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 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.