Chapter II: Part 2

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 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 thought 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,--Signe--?

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 Gudmund 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.

[SIGNE, and after her GUDMUND, enters from the left.

SIGNE. [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 SIGNE's hands and looks at her.

Yet, when I look in these eyes so blue, The innocent child-mind I still can read-- Yes, Signe, 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.

SIGNE. [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.

SIGNE.

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.

SIGNE. [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.

SIGNE. [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.

SIGNE. [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--?

SIGNE.

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.

SIGNE.

[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.

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 HEGGE 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 Signe 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 Signe--?

[They go out to the right.
[GUDMUND and SIGNE come down the footpath at the back.

SIGNE.

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

GUDMUND.

Signe, my flower, my lily fair!

SIGNE. [In subdued, but happy wonderment.]

I am dear to him--I!

Gudmund.

As none other I swear.

SIGNE.

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, Signe! 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 Signe 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.

SIGNE. [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.

Signe, my fairest of flowers!

SIGNE.

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 Thought and longings and happy unrest. But come, let us both to your sister go.

SIGNE.

Would you tell her--?

GUDMUND.

Everything she must know.

SIGNE.

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

GUDMUND.

So be it, I go.

SIGNE.

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?

SIGNE.

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.

The horrible thought! Oh, why should it be That wherever I go it follows me? The phial--doth a secret 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!
[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 the time you knew--

[He stops suddenly.
[Voices and laughter are heard by the river bank. SIGNE and
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.] Signe--my dear, dear sister!

[She puts her arm round SIGNE'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 Signe 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.

SIGNE.

[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.

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

SIGNE.

[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.

SIGNE.

[As she and MARGIT again advance.] But tell me then Margit--!

MARGIT.

More I dare not tell you.

SIGNE.

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

MARGIT.

Concerning you? Nay, what should that be?

SIGNE.

[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 SIGNE.] Well? What then?

SIGNE.

[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?

SIGNE.

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

SIGNE.

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.

SIGNE.

[Who has also been listening.] Gudmund!

GUDMUND AND KNUT.

[Whispering to each other, as they both point at Signe.] There
she is!

GUDMUND.

[Starting.] Aye, mine.

KNUT.

[Likewise.] No, mine!

MARGIT.

[Softly, half bewildered.] Signe!

GUDMUND.

[As before, to KNUT.] What mean you by that?

KNUT.

I mean that 'tis Signe whom I--

GUDMUND.

Signe! Signe 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 SIGNE.] But not a moment ago you said--? [Suddenly grasping
the situation.] 'Twas Gudmund you meant!

SIGNE.

[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! Signe has become dear to me. Even this morning 'twas but my hasty vow that drove me to seek her hand; but now--

SIGNE.

[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.] Signe 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 Signe away from this house.

GUDMUND.

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

SIGNE.

[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.

SIGNE.

[Softly to GUDMUND.] Oh, tell me, what does all this mean?

GUDMUND.

[Whispering.] We must both leave Solhoug this very night.

SIGNE.

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.*

*A contest in impromptu verse-making.

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 kind 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.

SIGNE.

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. SIGNE stands
on the left, near the house.

GUDMUND.

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 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.

SIGNE.

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

GUDMUND.

[At the same time, supporting her.] Help! help! she is dying!

[BENGT and the GUESTS flock round them with cries of alarm.

ACT THIRD

The hall at Solhoug as before, but now in disorder after the feast.
It is night still, but with a glimmer of approaching dawn in
the room and over the landscape without.

BENGT stands outside in the passage-way, with a beaker of ale in
his hand. A party of GUESTS are in the act of leaving the
house. In the room a MAID-SERVANT is restoring order.

BENGT.

[Calls to the departing GUESTS.] God speed you, then, and bring you back ere long to Solhoug. Methinks you, like the rest, might have stayed and slept till morning. Well, well! Yet hold--I'll e'en go with you to the gate. I must drink your healths once more.

[He goes out.

GUESTS. [Sing in the distance.]

Farewell, and God's blessing on one and all
Beneath this roof abiding!
The road must be faced. To the fiddler we call:
Tune up! Our cares deriding,
With dance and with song
We'll shorten the way so weary and long.
Right merrily off we go.

[The song dies away in the distance.
[MARGIT enters the hall by the door on the right.

MAID.

God save us, my lady, have you left your bed?

MARGIT.

I am well. Go you and sleep. Stay--tell me, are the guests
all gone?

MAID.

No, not all; some wait till later in the day; ere now they are
sleeping sound.

MARGIT.

And Gudmund Alfson--?

MAID.

He, too, is doubtless asleep. [Points to the right.] 'Tis some
time since he went to his chamber--yonder, across the passage.

MARGIT.

Good; you may go.

[The MAID goes out to the left.
[MARGIT walks slowly across the hall, seats herself by the
table on the right, and gazes out at the open window.

MARGIT.

To-morrow, then, Gudmund will ride away Out into the world so great and wide. Alone with my husband here I must stay; And well do I know what will then betide. Like the broken branch and the trampled flower I shall suffer and fade from hour to hour. [Short pause; she leans back in her chair.

I once heard a tale of a child blind from birth, Whose childhood was full of joy and mirth; For the mother, with spells of magic might, Wove for the dark eyes a world of light. And the child looked forth with wonder and glee Upon the valley and hill, upon land and sea. Then suddenly the witchcraft failed-- The child once more was in darkness pent; Good-bye to games and merriment; With longing vain the red cheeks paled. And its wail of woe, as it pined away, Was ceaseless, and sadder than words can say.-- Oh! like the child's my eyes were sealed, To the light and the life of summer blind-- [She springs up.

But now--! And I in this cage confined! No, now is the worth of my youth revealed! Three years of life I on him have spent-- My husband--but were I longer content This hapless, hopeless weird to dree, Meek as a dove I needs must be. I am wearied to death of petty brawls; The stirring life of the great world calls. I will follow Gudmund with shield and bow, I will share his joys, I will soothe his woe, Watch o'er him both by night and day. All that behold shall envy the life Of the valiant knight and Margit his wife.-- His wife! [Wrings her hands.

Oh God, what is this I say!
Forgive me, forgive me, and oh! let me feel
The peace that hath power both to soothe and to heal.
[Walks back and forward, brooding silently.

Signe, my sister--? How hateful 'twere To steal her glad young life from her! But who can tell? In very sooth She may love him but with the light love of youth. [Again silence; she takes out the little phial, looks long at it and says under her breath:

This phial--were I its powers to try-- My husband would sleep for ever and aye! [Horror-struck.

No, no! To the river's depths with it straight!
[In the act of throwing it out of the window, stops.

And yet I could--'tis not yet too late.--
[With an expression of mingled horror and rapture, whispers.

With what a magic resistless might Sin masters us in our own despite! Doubly alluring methinks is the goal I must reach through blood, with the wreck of my soul.

[BENGT, with the empty beaker in his hand, comes in from
the passageway; his face is red; he staggers slightly.

BENGT.

[Flinging the beaker upon the table on the left.] My faith, this has been a feast that will be the talk of the country. [Sees MARGIT.] Eh, are you there? You are well again. Good, good.

MARGIT.

[Who in the meantime has concealed the phial.] Is the door
barred?

BENGT.

[Seating himself at the table on the left.] I have seen to everything. I went with the last guests as far as the gates. But what became of Knut Gesling to-night?--Give me mead, Margit! I am thirsty Fill this cup.

[MARGIT fetches a flagon of the mead from a cupboard, and
and fills the goblet which is on the table before him.

MARGIT.

[Crossing to the right with the flagon.] You asked about
Knut Gesling.

BENGT.

That I did. The boaster, the braggart! I have not forgot his
threats of yester-morning.

MARGIT.

He used worse words when he left to-night.

BENGT.

He did? So much the better. I will strike him dead.

MARGIT.

[Smiling contemptuously.] H'm--

BENGT.

I will kill him, I say! I fear not to face ten such fellows as he. In the store-house hangs my grandfather's axe; its shaft is inlaid with silver; with that axe in my hands, I tell you--! [Thumps the table and drinks.] To-morrow I shall arm myself, go forth with all my men, and slay Knut Gesling.

[Empties the beaker.

MARGIT.

[To herself.] Oh, to have to live with him!

[Is in the act of leaving the room.

BENGT.

Margit, come here! Fill my cup again. [She approaches; he tries to draw her down on his knee.] Ha, ha, ha! You are right fair, Margit! I love thee well!

MARGIT.

[Freeing herself.] Let me go!

[Crosses, with the goblet in her hand, to the left.

BENGT.

You are not in the humour to-night. Ha, ha, ha! That means no
great matter, I know.

MARGIT.

[Softly, as she fills the goblet.] Oh, that this might be the
last beaker I should fill for you.

[She leaves the goblet on the table and is making her way
out to the left.

BENGT.

Hark to me, Margit. For one thing you may thank Heaven, and
that is, that I made you my wife before Gudmund Alfson came back.

MARGIT.

Why so?

BENGT.

Why, say you? Am not I ten times the richer man? And certain I am that he would have sought you for his wife, had you not been the mistress of Solhoug.

MARGIT.

[Drawing nearer and glancing at the goblet.] Say you so?

BENGT.

I could take my oath upon it. Bengt Gauteson has two sharp eyes
in his head. But he may still have Signe.

MARGIT.

And you think he will--?

BENGT.

Take her? Aye, since he cannot have you. But had you been free,--then-- Ha, ha, ha! Gudmund is like the rest. He envies me my wife. That is why I set such store by you, Margit. Here with the goblet again. And let it be full to the brim!

MARGIT.

[Goes unwillingly across to the right.] You shall have it
straightway.

BENGT.

Knut Gesling is a suitor for Signe, too, but him I am resolved to slay. Gudmund is an honourable man; he shall have her. Think, Margit, what good days we shall have with them for neighbours. We will go a-visiting each other, and then will we sit the live-long day, each with his wife on his knee, drinking and talking of this and that.

MARGIT.

[Whose mental struggle is visibly becoming more severe,
involuntarily takes out the phial as she says:] No doubt no doubt!

BENGT.

Ha, ha, ha! it may be that at first Gudmund will look askance at me when I take you in my arms; but that, I doubt not, he will soon get over.

MARGIT.

This is more than woman can bear! [Pours the contents of the phial into the goblet, goes to the window and throws out the phial, then says, without looking at him.] Your beaker is full.

BENGT.

Then bring it hither!

MARGIT.

[Battling in an agony of indecision, at last says.] I pray you
drink no more to-night!

BENGT.

[Leans back in his chair and laughs.] Oho! You are impatient
for my coming? Get you in; I will follow you soon.

MARGIT.

[Suddenly decided.] Your beaker is full. [Points.] There it is.

[She goes quickly out to the left.

BENGT.

[Rising.] I like her well. It repents me not a whit that I took her to wife, though of heritage she owned no more than yonder goblet and the brooches of her wedding gown.

[He goes to the table at the window and takes the goblet.
[A HOUSE-CARL enters hurriedly and with scared looks, from
the back.

HOUSE-CARL.

[Calls.] Sir Bengt, Sir Bengt! haste forth with all the speed
you can! Knut Gesling with an armed train is drawing near the house.

BENGT.

[Putting down the goblet.] Knut Gesling? Who brings the tidings?

HOUSE-CARL.

Some of your guests espied him on the road beneath, and hastened
back to warn you.

BENGT.

E'en so. Then will I--! Fetch me my grandfather's battle-axe!

[He and the HOUSE-CARL go out at the back.
[Soon after, GUDMUND and SIGNE enter quietly and cautiously
by the door at the back.

SIGNE. [In muffled tones.]

It must then, be so!

GUDMUND. [Also softly.]

Necessity's might
Constrains us.

SIGNE.

Oh! thus under cover of night
To steal from the valley where I was born?
[Dries her eyes.

Yet shalt thou hear no plaint forlorn. 'Tis for thy sake my home I flee; Wert thou not outlawed, Gudmund dear, I'd stay with my sister.

GUDMUND.

Only to be Ta'en by Knut Gesling, with bow and spear, Swung on the croup of his battle-horse, And made his wife by force.

SIGNE.

Quick, let us flee. But whither go?

GUDMUND.

Down by the fiord a friend I know; He'll find us a ship. O'er the salt sea foam We'll sail away south to Denmark's bowers. There waits you there a happy home; Right joyously will fleet the hours; The fairest of flowers they bloom in the shade Of the beech-tree glade.

SIGNE. [Bursts into tears.]

Farewell, my poor sister! Like my mother tender Thou hast guarded the ways my feet have trod, Hast guided my footsteps, aye praying to God, The Almighty, to be my defender.-- Gudmund--here is a goblet filled with mead; Let us drink to her; let us wish that ere long Her soul may again be calm and strong, And that God may be good to her need.

[She takes the goblet into her hands.

GUDMUND.

Aye, let us drain it, naming her name!
[Starts.

Stop!
[Takes the goblet from her.

For meseems it is the same--

SIGNE.

'Tis Margit's beaker.

GUDMUND. [Examining it carefully.]

By Heaven, 'tis so! I mind me still of the red wine's glow As she drank from it on the day we parted To our meeting again in health and glad-hearted. To herself that draught betided woe. No, Signe, ne'er drink wine or mead From that goblet. [Pours its contents out at the window.

We must away with all speed.

[Tumult and calls without, at the back.

SIGNE.

List, Gudmund! Voices and trampling feet!

GUDMUND.

Knut Gesling's voice!

SIGNE.

O save us, Lord!

GUDMUND. [Places himself in front of her.]

Nay, nay, fear nothing, Signe sweet-- I am here, and my good sword.

[MARGIT comes in in haste from the left.

MARGIT.

[Listening to the noise.] What means this? Is my husband--?

GUDMUND AND SIGNE.

Margit!

MARGIT.

[Catches sight of them.] Gudmund! And Signe! Are you here?

SIGNE.

[Going towards her.] Margit--dear sister!

MARGIT.

[Appalled, having seen the goblet which GUDMUND still holds in
his hand.] The goblet! Who has drunk from it?

GUDMUND.

[Confused.] Drunk--? I and Signe--we meant--

MARGIT.

[Screams.] O God, have mercy! Help! Help! They will die!

GUDMUND.

[Setting down the goblet.] Margit--!

SIGNE.

What ails you, sister?

MARGIT.

[Towards the back.] Help, help! Will no one help?

[A HOUSE-CARL rushes in from the passage-way.

HOUSE-CARL.

[Calls in a terrified voice.] Lady Margit! Your husband--!

MARGIT.

He--has he, too, drunk--!

GUDMUND.

[To himself.] Ah! now I understand--

HOUSE-CARL.

Knut Gesling has slain him.

SIGNE.

Slain!

GUDMUND.

[Drawing his sword.] Not yet, I hope. [Whispers to MARGIT.]
Fear not. No one has drunk from your goblet.

MARGIT.

Then thanks be to God, who has saved us all!

[She sinks down on a chair to the left. Gudmund hastens
towards the door at the back.

ANOTHER HOUSE-CARL.

[Enters, stopping him.] You come too late. Sir Bengt is dead.

GUDMUND.

Too late, then, too late.

HOUSE-CARL.

The guests and your men have prevailed against the murderous
crew. Knut Gesling and his men are prisoners. Here they come.

[GUDMUND's men, and a number of GUESTS and HOUSE-CARLS,
lead in KNUT GESLING, ERIK OF HEGGE, and several of
KNUT's men, bound.

KNUT.

[Who is pale, says in a low voice.] Man-slayer, Gudmund. What
say you to that?

GUDMUND.

Knut, Knut, what have you done?

ERIK.

'Twas a mischance, of that I can take my oath.

KNUT.

He ran at me swinging his axe; I meant but to defend myself,
and struck the death-blow unawares.

ERIK.

Many here saw all that befell.

KNUT.

Lady Margit, crave what fine you will. I am ready to pay it.

MARGIT.

I crave naught. God will judge us all. Yet stay--one thing I
require. Forgo your evil design upon my sister.

KNUT.

Never again shall I essay to redeem my baleful pledge. From this day onward I am a better man. Yet would I fain escape dishonourable punishment for my deed. [To GUDMUND.] Should you be restored to favour and place again, say a good word for me to the King!

GUDMUND.

I? Ere the sun sets, I must have left the country.

[Astonishment amongst the GUESTS. ERIK in whispers, explains
the situation.

MARGIT.

[To GUDMUND.] You go? And Signe with you?

SIGNE.

[Beseechingly.] Margit!

MARGIT.

Good fortune follow you both!

SIGNE.

[Flinging her arms round MARGIT's neck.] Dear sister!

GUDMUND.

Margit, I thank you. And now farewell. [Listening.] Hush!
I hear the tramp of hoofs in the court-yard.

SIGNE.

[Apprehensively.] Strangers have arrived.

[A HOUSE-CARL appears in the doorway at the back.

HOUSE-CARL.

The King's men are without. They seek Gudmund Alfson.

SIGNE.

Oh God!

MARGIT.

[In great alarm.] The King's men!

GUDMUND.

All is at an end, then. Oh Signe, to lose you now--could there
be a harder fate?

KNUT.

Nay, Gudmund; sell your life dearly, man! Unbind us; we are
ready to fight for you, one and all.

ERIK.

[Looks out.] 'Twould be in vain; they are too many for us.

SIGNE.

Here they come. Oh Gudmund, Gudmund!

[The KING's MESSENGER enters from the back, with his escort.

MESSENGER.

In the King's name I seek you, Gudmund Alfson, and bring you
his behests.

GUDMUND.

Be it so. Yet am I guiltless; I swear it by all that is holy!

MESSENGER.

We know it.

GUDMUND.

What say you?

[Agitation amongst those present.

MESSENGER.

I am ordered to bid you as a guest to the King's house. His friendship is yours as it was before, and along with it he bestows on you rich fiefs.

GUDMUND.

Signe!

SIGNE.

Gudmund!

GUDMUND.

But tell me--?

MESSENGER.

Your enemy, the Chancellor Audun Hugleikson, has fallen.

GUDMUND.

The Chancellor!

GUESTS.

[To each other, in half-whisper.] Fallen!

MESSENGER.

Three days ago he was beheaded at Bergen. [Lowering his voice.]
His offence was against Norway's Queen.

MARGIT. [Placing herself between GUDMUND and SIGNE.]

Thus punishment treads on the heels of crime! Protecting angels, loving and bright, Have looked down in mercy on me to-night, And come to my rescue while yet it was time. Now know I that life's most precious treasure Is nor worldly wealth nor earthly pleasure, I have felt the remorse, the terror I know, Of those who wantonly peril their soul, To St. Sunniva's cloister forthwith I go.-- [Before GUDMUND and SIGNE can speak.

Nay: think not to move me or control.
[Places SIGNE's hand in GUDMUND's.

Take her then Gudmund, and make her your bride. Your union is holy; God's on your side.

[Waving farewell, she goes towards the doorway on the left.
GUDMUND and SIGNE follow her, she stops them with a
motion of her hand, goes out, and shuts the door behind
her. At this moment the sun rises and sheds its light
in the hall.

GUDMUND.

Signe--my wife! See, the morning glow! 'Tis the morning of our young love. Rejoice!

SIGNE.

All my fairest of dreams and of memories I owe To the strains of thy harp and the sound of thy voice. My noble minstrel, to joy or sadness Tune thou that harp as seems thee best; There are chords, believe me, within my breast To answer to thine, or of woe or of gladness.

CHORUS OF MEN AND WOMEN.

Over the earth keeps watch the eye of light, Guardeth lovingly the good man's ways, Sheddeth round him its consoling rays;-- Praise be to the Lord in heaven's height!