Have you thrown it away?
MARGIT.
[_Concealing the phial._]
Aye, surely! You saw—
[_Whispers as she goes towards the house._
Now God help and spare me!
The ice must now either break or bear me!
[_Aloud._
Gudmund!
GUDMUND.
[_Approaching_.]
What would you?
MARGIT.
Teach me, I pray,
How to interpret the ancient lay
They sing of the church in the valley there:
A gentle knight and a lady fair,
They loved each other well.
That very day on her bier she lay
He on his sword-point fell.
They buried her by the northward spire,
And him by the south kirk wall;
And theretofore grew neither bush nor briar
In the hallowed ground at all.
But next spring from their coffins twain
Two lilies fair upgrew—
And by and by, o’er the roof-tree high,
They twined and they bloomed the whole year through.
How read you the riddle?
GUDMUND.
[_Looks searchingly at her._]
I scarce can say.
MARGIT.
You may doubtless read it in many a way;
But its truest meaning, methinks, is clear:
The church can never sever two that hold each other dear.
GUDMUND.
[_To himself._]
Ye saints, if she should—? Lest worse befall,
’Tis time indeed I told her all! [_Aloud._
Do you wish for my happiness—Margit, tell!
MARGIT.
[_In joyful agitation._]
Wish for it! I!
GUDMUND.
Then, wot you well,
The joy of my life now rests with you—
MARGIT.
[_With an outburst._]
Gudmund!
GUDMUND.
Listen! ’tis time you knew—
[_He stops suddenly._
[_Voices and laughter are heard by the river bank._
SIGNË _and some other_ GIRLS _enter from the
right, accompanied by_ KNUT, ERIK _and several_
YOUNGER MEN.
KNUT.
[_Still at a distance._] Gudmund Alfson! Wait; I must speak
a word with you.
[_He stops, talking to_ ERIK. _The other_ GUESTS _in the
meantime enter the house._
MARGIT.
[_To herself._] The joy of his life—! What else can he mean
but—! [_Half aloud._] Signë—my dear, dear sister!
[_She puts her arm round SIGNË’S waist, and they go towards
the back talking to each other._
GUDMUND.
[_Softly, as he follows them with his eyes._]
Aye, so it were wisest. Both Signë and I must away from
Solhoug. Knut Gesling has shown himself my friend; he will
help me.
KNUT.
[_Softly, to_ ERIK.] Yes, yes, I say, Gudmund is her
kinsman; he can best plead my cause.
ERIK.
Well, as you will. [_He goes into the house._
KNUT.
[_Approaching._] Listen, Gudmund—
GUDMUND.
[_Smiling._] Come you to tell me that you dare no longer let
me go free.
KNUT.
Dare! Be at your ease as to that. Knut Gesling dares
whatever he will. No, ’tis another matter. You know that
here in the district, I am held to be a wild, unruly
companion—
GUDMUND.
Aye, and if rumour lies not—
KNUT.
Why no, much that it reports may be true enough. But now, I
must tell you—
[_They go, conversing, up towards the back._
SIGNË.
[_To_ MARGIT, _as they come forward beside the house._] I
understand you not. You speak as though an unlooked-for
happiness had befallen you. What is in your mind?
MARGIT.
Signë—you are still a child; you know not what it means to
have ever in your heart the dread of—[_Suddenly breaking
off._] Think, Signë, what it must be to wither and die
without ever having lived.
SIGNË.
[_Looks at her in astonishment, and shakes her head._] Nay,
but, Margit—?
MARGIT.
Aye, aye, you do not understand, but none the less—
[_They go up again, talking to each other._ GUDMUND _and_
KNUT _come down on the other side._
GUDMUND.
Well, if so it be—if this wild life no longer contents
you—then I will give you the best counsel that ever friend
gave to friend: take to wife an honourable maiden.
KNUT.
Say you so? And if I now told you that ’tis even that I have
in mind?
GUDMUND.
Good luck and happiness to you then, Knut Gesling! And now
you must know that I too—
KNUT.
You? Are you, too, so purposed?
GUDMUND.
Aye, truly. But the King’s wrath;—I am a banished man—
KNUT.
Nay, to that you need give but little thought. As yet there
is no one here, save Dame Margit, that knows aught of the
matter; and so long as I am your friend, you have one in
whom you can trust securely. Now I must tell you—
[_He proceeds in a whisper as they go up again._
SIGNË.
[_As she and_ MARGIT _again advance._] But tell me then,
Margit—!
MARGIT.
More I dare not tell you.
SIGNË.
Then will I be more open-hearted than you. But first answer
me one question. [_Bashfully, with hesitation._] Is there—is
there no one who has told you anything concerning me?
MARGIT.
Concerning you? Nay, what should that be?
SIGNË.
[_As before, looking downwards._] You said to me this
morning: if a wooer came riding hither—?
MARGIT.
That is true. [_To herself._] Knut Gesling—has he already—?
[_Eagerly, to_ SIGNË.] Well? What then?
SIGNË.
[_Softly, but with exultation._] The wooer has come! He has
come, Margit! I knew not then whom you meant; but now—!
MARGIT.
And what have you answered him?
SIGNË.
Oh, how should I know? [_Flinging her arms round her
sister’s neck._] But the world seems to me so rich and
beautiful since the moment when he told me that he held me
dear.
MARGIT.
Why, Signë, Signë, I cannot understand that you should so
quickly—! You scarce knew him before to-day.
SIGNË.
Oh, ’tis but little I yet know of love; but this
I know that what the song says is true:
Full swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye—
MARGIT.
So be it; and since so it is, I need no longer hold aught
concealed from you. Ah—
[_She stops suddenly, as she sees_ KNUT _and_ GUDMUND
_approaching._
KNUT.
[_In a tone of satisfaction._] Ha, this is as I would have
it, Gudmund. Here is my hand!
MARGIT.
[_To herself._] What is this?
GUDMUND.
[_To_ KNUT.] And here is mine!
[_They shake hands._
KNUT.
But now we must each of us name who it is—
GUDMUND.
Good. Here at Solhoug, among so many fair women, I have
found her whom—
KNUT.
I too. And I will bear her home this very night, if it be
needful.
MARGIT.
[_Who has approached unobserved._] All saints in heaven!
GUDMUND.
[_Nods to_ KNUT.] The same is my intent!
SIGNË.
[_Who has also been listening._] Gudmund!
GUDMUND AND KNUT.
[_Whispering to each other, as they both point at_ SIGNË.]
There she is!
GUDMUND.
[_Starting._] Aye, mine.
KNUT.
[_Likewise._] No, mine!
MARGIT.
[_Softly, half bewildered._] Signë!
GUDMUND.
[_As before, to_ KNUT.] What mean you by that?
KNUT.
I mean that ’tis Signë whom I—
GUDMUND.
Signë! Signë is my betrothed in the sight of God.
MARGIT.
[_With a cry._] It was she! No—no!
GUDMUND.
[_To himself, as he catches sight of her._] Margit! She has
heard everything.
KNUT.
Ho, ho! So this is how it stands? Nay, Dame Margit, ’tis
needless to put on such an air of wonder; now I understand
everything.
MARGIT.
[_To_ SIGNË.] But not a moment ago you said—? [_Suddenly
grasping the situation._] ’Twas Gudmund you meant!
SIGNË.
[_Astonished._] Yes, did you not know it! But what ails you,
Margit?
MARGIT.
[_In an almost toneless voice._] Nay, nothing, nothing.
KNUT.
[_To_ MARGIT.] And this morning, when you made me give my
word that I would stir no strife here to-night—you already
knew that Gudmund Alfson was coming. Ha, ha, think not that
you can hoodwink Knut Gesling! Signë has become dear to me.
Even this morning ’twas but my hasty vow that drove me to
seek her hand; but now—
SIGNË.
[_To_ MARGIT.] He? Was _this_ the wooer that was in your
mind?
MARGIT.
Hush, hush!
KNUT.
[_Firmly and harshly._] Dame Margit—you are her elder
sister; you shall give me an answer.
MARGIT.
[_Battling with herself._] Signë has already made her
choice;—I have naught to answer.
KNUT.
Good; then I have nothing more to do at Solhoug. But after
midnight—mark you this—the day is at an end; then you may
chance to see me again, and then Fortune must decide whether
it be Gudmund or I that shall bear Signë away from this
house.
GUDMUND.
Aye, try if you dare; it shall cost you a bloody sconce.
SIGNË.
[_In terror._] Gudmund! By all the saints—!
KNUT.
Gently, gently, Gudmund Alfson! Ere sunrise you shall be in
my power. And she—your lady-love—[_Goes up to the door,
beckons and calls in a low voice._] Erik! Erik! come hither!
we must away to our kinsfolk. [_Threateningly, while_ ERIK
_shows himself in the doorway._] Woe upon you all when I
come again!
[_He and_ ERIK _go off to the left at the back._]
SIGNË.
[_Softly to_ GUDMUND.] Oh, tell me, what does all this mean?
GUDMUND.
[_Whispering._] We must both leave Solhoug this very night.
SIGNË.
God shield me—you would—!
GUDMUND.
Say nought of it! No word to any one, not even to your
sister.
MARGIT.
[_To herself._] She—it is she! She of whom he had scarce
thought before to-night. Had I been free, I know well whom
he had chosen.—Aye, free!
[BENGT _and_ GUESTS, _both Men and Women, enter from
the house._
YOUNG MEN AND MAIDENS.
Out here, out here be the feast arrayed,
While the birds are asleep in the greenwood shade.
How sweet to sport in the flowery glade
’Neath the birches.
Out here, out here, shall be mirth and jest,
No sigh on the lips and no care in the breast,
When the fiddle is tuned at the dancers’ ’hest,
’Neath the birches.
BENGT.
That is well, that is well! So I fain would see it! I am
merry, and my wife likewise; and therefore I pray ye all to
be merry along with us.
ONE OF THE GUESTS.
Aye, now let us have a stave-match.[25]
MANY.
[_Shout._] Yes, yes, a stave-match!
ANOTHER GUEST.
Nay, let that be; it leads but to strife at the feast.
[_Lowering his voice._] Bear in mind that Knut Gesling is
with us to-night.
SEVERAL.
[_Whispering among themselves._] Aye, aye, that is true.
Remember the last time, how he—. Best beware.
AN OLD MAN.
But you, Dame Margit—I know your kin had ever wealth of
tales in store; and you yourself, even as a child, knew many
a fair legend.
MARGIT.
Alas! I have forgot them all. But ask Gudmund Alfson, my
kinsman; he knows a tale that is merry enough.
GUDMUND.
[_In a low voice, imploringly._] Margit!
MARGIT.
Why, what a pitiful countenance you put on! Be merry,
Gudmund! Be merry! Aye, aye, it comes easy to you, well I
wot. [_Laughing, to the_ GUESTS.] He has seen the huldra
to-night. She would fain have tempted him; but Gudmund is a
faithful swain. [_Turns again to_ GUDMUND.] Aye, but the
tale is not finished yet. When you bear away your lady-love,
over hill and through forest, be sure you turn not round; be
sure you never look back—the huldra sits laughing behind
every bush; and when all is done—[_In a low voice, coming
close up to him._]—you will go no further than she will let
you. [_She crosses to the right._]
SIGNË.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
BENGT.
[_Going around among the_ GUESTS _in high contentment._] Ha,
ha, ha! Dame Margit knows how to set the mirth afoot! When
she takes it in hand, she does it much better than I.
GUDMUND.
[_To himself._] She threatens! I must tear the last hope out
of her breast; else will peace never come to her mind.
[_Turns to the_ GUESTS.] I mind me of a little song. If it
please you to hear it—
SEVERAL OF THE GUESTS.
Thanks, thanks, Gudmund Alfson!
[_They close around him, some sitting, others
standing._ MARGIT _leans against a tree in front
on the right._ SIGNË _stands on the left, near
the house._
GUDMUND.
[_Sings._]
I rode into the wildwood,
I sailed across the sea,
But ’twas at home I wooed and won
A maiden fair and free.
It was the Queen of Elfland,
She waxed full wroth and grim:
Never, she swore, shall that maiden fair
Ride to the church with him.
Hear me, thou Queen of Elfland.
Vain, vain are threat and spell;
For naught can sunder two true hearts
That love each other well!
AN OLD MAN.
That is a right fair song. See how the young swains cast
their glances thitherward! [_Pointing towards the_ GIRLS.]
Aye, aye, doubtless each has his own.
BENGT.
[_Making eyes at_ MARGIT.] Yes, I have mine, that is sure
enough. Ha, ha, ha!
MARGIT.
[_To herself, quivering._] To have to suffer all this shame
and scorn! No, no; now to essay the last remedy!
BENGT.
What ails you? Meseems you look so pale.
MARGIT.
’Twill soon pass over. [_Turns to the_ GUESTS.] Did I say
e’en now that I had forgotten all my tales? I bethink me now
that I remember one.
BENGT.
Good, good, my wife! Come, let us hear it.
YOUNG GIRLS.
[_Urgently._] Yes, tell it us, tell it us, Dame Margit!
MARGIT.
I almost fear that ’twill little please you; but that must
be as it may.
GUDMUND.
[_To himself._] Saints in heaven, surely she would not—!
MARGIT.
It was a fair and noble maid,
She dwelt in her father’s hall;
Both linen and silk did she broider and braid,
Yet found in it solace small.
For she sat there alone in cheerless state,
Empty were hall and bower;
In the pride of her heart, she was fain to mate
With a chieftain of pelf and power.
But now ’twas the Hill King, he rode from the north,
With his henchmen and his gold;
On the third day at night he in triumph fared forth,
Bearing _her_ to his mountain hold.
Full many a summer she dwelt in the hill;
Out of beakers of gold she could drink at her will.
Oh, fair are the flowers of the valley, I trow,
But only in dreams can she gather them now!
’Twas a youth, right gentle and bold to boot,
Struck his harp with such magic might
That it rang to the mountain’s inmost root,
Where she languished in the night.
The sound in her soul waked a wondrous mood—
Wide open the mountain-gates seemed to stand;
The peace of God lay over the land,
And she saw how it all was fair and good.
There had happened what never had happened before;
She had wakened to life as his harp-strings thrilled;
And her eyes were opened to all the store
Of treasure wherewith the good earth is filled.
For mark this well: it hath ever been found
That those who in caverns deep lie bound
Are lightly freed by the harp’s glad sound.
He saw her prisoned, he heard her wail—
But he cast unheeding his harp aside,
Hoisted straightway his silken sail,
And sped away o’er the waters wide
To stranger strands with his new-found bride.
[_With ever-increasing passion._
So fair was thy touch on the golden strings
That my breast heaves high and my spirit sings!
I must out, I must out to the sweet green leas!
I die in the Hill-King’s fastnesses!
He mocks at my woe as he clasps his bride
And sails away o’er the waters wide!
[_Shrieks._
With me all is over; my hill-prison barred;
Unsunned is the day, and the night all unstarred.
[_She totters and, fainting, seeks to support
herself against the trunk of a tree._
SIGNË.
[_Weeping, has rushed up to her, and takes her in her
arms._] Margit! My sister!
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 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 that 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._
Signë, 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 passage-way; 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 mead from a cupboard, and fills
the goblet which is on the table in front of 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 to his knee._] Ha, ha, ha! You are
right fair, Margit! I love you 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.
[_Stops at the door._] 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 Signë.
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 Signë, 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 of 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_ SIGNË _enter quietly and
cautiously by the door on the right._
SIGNË.
[_In muffled tones._]
It must, then, be so!
GUDMUND.
[_Also softly._]
Necessity’s might
Constrains us.
SIGNË.
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.
SIGNË.
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.
SIGNË.
[_Bursts into tears._]
Farewell, my poor sister! Like 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._