hither—to
        Solhoug? No, no, it cannot be.—Signë 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 treetops, 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.—Signë 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 guest-room be prepared—and that
        forthwith!

                                  MARGIT.

        Is he, then, already here?

                                   BENGT.

                            [_Looking out through the passage-way._]

        Nay, not yet; but he cannot be far off. [_Calls again to the
        right._] The carved oak bed, with the dragon-heads!
        [_Advances to_ MARGIT.] His shield-bearer brings a message
        of greeting from him; and he himself is close behind.

                                  MARGIT.

        His shield-bearer! Comes he hither with a shield-bearer?

                                   BENGT.

        Aye, by my faith he does. He has a shield-bearer and six
        armed men in his train. What would you? Gudmund Alfson is a
        far other man than he was when he set forth to seek his
        fortune. But I must ride forth and receive him.

        [_Calls out._] The gilded saddle on my horse! And forget not
        the bridle with the serpents’ heads! [_Looks out to the
        back._] Ha, there he is already at the gate! Well, then, my
        staff—my silver-headed staff! Such a lordly knight—Heaven
        save us!—we must receive him with honour, with all seemly
        honour!

                                    [_Goes hastily out to the back._

                                  MARGIT.
                               [_Brooding._]

        Alone he departed, a penniless swain;
        With esquires and henchmen now comes he again.
        What would he? Comes he, forsooth, to see
        My bitter and gnawing misery?
        Would he try how long, in my lot accurst,
        I can writhe and moan, ere my heart-strings burst—
        Thinks he that—? Ah, let him only try!
        Full little joy shall he reap thereby.

                [_She beckons through the doorway on the right.
                    Three handmaidens enter._

        List, little maids, what I say to you:
        Find me my silken mantle blue.
        Go with me into my bower anon:
        My richest of velvets and furs do on.
        Two of you shall deck me in scarlet and vair,
        The third shall wind pearl-strings into my hair.
        All my jewels and gauds bear away with ye!

                [_The handmaids go out to the left, taking the
                    ornaments with them._

        Since Margit the Hill-King’s bride must be,
        Well! don we the queenly livery!

                                        [_She goes out to the left._

                [BENGT _ushers in_ GUDMUND ALFSON, _through the
                    pent-house passage at the back._

                                   BENGT.

        And now once more—welcome under Solhoug’s roof, my wife’s
        kinsman.

                                  GUDMUND.

        I thank you. And how goes it with her? She thrives well in
        every way, I make no doubt?

                                   BENGT.

        Aye, you may be sure she does. There is nothing she lacks.
        She has five handmaidens, no less, at her beck and call; a
        courser stands ready saddled in the stall when she lists to
        ride abroad. In one word, she has all that a noble lady can
        desire to make her happy in her lot.

                                  GUDMUND.

        And Margit—is she then happy?

                                   BENGT.

        God and all men would think that she must be; but, strange
        to say—

                                  GUDMUND.

        What mean you?

                                   BENGT.

        Well, believe it or not as you list, but it seems to me that
        Margit was merrier of heart in the days of her poverty, than
        since she became the lady of Solhoug.

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To himself._] I knew it; so it must be.

                                   BENGT.

        What say you, kinsman?

                                  GUDMUND.

        I say that I wonder greatly at what you tell me of your
        wife.

                                   BENGT.

        Aye, you may be sure I wonder at it too. On the faith and
        troth of an honest gentleman, ’tis beyond me to guess what
        more she can desire. I am about her all day long; and no one
        can say of me that I rule her harshly. All the cares of
        household and husbandry I have taken on myself; yet
        notwithstanding—Well, well, you were ever a merry heart; I
        doubt not you will bring sunshine with you. Hush! here comes
        Dame Margit! Let her not see that I—

                     [MARGIT _enters from the left, richly dressed._

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Going to meet her._] Margit—my dear Margit!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Stops, and looks at him without recognition._] Your
        pardon, Sir Knight; but—? [_As though she only now
        recognised him._] Surely, if I mistake not, ’tis Gudmund
        Alfson.

                                     [_Holding out her hand to him._

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Without taking it._] And you did not at once know me
        again?

                                   BENGT.

        [_Laughing._] Why, Margit, of what are you thinking? I told
        you but a moment agone that your kinsman—

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Crossing to the table on the right._] Twelve years is a
        long time, Gudmund. The freshest plant may wither ten times
        over in that space.

                                  GUDMUND.

        ’Tis seven years since last we met.

                                  MARGIT.

        Surely it must be more than that.

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Looking at her._] I could almost think so. But ’tis as I
        say.

                                  MARGIT.

        How strange! I must have been but a child then; and it seems
        to me a whole eternity since I was a child. [_Throws herself
        down on a chair._] Well, sit you down, my kinsman! Rest you,
        for to-night you shall dance, and rejoice us with your
        singing. [_With a forced smile._] Doubtless you know we are
        merry here to-day—we are holding a feast.

                                  GUDMUND.

        ’Twas told me as I entered your homestead.

                                   BENGT.

        Aye, ’tis three years to-day since I became—

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Interrupting._] My kinsman has already heard it. [_To_
        GUDMUND.] Will you not lay aside your cloak?

                                  GUDMUND.

        I thank you, Dame Margit; but it seems to me cold
        here—colder than I had foreseen.

                                   BENGT.

        For my part, I am warm enough; but then I have a hundred
        things to do and to take order for. [_To_ MARGIT.] Let not
        the time seem long to our guest while I am absent. You can
        talk together of the old days.    [_Going._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Hesitating._] Are you going? Will you not rather—?

                                   BENGT.

        [_Laughing, to_ GUDMUND, _as he comes forward again._] See
        you well—Sir Bengt of Solhoug is the man to make the women
        fain of him. How short so e’er the space, my wife cannot
        abide to be without me. [_To_ MARGIT, _caressing her._]
        Content you; I shall soon be with you again.    [_He goes
        out to the back._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To herself_.] Oh, torture, to have to endure it all.
           [_A short silence._

                                  GUDMUND.

        How goes it, I pray, with your sister dear?

                                  MARGIT.

        Right well, I thank you.

                                  GUDMUND.

                                  They said she was here
        With you.

                                  MARGIT.

                   She has been here ever since we—

                                                      [_Breaks off._

        She came, now three years since, to Solhoug with me.

                                                   [_After a pause._

        Ere long she’ll be here, her friend to greet.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Well I mind me of Signë’s nature sweet.
        No guile she dreamed of, no evil knew.
        When I call to remembrance her eyes so blue
        I must think of the angels in heaven.
        But of years there have passed no fewer than seven;
        In that time much may have altered. Oh, say
        If she, too, has changed so while I’ve been away?

                                  MARGIT.

        She too? Is it, pray, in the halls of kings
        That you learn such courtly ways, Sir Knight?
        To remind me thus of the change time brings—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Nay, Margit, my meaning you read aright!
        You were kind to me, both, in those far-away years—
        Your eyes, when we parted were wet with tears.
        We swore like brother and sister still
        To hold together in good hap or ill.
        ’Mid the other maids like a sun you shone,
        Far, far and wide was your beauty known.
        You are no less fair than you were, I wot;
        But Solhoug’s mistress, I see, has forgot
        The penniless kinsman. So hard is your mind
        That ever of old was gentle and kind.

                                  MARGIT.
                        [_Choking back her tears._]

        Aye, of old—!

                                  GUDMUND.

                [_Looks compassionately at her, is silent for a
                    little, then says in a subdued voice._

                        Shall we do as your husband said?
        Pass the time with talk of the dear old days?

                                  MARGIT.
                              [_Vehemently._]

        No, no, not of them!    [_More calmly._
                              Their memory’s dead.
        My mind unwillingly backward strays.
        Tell rather of what your life has been,
        Of what in the wide world you’ve done and seen.
        Adventures you’ve lacked not, well I ween—
        In all the warmth and the space out yonder,
        That heart and mind should be light, what wonder?

                                  GUDMUND.

        In the King’s high hall I found not the joy
        That I knew by my own poor hearth as a boy.

                                  MARGIT.
                         [WITHOUT LOOKING AT HIM.]

        While I, as at Solhoug each day flits past,
        Thank Heaven that here has my lot been cast.

                                  GUDMUND.

        ’Tis well if for this you can thankful be—

                                  MARGIT.
                              [_Vehemently._]

        Why not? For am I not honoured and free?
        Must not all folk here obey my hest?
        Rule I not all things as seemeth me best?
        Here I am first, with no second beside me;
        And that, as you know, from of old satisfied me.
        Did you think you would find me weary and sad?
        Nay, my mind is at peace and my heart is glad.
        You might, then, have spared your journey here
        To Solhoug; ’twill profit you little, I fear.

                                  GUDMUND.

        What, mean you, Dame Margit?

                                  MARGIT.
                                [_Rising._]

                                      I understand all—
        I know why you come to my lonely hall.

                                  GUDMUND.

        And you welcome me not, though you know why I came?

                                         [_Bowing, and about to go._

        God’s peace and farewell, then, my noble dame!

                                  MARGIT.

        To have stayed in the royal hall, indeed,
        Sir Knight, had better become your fame.

                                  GUDMUND.
                                 [_Stops._]

        In the royal hall? Do you scoff at my need?

                                  MARGIT.

        Your need? You are ill to content, my friend;
        Where, I would know, do you think to end?
        You can dress you in velvet and cramoisie,
        You stand by the throne, and have lands in fee—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Do you deem, then, that fortune is kind to me? You said but
        now that full well you knew What brought me to Solhoug—

                                  MARGIT.

                                      I told you true!

                                  GUDMUND.

        Then you know what of late has befallen me;—
        You have heard the tale of my outlawry?

                                  MARGIT.
                             [_Terror-struck._]

        An outlaw! You, Gudmund!

                                  GUDMUND.

                                  I am indeed.
        But I swear, by the Holy Christ I swear,
        Had I known the thoughts of your heart, I ne’er
        Had bent me to Solhoug in my need.
        I thought that you still were gentle-hearted,
        As you ever were wont to be ere we parted:
        But I truckle not to you; the wood is wide,
        My hand and my bow shall fend for me there;
        I will drink of the mountain brook, and hide
        My head in the wild beast’s lair.

                                           [_On the point of going._

                                  MARGIT.
                           [_Holding him back._]

        Outlawed! Nay, stay! I swear to you
        That naught of your outlawry I knew.

                                  GUDMUND.

        It is as I tell you. My life’s at stake;
        And to live are all men fain.
        Three nights like a dog ’neath the sky I’ve lain,
        My couch on the hillside forced to make,
        With for pillow the boulder grey.
        Though too proud to knock at the door of the stranger,
        And pray him for aid in the hour of danger,
        Yet strong was my hope as I held on my way:
        I thought: When to Solhoug you come at last
        Then all your pains will be done and past.
        You have sure friends there, whatever betide.—
        But hope like a wayside flower shrivels up;
        Though your husband met me with flagon and cup,
        And his doors flung open wide,
        Within, your dwelling seems chill and bare;
        Dark is the hall; my friends are not there.
        ’Tis well; I will back to my hills from your halls.

                                  MARGIT.
                             [_Beseechingly._]

        Oh, hear me!

                                  GUDMUND.

                      My soul is not base as a thrall’s.
        Now life to me seems a thing of nought;
        Truly I hold it scarce worth a thought.
        You have killed all that I hold most dear;
        Of my fairest hopes I follow the bier.
        Farewell, then, Dame Margit!

                                  MARGIT.

                                      Nay, Gudmund, hear!
        By all that is holy—!

                                  GUDMUND.

                                Live on as before
        Live on in honour and joyance—
        Never shall Gudmund darken your door,
        Never shall cause you ’noyance.

                                  MARGIT.

        Enough, enough. Your bitterness
        You presently shall rue.
        Had I known you outlawed, shelterless,
        Hunted the country through—
        Trust me, the day that brought you here
        Would have seemed the fairest of many a year;
        And a feast I had counted it indeed
        When you turned to Solhoug for refuge in need.

                                  GUDMUND.

        What say you—? How shall I read your mind?

                                  MARGIT.
                      [_Holding out her hand to him._]

        Read this: that at Solhoug dwell kinsfolk kind.

                                  GUDMUND.

        But you said of late—?

                                  MARGIT.

                                 To that pay no heed.
        Or hear me, and understand indeed.
        For me is life but a long, black night,
        Nor sun, nor star for me shines bright.
        I have sold my youth and my liberty,
        And none from my bargain can set me free.
        My heart’s content I have bartered for gold,
        With gilded chains I have fettered myself;
        Trust me, it is but comfort cold
        To the sorrowful soul, the pride of pelf.
        How blithe was my childhood—how free from care!
        Our house was lowly and scant our store;
        But treasures of hope in my breast I bore.

                                  GUDMUND.
                  [_Whose eyes have been fixed upon her._]

        E’en then you were growing to beauty rare.

                                  MARGIT.

        Mayhap; but the praises showered on me
        Caused the wreck of my happiness—that I now see.
        To far-off lands away you sailed;
        But deep in my heart was graven each song
        You had ever sung; and their glamour was strong;
        With a mist of dreams my brow they veiled.
        In them all the joys you had dwelt upon
        That can find a home in the beating breast;
        You had sung so oft of the lordly life
        ’Mid knights and ladies. And lo! anon
        Came wooers a many from east and from west;
        And so—I became Bengt Gauteson’s wife.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Oh, Margit!

                                  MARGIT.

                     The days that passed were but few
        Ere with tears my folly I ’gan to rue.
        To think, my kinsman and friend, on thee
        Was all the comfort left to me.
        How empty now seemed Solhoug’s hall,
        How hateful and drear its great rooms all!
        Hither came many a knight and dame,
        Came many a skald to sing my fame.
        But never a one who could fathom aright
        My spirit and all its yearning—
        I shivered, as though in the Hill-King’s might;
        Yet my head throbbed, my blood was burning.

                                  GUDMUND.

        But your husband—?

                                  MARGIT.

                             He never to me was dear.
        ’Twas his gold was my undoing.
        When he spoke to me, aye, or e’en drew near,
        My spirit writhed with ruing.

                                              [_Clasping her hands._

        And thus have I lived for three long years—
        A life of sorrow, of unstanched tears!
        Your coming was rumoured. You know full well
        What pride deep down in my heart doth dwell.
        I hid my anguish, I veiled my woe,
        For you were the last that the truth must know.

                                  GUDMUND.
                                 [_Moved._]

        ’Twas therefore, then, that you turned away—

                                  MARGIT.
                          [_Not looking at him._]

        I thought you came at my woe to jeer.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Margit, how could you think—?

                                  MARGIT.

                                        Nay, nay,
        There was reason enough for such a fear.
        But thanks be to Heaven, that fear is gone;
        And now no longer I stand alone;
        My spirit now is as light and free
        As a child’s at play ’neath the greenwood tree.

                                     [_With a sudden start of fear._

        Ah, where are my wits fled! How could I forget—?
        Ye saints, I need sorely your succor yet!
        An outlaw, you said—?

                                  GUDMUND.
                                [_Smiling._]

                                Nay, now I’m at home;
        Hither the King’s men scarce dare come.

                                  MARGIT.

        Your fall has been sudden. I pray you, tell
        How you lost the King’s favour.

                                  GUDMUND.

                                         ’Twas thus it befell.
        You know how I journeyed to France of late,
        When the Chancellor, Audun of Hegranes,
        Fared thither from Bergen, in royal state,
        To lead home the King’s bride, the fair Princess,
        With her squires, and maidens, and ducats bright.
        Sir Audun’s a fair and a stately knight,
        The Princess shone with a beauty rare—
        Her eyes seemed full of a burning prayer.
        They would oft talk alone and in whispers, the two—
        Of what? That nobody guessed or knew.
        There came a night when I leant at ease
        Against the galley’s railing;
        My thoughts flew onward to Norway’s leas,
        With the milk-white seagulls sailing.
        Two voices whispered behind my back;—
        I turned—it was he and she;
        I knew them well, though the night was black,
        But they—they saw not me.
        She gazed upon him with sorrowful eyes
        And whispered: “Ah, if to southern skies
        We could turn the vessel’s prow,
        And we were alone in the bark, we twain,
        My heart, methinks, would find peace again,
        Nor would fever burn my brow.”
        Sir Audun answers; and straight she replies,
        In words so fierce, so bold;
        Like glittering stars I can see her eyes;
        She begged him—          [_Breaking off._
                          My blood ran cold.

                                  MARGIT.

        She begged—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                       I arose, and they vanished apace;
        All was silent, fore and aft;—

                                         [_Producing a small phial._

        But this I found by their resting place.

                                  MARGIT.

        And that—?

                                  GUDMUND.
                          [_Lowering his voice._]

                     Holds a secret draught.
        A drop of this in your enemy’s cup
        And his life will sicken and wither up.
        No leechcraft helps ’gainst the deadly thing.

                                  MARGIT.

        And that—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                     That draught was meant for the King.

                                  MARGIT.

        Great God!

                                  GUDMUND.
                      [_Putting up the phial again._]

                    That I found it was well for them all.
        In three days more was our voyage ended;
        Then I fled, by my faithful men attended.
        For I knew right well, in the royal hall,
        That Audun subtly would work my fall,—
        Accusing me—

                                  MARGIT.

                       Aye, but at Solhoug he
        Cannot harm you. All as of old will be.

                                  GUDMUND.

        All? Nay, Margit—you then were free.

                                  MARGIT.

        You mean—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                     I? Nay, I meant naught. My brain
        Is wildered; but ah, I am blithe and fain
        To be, as of old, with you sisters twain.
        But tell me,—Signë—?

                                  MARGIT.
              [_Points smiling towards the door on the left._]

                                She comes anon.
        To greet her kinsman she needs must don
        Her trinkets—a task that takes time, ’tis plain.

                                  GUDMUND.

        I must see—I must see if she knows me again.

                                         [_He goes out to the left._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Following him-with her eyes._] How fair and manlike he is!
        [_With a sigh._] There is little likeness ’twixt him
        and—[_Begins putting things in order on the table, but
        presently stops._] “You then were free,” he said. Yes, then!
        [_A short pause._] ’Twas a strange tale, that of the
        Princess who—She held another dear, and then—Aye, those
        women of far-off lands—I have heard it before—they are not
        weak as we are; they do not fear to pass from thought to
        deed. [_Takes up a goblet which stands on the table._] ’Twas
        in this beaker that Gudman and I, when he went away, drank
        to his happy return. ’Tis well-nigh the only heirloom I
        brought with me to Solhoug. [_Putting the goblet away in a
        cupboard._] How soft is this summer day; and how light it is
        in here! So sweetly has the sun not shone for three long
        years.

                [SIGNË, _and after her_ GUDMUND, _enters from the
                    left._

                                   SIGNË.
                      [_Runs laughing up to_ MARGIT.]

        Ha, ha, ha! He will not believe that ’tis I!

                                  MARGIT.
                          [_Smiling, to_ GUDMUND.]

        You see: while in far-off lands you strayed,
        She, too, has altered, the little maid.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye truly! But that she should be—Why,
        ’Tis a marvel in very deed.

                     [_Takes both_ SIGNË’S _hands and looks at her._

        Yet, when I look in these eyes so blue,
        The innocent child-mind I still can read—
        Yes, Signë, I know that ’tis you!
        I needs must laugh when I think how oft
        I have thought of you perched on my shoulder aloft
        As you used to ride. You were then a child;
        Now you are a nixie, spell-weaving, wild.

                                   SIGNË.
                      [_Threatening with her finger._]

        Beware! If the nixie’s ire you awaken,
        Soon in her nets you will find yourself taken.

                                  GUDMUND.
                              [_To himself._]

        I am snared already, it seems to me.

                                   SIGNË.

        But, Gudmund, wait—you have still to see
        How I’ve shielded your harp from the dust and the rust.

                                     [_As she goes out to the left._

        You shall teach me all of your songs! You must!

                                  GUDMUND.
                [_Softly, as he follows her with his eyes._]

        She has flushed to the loveliest rose of May,
        That was yet but a bud in the morning’s ray.

                                   SIGNË.
                        [_Returning with the harp._]

        Behold!

                                  GUDMUND.
                               [_Taking it._]

                 My harp! As bright as of yore!

                                      [_Striking one or two chords._

        Still the old chords ring sweet and clear—
        On the wall, untouched, thou shalt hang no more.

                                  MARGIT.
                        [_Looking out at the back._]

        Our guests are coming.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_While_ GUDMUND _preludes his song._]

        Hush—hush! Oh, hear!

                                  GUDMUND.
                                 [_Sings._]

        I roamed through the uplands so heavy of cheer;
        The little birds quavered in bush and in brere;
        The little birds quavered, around and above:
        Wouldst know of the sowing and growing of love?

        It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
        ’Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs, and by tears;
        But swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
        Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye.

                [_As he strikes the concluding chords, he goes
                    towards the back, where he lays down his harp._

                                   SIGNË.
                   [_Thoughtfully, repeats to herself._]

        But swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
        Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Absently._] Did you speak to me?—I heard not clearly—?

                                   SIGNË.

        I? No, no. I only meant—

                            [_She again becomes absorbed in dreams._

                                  MARGIT.
                [_Half aloud; looking straight before her._]

        It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
        ’Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs and by tears.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Returning to herself._] You said that—?

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Drawing her hand over her brow._] Nay, ’twas nothing.
        Come, we must go meet our guests.

                [BENGT _enters with many_ GUESTS, _both men and
                    women, through the passageway._

                                  GUESTS.
                                 [_Sing._]

                    With song and harping enter we
                        The feast-hall opened wide;
                    Peace to our hostess kind and free,
                        All happiness to her betide.
                    O’er Solhoug’s roof for ever may
                        Bright as to-day
                        The heavens abide.

                               ACT SECOND

        _A birch grove adjoining the house, one corner of which is
            seen to the left. At the back, a footpath leads up the
            hillside. To the right of the footpath a river comes
            tumbling down a ravine and loses itself among boulders
            and stones. It is a light summer evening. The door
            leading to the house stands open; the windows are
            lighted up. Music is heard from within._

                                THE GUESTS.
                       [_Singing in the Feast Hall._]

                Set bow to fiddle! To sound of strings
                We’ll dance till night shall furl her wings,
                  Through the long hours glad and golden!
                Like blood-red blossom the maiden glows—
                Come, bold young wooer and hold the rose
                  In a soft embrace enfolden.

                [KNUT GESLING _and_ ERIK OF HEGGË _enter from the
                    house. Sounds of music, dancing and merriment
                    are heard from within during what follows._

                                   ERIK.

        If only you come not to repent it, Knut.

                                   KNUT.

        That is my affair.

                                   ERIK.

        Well, say what you will, ’tis a daring move. You are the
        King’s Sheriff. Commands go forth to you that you shall
        seize the person of Gudmund Alfson, wherever you may find
        him. And now, when you have him in your grasp, you proffer
        him your friendship, and let him go freely, whithersoever he
        will.

                                   KNUT.

        I know what I am doing. I sought him in his own dwelling,
        but there he was not to be found. If, now, I went about to
        seize him here—think you that Dame Margit would be minded to
        give me Signë to wife?

                                   ERIK.

        [_With deliberation._] No, by fair means it might scarcely
        be, but—

                                   KNUT.

        And by foul means I am loth to proceed. Moreover, Gudmund is
        my friend from bygone days; and he can be helpful to me.
        [_With decision._] Therefore it shall be as I have said.
        This evening no one at Solhoug shall know that Gudmund
        Alfson is an outlaw;—to-morrow he must look to himself.

                                   ERIK.

        Aye, but the King’s decree?

                                   KNUT.

        Oh, the King’s decree! You know as well as I that the King’s
        decree is but little heeded here in the uplands. Were the
        King’s decree to be enforced, many a stout fellow among us
        would have to pay dear both for bride-rape and for
        man-slaying. Come this way, I would fain know where Signë—?

                                        [_They go out to the right._

                [GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË _come down the footpath at the
                    back._

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, speak! Say on! For sweeter far
        Such words than sweetest music are.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë, my flower, my lily fair!

                                   SIGNË.

                               [_In subdued, but happy wonderment._]

        I am dear to him—I!

                                  GUDMUND.

                              As none other I swear.

                                   SIGNË.

        And is it I that can bind your will!
        And is it I that your heart can fill!
        Oh, dare I believe you?

                                  GUDMUND.

                                 Indeed you may.
        List to me, Signë! The years sped away,
        But faithful was I in my thoughts to you,
        My fairest flowers, ye sisters two.
        My own heart I could not clearly read.
        When I left, my Signë was but a child,
        A fairy elf, like the creatures wild
        Who play, while we sleep, in wood and mead.
        But in Solhoug’s hall to-day, right loud
        My heart spake, and right clearly;
        It told me that Margit’s a lady proud,
        Whilst you’re the sweet maiden I love most dearly.

                                   SIGNË.
                [_Who has only half listened to his words._]

        I mind me, we sat in the hearth’s red glow,
        One winter evening—’tis long ago—
        And you sang to me of the maiden fair
        Whom the neckan had lured to his watery lair.
        There she forgot both father and mother,
        There she forgot both sister and brother;
        Heaven and earth and her Christian speech,
        And her God, she forgot them all and each.
        But close by the strand a stripling stood
        And he was heartsore and heavy of mood.
        He struck from his harpstrings notes of woe,
        That wide o’er the waters rang loud, rang low.
        The spell-bound maid in the tarn so deep,
        His strains awoke from her heavy sleep.
        The neckan must grant her release from his rule,
        She rose through the lilies afloat on the pool—
        Then looked she to heaven while on green earth she trod,
        And wakened once more to her faith and her God.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë, my fairest of flowers!

                                   SIGNË.

                                       It seems
        That I, too, have lived in a world of dreams.
        But the strange deep words you to-night have spoken,
        Of the power of love, have my slumber broken.
        The heavens seemed never so blue to me,
        Never the world so fair;
        I can understand, as I roam with thee,
        The song of the birds in air.

                                  GUDMUND.

        So mighty is love—it stirs in the breast
        Thoughts and longings and happy unrest.
        But come, let us both to your sister go.

                                   SIGNË.

        Would you tell her—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                               Everything she must know.

                                   SIGNË.

        Then go you alone;—I feel that my cheek
        Would be hot with blushes to hear you speak.

                                  GUDMUND.

        So be it, I go.

                                   SIGNË.

                         And here will I bide;

                                     [_Listening towards the right._

        Or better—down by the riverside,
        I hear Knut Gesling, with maidens and men.

                                  GUDMUND.

        There will you stay?

                                   SIGNË.

                              Till you come again.

                [_She goes out to the right._ GUDMUND _goes into the
                    house._

                    [MARGIT _enters from behind the house on the
                    left._

                                  MARGIT.

        In the hall there is gladness and revelry;
        The dancers foot it with jest and glee.
        The air weighed hot on my brow and breast;
        For Gudmund, he was not there.

                                         [_She draws a deep breath._

        Out here ’tis better: here’s quiet and rest.
        How sweet is the cool night air!

                                              [_A brooding silence._

        That horrible thought! Oh, why should it be
        That wherever I go it follows me?
        The phial—doth a secret draught contain;
        A drop of this in my—enemy’s cup,
        And his life would sicken and wither up;
        The leech’s skill would be tried in vain.

                                                 [_Again a silence._

        Were I sure that Gudmund—held me dear—
        Then little I’d care for—

                                   [_Gudmund enters from the house._

                                  GUDMUND.

                                    You, Margit, here?
        And alone? I have sought you everywhere.

                                  MARGIT.

        ’Tis cool here. I sickened of heat and glare.
        See you how yonder the white mists glide
        Softly over the marshes wide?
        Here it is neither dark nor light,
        But midway between them—

                                                      [_To herself._

                                   —as in my breast.

                                                  [_Looking at him._

        Is’t not so—when you wander on such a night
        You hear, though but half to yourself confessed,
        A stirring of secret life through the hush,
        In tree and in leaf, in flower and in rush?

                                    [_With a sudden change of tone_.

        Can you guess what I wish?

                                  GUDMUND.

                                    Well?

                                  MARGIT.

                                        That I could be
        The nixie that haunts yonder upland lea.
        How cunningly I should weave my spell!
        Trust me—!

                                  GUDMUND.

                     Margit, what ails you? Tell!

                                  MARGIT.
                         [_Paying no heed to him._]

        How I should quaver my magic lay!
        Quaver and croon it both night and day!

        [_With growing vehemence._

        How I would lure the knight so bold
        Through the greenwood glades to my mountain hold.
        There were the world and its woes forgot
        In the burning joys of our blissful lot.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Margit! Margit!

                                  MARGIT.
                           [_Ever more wildly._]

                         At midnight’s hour
        Sweet were our sleep in my lonely bower;—
        And if death should come with the dawn, I trow
        ’Twere sweet to die so;—what thinkest thou?

                                  GUDMUND.

        You are sick!

                                  MARGIT.
                        [_Bursting into laughter._]

                  Ha, ha!—Let me laugh! ’Tis good
        To laugh when the heart is in laughing mood!

                                  GUDMUND.

        I see that you still have the same wild soul
        As of old—

                                  MARGIT.
                        [_With sudden seriousness._]

                    Nay, let not that vex your mind,
        ’Tis only at midnight it mocks control;
        By day I am timid as any hind.
        How tame I have grown, you yourself must say,
        When you think on the women in lands far away—
        Of that fair Princess—ah, _she_ was wild!
        Beside her lamblike am I and mild.
        She did not helplessly yearn and brood,
        She would have acted; and that—

                                  GUDMUND.

                                        ’Tis good
        You remind me; straightway I’ll cast away
        What to me is valueless after this day—

        [_Takes out the phial._

                                  MARGIT.

        The phial! You meant—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                                  I thought it might be
        At need a friend that should set me free
        Should the King’s men chance to lay hands on me.
        But from to-night it has lost its worth;
        Now will I fight all the kings of earth,
        Gather my kinsfolk and friends to the strife,
        And battle right stoutly for freedom and life.

                      [_Is about to throw the phial against a rock._

                                  MARGIT.
                            [_Seizing his arm._]

        Nay, hold! Let me have it—

                                  GUDMUND.

                                     First tell me why?

                                  MARGIT.

        I’d fain fling it down to the neckan hard by,
        Who so often has made my dull hours fleet
        With his harping and songs, so strange and sweet.
        Give it me!

        [_Takes the phial from his hand._

                     There!

        [_Feigns to throw it into the river._

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Goes to the right, and looks down into the ravine._]

                             Have you thrown it away?

                                  MARGIT.
                         [_Concealing the phial._]

        Aye, surely! You saw—

                          [_Whispers as she goes towards the house._

                                Now God help and spare me!
        The ice must now either break or bear me!

                                                           [_Aloud._

        Gudmund!

                                  GUDMUND.
                              [_Approaching_.]

                  What would you?

                                  MARGIT.

                                   Teach me, I pray,
        How to interpret the ancient lay
        They sing of the church in the valley there:
        A gentle knight and a lady fair,
        They loved each other well.
        That very day on her bier she lay
        He on his sword-point fell.
        They buried her by the northward spire,
        And him by the south kirk wall;
        And theretofore grew neither bush nor briar
        In the hallowed ground at all.
        But next spring from their coffins twain
        Two lilies fair upgrew—
        And by and by, o’er the roof-tree high,
        They twined and they bloomed the whole year through.
        How read you the riddle?

                                  GUDMUND.
                       [_Looks searchingly at her._]

                          I scarce can say.

                                  MARGIT.

        You may doubtless read it in many a way;
        But its truest meaning, methinks, is clear:
        The church can never sever two that hold each other dear.

                                  GUDMUND.
                              [_To himself._]

        Ye saints, if she should—? Lest worse befall,
        ’Tis time indeed I told her all!    [_Aloud._
        Do you wish for my happiness—Margit, tell!

                                  MARGIT.
                          [_In joyful agitation._]

        Wish for it! I!

                                  GUDMUND.

                        Then, wot you well,
        The joy of my life now rests with you—

                                  MARGIT.
                           [_With an outburst._]

        Gudmund!

                                  GUDMUND.

                  Listen! ’tis time you knew—

                                               [_He stops suddenly._

                [_Voices and laughter are heard by the river bank._
                    SIGNË _and some other_ GIRLS _enter from the
                    right, accompanied by_ KNUT, ERIK _and several_
                    YOUNGER MEN.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Still at a distance._] Gudmund Alfson! Wait; I must speak
        a word with you.

        [_He stops, talking to_ ERIK. _The other_ GUESTS _in the
        meantime enter the house._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To herself._] The joy of his life—! What else can he mean
        but—! [_Half aloud._] Signë—my dear, dear sister!

        [_She puts her arm round SIGNË’S waist, and they go towards
        the back talking to each other._

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Softly, as he follows them with his eyes._]

        Aye, so it were wisest. Both Signë and I must away from
        Solhoug. Knut Gesling has shown himself my friend; he will
        help me.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Softly, to_ ERIK.] Yes, yes, I say, Gudmund is her
        kinsman; he can best plead my cause.

                                   ERIK.

        Well, as you will. [_He goes into the house._

                                   KNUT.

        [_Approaching._] Listen, Gudmund—

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Smiling._] Come you to tell me that you dare no longer let
        me go free.

                                   KNUT.

        Dare! Be at your ease as to that. Knut Gesling dares
        whatever he will. No, ’tis another matter. You know that
        here in the district, I am held to be a wild, unruly
        companion—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye, and if rumour lies not—

                                   KNUT.

        Why no, much that it reports may be true enough. But now, I
        must tell you—

        [_They go, conversing, up towards the back._

                                   SIGNË.

        [_To_ MARGIT, _as they come forward beside the house._] I
        understand you not. You speak as though an unlooked-for
        happiness had befallen you. What is in your mind?

                                  MARGIT.

        Signë—you are still a child; you know not what it means to
        have ever in your heart the dread of—[_Suddenly breaking
        off._] Think, Signë, what it must be to wither and die
        without ever having lived.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Looks at her in astonishment, and shakes her head._] Nay,
        but, Margit—?

                                  MARGIT.

        Aye, aye, you do not understand, but none the less—

        [_They go up again, talking to each other._ GUDMUND _and_
        KNUT _come down on the other side._

                                  GUDMUND.

        Well, if so it be—if this wild life no longer contents
        you—then I will give you the best counsel that ever friend
        gave to friend: take to wife an honourable maiden.

                                   KNUT.

        Say you so? And if I now told you that ’tis even that I have
        in mind?

                                  GUDMUND.

        Good luck and happiness to you then, Knut Gesling! And now
        you must know that I too—

                                   KNUT.

        You? Are you, too, so purposed?

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye, truly. But the King’s wrath;—I am a banished man—

                                   KNUT.

        Nay, to that you need give but little thought. As yet there
        is no one here, save Dame Margit, that knows aught of the
        matter; and so long as I am your friend, you have one in
        whom you can trust securely. Now I must tell you—

        [_He proceeds in a whisper as they go up again._

                                   SIGNË.

        [_As she and_ MARGIT _again advance._] But tell me then,
        Margit—!

                                  MARGIT.

        More I dare not tell you.

                                   SIGNË.

        Then will I be more open-hearted than you. But first answer
        me one question. [_Bashfully, with hesitation._] Is there—is
        there no one who has told you anything concerning me?

                                  MARGIT.

        Concerning you? Nay, what should that be?

                                   SIGNË.

        [_As before, looking downwards._] You said to me this
        morning: if a wooer came riding hither—?

                                  MARGIT.

        That is true. [_To herself._] Knut Gesling—has he already—?
        [_Eagerly, to_ SIGNË.] Well? What then?

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Softly, but with exultation._] The wooer has come! He has
        come, Margit! I knew not then whom you meant; but now—!

                                  MARGIT.

        And what have you answered him?

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, how should I know? [_Flinging her arms round her
        sister’s neck._] But the world seems to me so rich and
        beautiful since the moment when he told me that he held me
        dear.

                                  MARGIT.

        Why, Signë, Signë, I cannot understand that you should so
        quickly—! You scarce knew him before to-day.

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, ’tis but little I yet know of love; but this
        I know that what the song says is true:
        Full swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
        Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye—

                                  MARGIT.

        So be it; and since so it is, I need no longer hold aught
        concealed from you. Ah—

        [_She stops suddenly, as she sees_ KNUT _and_ GUDMUND
        _approaching._

                                   KNUT.

        [_In a tone of satisfaction._] Ha, this is as I would have
        it, Gudmund. Here is my hand!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To herself._] What is this?

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To_ KNUT.] And here is mine!

        [_They shake hands._

                                   KNUT.

        But now we must each of us name who it is—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Good. Here at Solhoug, among so many fair women, I have
        found her whom—

                                   KNUT.

        I too. And I will bear her home this very night, if it be
        needful.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Who has approached unobserved._] All saints in heaven!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Nods to_ KNUT.] The same is my intent!

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Who has also been listening._] Gudmund!

                             GUDMUND AND KNUT.

        [_Whispering to each other, as they both point at_ SIGNË.]
        There she is!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Starting._] Aye, mine.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Likewise._] No, mine!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Softly, half bewildered._] Signë!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_As before, to_ KNUT.] What mean you by that?

                                   KNUT.

        I mean that ’tis Signë whom I—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë! Signë is my betrothed in the sight of God.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_With a cry._] It was she! No—no!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To himself, as he catches sight of her._] Margit! She has
        heard everything.

                                   KNUT.

        Ho, ho! So this is how it stands? Nay, Dame Margit, ’tis
        needless to put on such an air of wonder; now I understand
        everything.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To_ SIGNË.] But not a moment ago you said—? [_Suddenly
        grasping the situation._] ’Twas Gudmund you meant!

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Astonished._] Yes, did you not know it! But what ails you,
        Margit?

                                  MARGIT.

        [_In an almost toneless voice._] Nay, nothing, nothing.

                                   KNUT.

        [_To_ MARGIT.] And this morning, when you made me give my
        word that I would stir no strife here to-night—you already
        knew that Gudmund Alfson was coming. Ha, ha, think not that
        you can hoodwink Knut Gesling! Signë has become dear to me.
        Even this morning ’twas but my hasty vow that drove me to
        seek her hand; but now—

                                   SIGNË.

        [_To_ MARGIT.] He? Was _this_ the wooer that was in your
        mind?

                                  MARGIT.

        Hush, hush!

                                   KNUT.

        [_Firmly and harshly._] Dame Margit—you are her elder
        sister; you shall give me an answer.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Battling with herself._] Signë has already made her
        choice;—I have naught to answer.

                                   KNUT.

        Good; then I have nothing more to do at Solhoug. But after
        midnight—mark you this—the day is at an end; then you may
        chance to see me again, and then Fortune must decide whether
        it be Gudmund or I that shall bear Signë away from this
        house.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye, try if you dare; it shall cost you a bloody sconce.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_In terror._] Gudmund! By all the saints—!

                                   KNUT.

        Gently, gently, Gudmund Alfson! Ere sunrise you shall be in
        my power. And she—your lady-love—[_Goes up to the door,
        beckons and calls in a low voice._] Erik! Erik! come hither!
        we must away to our kinsfolk. [_Threateningly, while_ ERIK
        _shows himself in the doorway._] Woe upon you all when I
        come again!

        [_He and_ ERIK _go off to the left at the back._]

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Softly to_ GUDMUND.] Oh, tell me, what does all this mean?

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Whispering._] We must both leave Solhoug this very night.

                                   SIGNË.

        God shield me—you would—!

                                  GUDMUND.

        Say nought of it! No word to any one, not even to your
        sister.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To herself._] She—it is she! She of whom he had scarce
        thought before to-night. Had I been free, I know well whom
        he had chosen.—Aye, free!

                [BENGT _and_ GUESTS, _both Men and Women, enter from
                    the house._

                           YOUNG MEN AND MAIDENS.

        Out here, out here be the feast arrayed,
        While the birds are asleep in the greenwood shade.
        How sweet to sport in the flowery glade
        ’Neath the birches.

        Out here, out here, shall be mirth and jest,
        No sigh on the lips and no care in the breast,
        When the fiddle is tuned at the dancers’ ’hest,
        ’Neath the birches.

                                   BENGT.

        That is well, that is well! So I fain would see it! I am
        merry, and my wife likewise; and therefore I pray ye all to
        be merry along with us.

                             ONE OF THE GUESTS.

        Aye, now let us have a stave-match.[25]

                                   MANY.

        [_Shout._] Yes, yes, a stave-match!

                               ANOTHER GUEST.

        Nay, let that be; it leads but to strife at the feast.
        [_Lowering his voice._] Bear in mind that Knut Gesling is
        with us to-night.

                                  SEVERAL.

        [_Whispering among themselves._] Aye, aye, that is true.
        Remember the last time, how he—. Best beware.

                                AN OLD MAN.

        But you, Dame Margit—I know your kin had ever wealth of
        tales in store; and you yourself, even as a child, knew many
        a fair legend.

                                  MARGIT.

        Alas! I have forgot them all. But ask Gudmund Alfson, my
        kinsman; he knows a tale that is merry enough.

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_In a low voice, imploringly._] Margit!

                                  MARGIT.

        Why, what a pitiful countenance you put on! Be merry,
        Gudmund! Be merry! Aye, aye, it comes easy to you, well I
        wot. [_Laughing, to the_ GUESTS.] He has seen the huldra
        to-night. She would fain have tempted him; but Gudmund is a
        faithful swain. [_Turns again to_ GUDMUND.] Aye, but the
        tale is not finished yet. When you bear away your lady-love,
        over hill and through forest, be sure you turn not round; be
        sure you never look back—the huldra sits laughing behind
        every bush; and when all is done—[_In a low voice, coming
        close up to him._]—you will go no further than she will let
        you. [_She crosses to the right._]

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, God! Oh, God!

                                   BENGT.

        [_Going around among the_ GUESTS _in high contentment._] Ha,
        ha, ha! Dame Margit knows how to set the mirth afoot! When
        she takes it in hand, she does it much better than I.

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To himself._] She threatens! I must tear the last hope out
        of her breast; else will peace never come to her mind.
        [_Turns to the_ GUESTS.] I mind me of a little song. If it
        please you to hear it—

                           SEVERAL OF THE GUESTS.

        Thanks, thanks, Gudmund Alfson!

                [_They close around him, some sitting, others
                    standing._ MARGIT _leans against a tree in front
                    on the right._ SIGNË _stands on the left, near
                    the house._

                                  GUDMUND.
                                 [_Sings._]

                  I rode into the wildwood,
                    I sailed across the sea,
                  But ’twas at home I wooed and won
                    A maiden fair and free.

                  It was the Queen of Elfland,
                    She waxed full wroth and grim:
                  Never, she swore, shall that maiden fair
                    Ride to the church with him.

                  Hear me, thou Queen of Elfland.
                    Vain, vain are threat and spell;
                  For naught can sunder two true hearts
                    That love each other well!

                                AN OLD MAN.

        That is a right fair song. See how the young swains cast
        their glances thitherward! [_Pointing towards the_ GIRLS.]
        Aye, aye, doubtless each has his own.

                                   BENGT.

        [_Making eyes at_ MARGIT.] Yes, I have mine, that is sure
        enough. Ha, ha, ha!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To herself, quivering._] To have to suffer all this shame
        and scorn! No, no; now to essay the last remedy!

                                   BENGT.

        What ails you? Meseems you look so pale.

                                  MARGIT.

        ’Twill soon pass over. [_Turns to the_ GUESTS.] Did I say
        e’en now that I had forgotten all my tales? I bethink me now
        that I remember one.

                                   BENGT.

        Good, good, my wife! Come, let us hear it.

                                YOUNG GIRLS.

        [_Urgently._] Yes, tell it us, tell it us, Dame Margit!

                                  MARGIT.

        I almost fear that ’twill little please you; but that must
        be as it may.

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To himself._] Saints in heaven, surely she would not—!

                                  MARGIT.

        It was a fair and noble maid,
        She dwelt in her father’s hall;
        Both linen and silk did she broider and braid,
        Yet found in it solace small.
        For she sat there alone in cheerless state,
        Empty were hall and bower;
        In the pride of her heart, she was fain to mate
        With a chieftain of pelf and power.
        But now ’twas the Hill King, he rode from the north,
        With his henchmen and his gold;
        On the third day at night he in triumph fared forth,
        Bearing _her_ to his mountain hold.
        Full many a summer she dwelt in the hill;
        Out of beakers of gold she could drink at her will.
        Oh, fair are the flowers of the valley, I trow,
        But only in dreams can she gather them now!
        ’Twas a youth, right gentle and bold to boot,
        Struck his harp with such magic might
        That it rang to the mountain’s inmost root,
        Where she languished in the night.
        The sound in her soul waked a wondrous mood—
        Wide open the mountain-gates seemed to stand;
        The peace of God lay over the land,
        And she saw how it all was fair and good.
        There had happened what never had happened before;
        She had wakened to life as his harp-strings thrilled;
        And her eyes were opened to all the store
        Of treasure wherewith the good earth is filled.
        For mark this well: it hath ever been found
        That those who in caverns deep lie bound
        Are lightly freed by the harp’s glad sound.
        He saw her prisoned, he heard her wail—
        But he cast unheeding his harp aside,
        Hoisted straightway his silken sail,
        And sped away o’er the waters wide
        To stranger strands with his new-found bride.

                                    [_With ever-increasing passion._

        So fair was thy touch on the golden strings
        That my breast heaves high and my spirit sings!
        I must out, I must out to the sweet green leas!
        I die in the Hill-King’s fastnesses!
        He mocks at my woe as he clasps his bride
        And sails away o’er the waters wide!

                                                         [_Shrieks._

        With me all is over; my hill-prison barred;
        Unsunned is the day, and the night all unstarred.

                [_She totters and, fainting, seeks to support
                    herself against the trunk of a tree._

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Weeping, has rushed up to her, and takes her in her
        arms._] Margit! My sister!