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.