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                          Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. In the printed
original, emphasis is indicated by gesperrt (spaced) text, but is here
also delimited as the italic.

Footnotes have been collected at the end of each section or act in which
they are referenced.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
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THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
     HENRIK IBSEN

                               VOLUME II

                        THE VIKINGS AT HELGELAND

                             THE PRETENDERS

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
                              HENRIK IBSEN

           _Copyright Edition.       Complete in 11 Volumes._
                      _Crown 8vo, price 4s. each._

                    =ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY=
                            =WILLIAM ARCHER=

         Vol. I.      Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s
                        Comedy

         Vol. II.     The Vikings, The Pretenders

         Vol. III.    Brand

         Vol. IV.     Peer Gynt

         Vol. V.      Emperor and Galilean (2 parts)

         Vol. VI.     The League of Youth, Pillars of Society

         Vol. VII.    A Doll’s House, Ghosts

         Vol. VIII.   An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck

         Vol. IX.     Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea

         Vol. X.      Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder

         Vol. XI.     Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When
                        We Dead Awaken

                       LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
                        21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.

                         THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
                              HENRIK IBSEN

                           COPYRIGHT EDITION

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                               VOLUME II

                             THE VIKINGS AT
                               HELGELAND

                             THE PRETENDERS

                         WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY

                             WILLIAM ARCHER

[Illustration: title page]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                 LONDON
                           WILLIAM HEINEMANN
                                  1910








                  _Collected Edition, First printed_ 1906
                           Second Impression 1910








    _Copyright 1906 by William Heinemann_




                                CONTENTS


                                                              PAGE
     INTRODUCTION TO “THE VIKINGS AT HELGELAND”                vii

     INTRODUCTION TO “THE PRETENDERS”                           xx

     “THE VIKINGS AT HELGELAND”                                  1
                      _Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER

     “THE PRETENDERS”                                          117
                      _Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER






                       THE VIKINGS AT HELGELAND.

                               INTRODUCTION.


    Ibsen himself has told us, in his preface to the second edition of
    _The Feast at Solhoug_, how the reading of the Icelandic
    family-sagas suggested to him, in germ, the theme of _The Vikings at
    Helgeland_. What he first saw, he says, was the contrasted figures
    of the two women who ultimately became Hiördis and Dagny, together
    with a great banquet-scene at which an interchange of taunts and
    gibes should lead to tragic consequences. So far as one can gather
    from this statement, the particular theme which he ultimately
    borrowed from the _Volsung-Saga_ had not yet entered his mind. On
    the other hand, the conception of the two women’s characters was
    certainly not new to him, seeing that a similar contrast presents
    itself in his very earliest work, _Catilina_, between the
    aptly-named Furia and the gentle Aurelia; while even in _Lady Inger
    of Ostråt_ it reappears, somewhat disguised, in the contrast between
    Inger Gyldenlöve and her daughter Eline. While the scheme of _The
    Vikings_ was still entirely vague, however, fresh influences, both
    of a personal and of a literary nature, intervened, and, transposing
    the theme from the purely dramatic into the lyrical key, he produced
    _The Feast at Solhoug_. The foster-sisters, Hiördis and Dagny became
    the sisters Margit and Signe, and the banquet, instead of being the
    culminating-point of the dramatic action, became its mere
    background.

    The fact probably is that in 1855 the poet found himself still
    unripe for the intense effort of dramatic concentration involved in
    such a work as _The Vikings_. Probably, too, he knew that neither
    his actors nor his public at the Bergen Theatre were prepared to go
    back to the primitive austerity of the heroic age, as it was
    beginning to body itself forth in his mind. The good Bergensers were
    accustomed either to French intrigue (such as he had given them in
    _Lady Inger_), or to Danish lyrical romanticism; and he perhaps
    foresaw that the ruling taste of Bergen would be as hard to contend
    against as, in the sequel, the ruling taste of Copenhagen actually
    proved to be. At all events, from whatever mingling of motives, he
    put the heroic theme aside for two years, while he kept to the key
    of lyrical romanticism not only in the _Feast at Solhoug_, written
    in the summer of 1855, but also in the very feeble _Olaf
    Liliekrans_, conceived much earlier, but written in 1856. Not until
    he had left Bergen behind him and returned to Christiania in the
    summer of 1857, did the poet take up again, and rapidly work out,
    the theme of _The Vikings_. It is almost inconceivable that only a
    year should have intervened between it and _Olaf Liliekrans_.

    Paul Botten-Hansen, perhaps Ibsen’s closest friend of those days,
    has stated that _The Vikings_ was begun in verse. If so, the metre
    chosen was probably the twelve-syllable measure of Oehlenschläger’s
    _Balder’s Death_, supposed to represent the iambic trimeter of the
    Greek dramatists. In an essay _On the Heroic Ballad_, written in
    Bergen in the early months of 1857, Ibsen had condemned, as a medium
    for the treatment of Scandinavian themes, the iambic deca-syllable
    (our blank verse) in which Oehlenschläger had written most of his
    plays, and which Ibsen himself had adopted in his early imitation of
    Oehlenschläger, _The Hero’s Grave_. Blank verse Ibsen regarded as
    “entirely foreign” to Norwegian-Danish prosody, and, moreover, a
    product of Christian influences; whereas pagan antiquity, if treated
    in verse at all, ought to be treated in the pagan measure of the
    Greeks. At the same time we find him expressing a doubt whether
    Oehlenschläger’s _Hakon Jarl_ might not have been just as poetic in
    prose as in verse—a doubt which clearly shows in what direction his
    thoughts were turning. It must be regarded as a great mercy that he
    abandoned the iambic trimeter, which, in Oehlenschläger’s hands, was
    nothing but an unrhymed Alexandrine with the cæsura displaced.

    This same essay _On the Heroic Ballad_ throws a curious light on the
    difficulties which occasioned the long delay between the conception
    and the execution of _The Vikings_. He lays it down that “the heroic
    ballad is much better fitted than the saga for dramatic treatment.
    The saga is a great, cold, rounded and self-contained epos,
    essentially objective, and exclusive of all lyricism.... If, now,
    the poet is to extract a dramatic work from this epic material, he
    must necessarily bring into it a foreign, a lyrical, element; for
    the drama is well known to be a higher blending of the lyric and the
    epos.” This “well-known” dogma he probably accepted from the German
    æstheticians with whom, about this time, he seems to have busied
    himself. A little further on, he adds that the accommodating prosody
    of the ballads gives room for “many freedoms which are of great
    importance to dramatic dialogue,” and consequently prophesies a
    great future for the drama drawn from this source. It was a luckless
    prophecy. He himself, though apparently he little guessed it, had
    done his last work in lyrical romance; and though it has survived,
    sporadically, in Danish and even in German literature, it can count
    but few masterpieces during the past half-century. Perhaps, however,
    Hauptmann’s _Sunken Bell_ might be taken as justifying Ibsen’s
    forecast.[1]

    It must have been very soon after this essay was published (May
    1857) that Ibsen discovered how to impose dramatic form upon the
    epic material of the sagas, without dragging in any foreign lyrical
    element. He suddenly saw his way, it would seem, to reproducing in
    dialogue the terse, unvarnished prose of the sagas themselves,
    eloquent in reticence rather than in rhetorical or lyrical
    abundance.

    Had he, or had he not, in the meantime read Björnson’s one-act play,
    _Between the Battles_? It was not produced until October 27, 1857,
    by which time _The Vikings_ must have been almost, if not quite,
    finished. But Ibsen may have seen it in manuscript several months
    earlier, and it may have put him on the track of the form in which
    to cast his saga-material. The style of _The Vikings_ is
    incomparably firmer, purer, more homogeneous and clear-cut than that
    of _Between the Battles_; but Björnson’s mediæval comedietta (it is
    really little more) may quite well have given Ibsen a valuable
    impulse towards the adaptation of the saga-style to drama. The
    point, however, is of little moment. It is much more important to
    note that while Ibsen was writing _The Vikings_ Björnson was writing
    his peasant-idyll _Synnöve Solbakken_; so that these two
    corner-stones of modern Norwegian literature were laid, to all
    intents and purposes, simultaneously.

    In an autobiographic letter to Peter Hansen,[2] written in 1870,
    Ibsen mentions this play very briefly: “_The Vikings at Helgeland_ I
    wrote whilst I was engaged to be married. For Hiördis I had the same
    model as I took afterwards for Svanhild in _Love’s Comedy_.” More
    noteworthy is his preface to a German translation of the play,
    published in 1876. It runs as follows:

    “In issuing a German translation of one of my earlier dramatic
    works, it may not be superfluous to remark that I have taken the
    material of this play, not from the _Nibelungenlied_, but in
    part—and in part only—from a kindred Scandinavian source, the
    _Volsung-Saga_. More essentially, however, my poem may be said to be
    founded upon the various Icelandic family-sagas, in which it often
    seems that the titanic conditions and occurrences of the
    _Nibelungenlied_ and the _Volsung-Saga_ have simply been reduced to
    human dimensions. Hence I think we may conclude that the situations
    and events depicted in these two documents were typically
    characteristic of our common Germanic life in the earliest
    historical times. If this view be justified, it disposes of the
    reproach that in the present drama our national mythic world is
    brought down to a lower plane than that to which it belongs. The
    idealised, and in some degree impersonal, myth-figures are
    exceedingly ill-adapted for representation on the stage of to-day;
    and, however this may be, it was not my aim to present our mythic
    world, but simply our life in primitive times.”

    The reasoning of this passage does not seem very cogent; but it
    expresses clearly enough the design which the poet proposed to
    himself. Before discussing the merits of the play, however, I may as
    well complete the outline of its external history.

    Part of that external history is written by Ibsen himself, in
    letters to the Christiania Press of the day. In the autumn of 1857,
    he presented the play to the Christiania Theatre, then occupied by a
    Danish company, under Danish management. After a long delay, he
    ascertained that it had been accepted and would be produced in March
    1858. He then proposed to consult with the manager as to the casting
    of the piece, but found that that functionary had no clear
    conception of either the plot or the characters, and therefore left
    him a couple of months in which to study it. At the end of that time
    the poet again reminded the potentate of his existence, and learned
    that “since the economic status and prospects of the theatre did not
    permit of its paying fees for original works,” the proposed
    production could not take place. Ibsen hints that, had the choice
    been offered him, he would have consented to the performance of the
    piece without fee or reward. As the choice was not offered him, he
    regarded the whole episode as a move in the anti-national policy of
    the Danish management; and the controversy which arose out of the
    incident doubtless contributed to the nationalisation of the
    Christiania Theatre—the supersession of Danish by Norwegian
    managers, actors and authors—which took place during the succeeding
    decade.

    In the meantime, almost simultaneously with the rejection of the
    play by the Christiania Theatre, it was rejected by the Royal
    Theatre in Copenhagen. The director, J. L. Heiberg, was then
    regarded as an autocrat in the æsthetic world; and his report on
    _The Vikings_ is now a curiosity of literature. He declared that
    nothing was so “monotonous, tiresome and devoid of all poetry” as
    the Icelandic family-sagas; he could not endure their “wildness and
    rawness” on the stage; the saga style, as reproduced by Ibsen,
    seemed to him “mannered and affected”; and he concluded his judgment
    in these terms: “A Norwegian theatre will scarcely take its rise
    from such experiments, and the Danish theatre has fortunately no
    need for them.”

    The play was published in April 1858 as a supplement to a
    Christiania illustrated paper, the author receiving an “honorarium”
    of something less than £7. On November 24, 1858, it was produced at
    the little “Norwegian Theatre” in Christiania, of which the poet was
    then director. At the Bergen Theatre it was produced in 1859, at the
    Christiania Theatre (by that time pretty well Norwegianised) in
    1861. It did not make its way to Copenhagen and Stockholm until
    1875. In 1876 it was acted at the Court Theatres of Munich and
    Dresden, and at the Vienna Burgtheater. Thenceforward it was pretty
    frequently seen on the German stage; but it does not seem to have
    reached Berlin (Deutsches Theater) until 1890. In 1892 it was
    produced in Moscow. The only production in the English language of
    which any account has reached me took place in 1903 at the Imperial
    Theatre, London, when Miss Ellen Terry appeared as Hiördis and Mr.
    Oscar Asche as Sigurd. The scenery and dresses were designed by Miss
    Terry’s son, Mr. Gordon Craig.

    It would need not merely an essay, but a volume, to discuss the
    relation of _The Vikings_ to its mythic material, and to other
    modern treatments of that material—Friedrich Hebbel’s _Die
    Nibelungen_, Richard Wagner’s _Ring der Nibelungen_, &c. The poet’s
    actual indebtedness to the _Volsung-Saga_ is well summarised by
    Henrik Jæger in his “Life of Ibsen”: “Like Sigurd Fafnir’s-bane,” he
    says, “Sigurd Viking has achieved the deed which Hiördis (Brynhild)
    demands of the man who shall wed her; and, again like his heroic
    namesake, he has renounced her in favour of his foster-brother,
    Gunnar, himself taking another to wife. This other woman reveals the
    secret in the course of an altercation with Hiördis (Brynhild), who,
    in consequence of this discovery, brings about Sigurd’s death and
    her own. The reader will observe that we must keep to very general
    terms if they are to fit both the saga and the drama. Are there any
    further coincidences? Yes, one. After Gudrun has betrayed the
    secret, there comes a scene in which she seeks to appease Brynhild,
    and begs her to think no more of it; then follows a scene in which
    Sigurd explains to Brynhild how it all happened; and finally a scene
    in which Brynhild goads Gunnar to kill Sigurd. All these scenes have
    their parallels in the third act of _The Vikings_; but their order
    is different, and none of their wording has been adopted.” From the
    family-sagas, again, not only the stature of the characters, so to
    speak, but several details of incident and dialogue are borrowed.
    The boasting-match at Gunnar’s feast, which, as we have seen, was
    one of the first elements of the story to present itself to Ibsen’s
    mind, has many analogies in Icelandic lore. Örnulf’s questions as to
    how Thorolf fell are borrowed from _Egils Saga_, and so is the idea
    of his “drapa,” or funeral chant over his dead sons. Sigurd and
    Hiördis are, perhaps, almost as closely related to Kiartan and
    Gudrun in the _Laxdæla Saga_ as to Sigurd Fafnir’s bane and
    Brynhild. Indeed, Ibsen seems to have reckoned too confidently on
    the unfamiliarity of his public with the stores of material upon
    which he drew. Not, of course, that there could be any question of
    plagiarism. The sagas were as legitimately at Ibsen’s service as
    were Plutarch and Holinshed at Shakespeare’s. But having been
    himself, as he tells us, almost ignorant of the existence of these
    sagas until he came across N. M. Petersen’s translation of them he
    forgot that people who had long known and loved them might resent
    the removal of this trait and that from its original setting, and
    might hold it to be, in its new context, degraded and
    sentimentalised. “It may be,” writes H. H. Boyesen, in his generally
    depreciatory remarks on the play, “that my fondness for these sagas
    themselves prevents me from relishing the modification and
    remoulding to which Ibsen has subjected them.” Dr. Brandes, too,
    points to a particular instance in which the sense of degradation
    could not but be felt. The day-dream as to the hair-woven bowstring
    which Hiördis relates to Sigurd in the third act (p. 84) is in
    itself effective enough; but any one who knows the splendid passage
    in _Nials Saga_, on which it is founded, cannot but feel that the
    actual (or at any rate legendary) event is impoverished by being
    dragged in under the guise of a mere morbid fantasy.

    On the whole, I think Ibsen can scarcely escape the charge of having
    sentimentalised the sagas in the same way, though not in the same
    degree, in which Tennyson has sentimentalised the Arthurian legends.
    Indeed, Sigurd the Strong is not without points of resemblance to
    the Blameless King of the _Idylls_. But, for my part, I cannot
    regard this as a very serious charge. _The Vikings_ is the work of a
    man still young (29), who had, moreover, developed very slowly. It
    is still steeped in romanticism, though not in the almost boyish
    lyricism of its predecessors. The poet is not yet intellectually
    mature—very far from it. But here, for the first time, we are
    unmistakably face to face with a great imagination and a
    specifically dramatic endowment of the first order. The germs of
    promise discernible in _Lady Inger_ have ripened into rare technical
    mastery.

    Ibsen was doubtless right in feeling that the superhuman figures of
    the mythical sagas were impossible on the non-musical stage, just as
    Wagner was right in feeling that the world of myth could be embodied
    only in an atmosphere of music. The reduction, then, of the Volsungs
    and Niblungs to the stature of the men of the family-sagas was not
    only judicious, but necessary. But was it judicious to go to the
    myth-sagas for the initial idea of a play which had to be developed
    in terms of the family-sagas? Scarcely, I think. The weak points in
    the structure of the story are precisely those at which the poet has
    had to replace supernatural by natural machinery. To slay a dragon
    and to break through a wall of fire, even with magical aid, are
    exploits which we can accept, on the mythic plane, as truly
    stupendous. But it is impossible to be really impressed by the
    slaying of Hiördis’s bear, or to share in the breathless admiration
    with which that achievement is always mentioned. If the bear is to
    be regarded as a fabulous monster, it might just as well be a dragon
    at once; if it is to be accepted as a real quadruped, the killing of
    it is no such mighty matter. We feel it, in fact, to be a mere
    substitute, a more or less ludicrous makeshift. And in the same way,
    Sigurd’s renunciation of Hiördis becomes very difficult to accept
    when all supernatural agency—magic potion, or other sleight of
    wizardry—is eliminated. We feel that he behaves like a nincompoop in
    despairing of winning her for himself, merely because she does not
    show an obviously “coming on” disposition, and like an immoral
    sentimentalist in handing her over to Gunnar. This, to be sure, is
    the poet’s own criticism of his action. It is the lie which Sigurd
    and Gunnar conspire to tell, or rather to enact, that lies at the
    root of the whole tragedy. We have here Ibsen’s first treatment of
    the theme with which he is afterwards so much concerned—the
    necessity of truth as the basis of every human relation. Gunnar’s
    acquiescence in Sigurd’s heroic mendacity is as clearly condemned
    and punished as, in _Pillars of Society_, Bernick’s acquiescence in
    Johan’s almost equally heroic self-sacrifice. Both plays convey a
    warning against excesses of altruism, and show that we have no right
    to offer sacrifices which the person benefiting by them has no right
    to accept. But to indicate a correct moral judgment of Sigurd’s
    action is not to make it psychologically plausible. We feel, I
    repeat, that the poet is trying in vain to rationalise a series of
    actions which are comprehensible only on the supernatural plane.

    This unreality of plot involved a similar unreality, or at any rate
    extreme simplicity, of characterisation. All the personages are
    drawn in large, obvious traits, which never undergo the smallest
    modification. Sigurd is throughout the magnanimous hero, Dagny the
    submissive, amiable wife, Hiördis the valkyrie-virago, Gunnar the
    well-meaning weakling, not cowardly but inefficient. By far the most
    human and most individual figure is old Örnulf, in whom the spirit
    of the family-sagas is magnificently incarnated. We feel throughout
    the inexperience of the author, his incuriousness of half-tones in
    character, his tendency to view human relations and problems in a
    purely sentimental light. To compare Hiördis with Hedda Gabler,
    Sigurd with Halvard Solness, is to realise what an immeasurable
    process of evolution the poet was destined to go through. Indeed, we
    as yet seem far enough off even from Duke Skule and Bishop Nicholas.

    But the man of inventive imagination and the man of the theatre are
    already here in all their strength. Whatever motives and suggestions
    Ibsen found in the sagas, the construction of the play is all his
    own and is quite masterly. Exposition, development, the carrying on
    of the interest from act to act—all this is perfect in its kind. The
    play is “well-made” in the highest sense of the word. Already the
    poet shows himself consummate in his art of gradually lifting veil
    after veil from the past, and making each new discovery involve a
    more or less striking change in the relations of the persons on the
    stage. But it is not technically alone that the play is great. The
    whole second act is a superbly designed and modulated piece of
    drama; and, for pure nobility and pathos, the scene of Örnulf’s
    return—entirely of the poet’s own invention—is surely one of the
    greatest things in dramatic literature. It is marvellous that even
    æsthetic prejudice should have prevented a man like J. L. Heiberg
    from recognising that he was here in presence of a great poet. The
    interest of the third act is mainly psychological, and the
    psychology, as we have seen, is neither very profound nor very
    convincing. But the fourth act, again, rises to a great height of
    romantic impressiveness. Whatever hints may have come from the
    sagas, the picture of Örnulf’s effort of self-mastery is a very
    noble piece of work; and the plunge into supernaturalism at the
    close, in the child’s vision of Asgårdsreien, with his mother
    leading the rout, seems to me an entirely justified piece of
    imaginative daring. I cannot even agree with Dr. Brandes in
    condemning as “Geheimniskrämerei” Sigurd’s dying revelation of the
    fact that he is a Christian. It seems to me to harmonise entirely
    with the whole sentimental colouring of the play. The worst flaws I
    find in this act are the terrible asides placed in the mouths of
    Gunnar and Dagny after the discovery of Sigurd’s death.

    The word _Vikings_ in the title is a very free rendering of
    _Hærmændene_, which simply means “warriors.” As “warriors,” however,
    is a colourless word, and as Örnulf, Sigurd, and Gunnar all are, or
    have been, actually vikings, the substitution seemed justifiable. I
    would beg, however hopelessly, that “viking” should be pronounced so
    as to rhyme _not_ with “liking” but with “seeking,” or at worst with
    “kicking.” Helgeland, it may be mentioned, is a province or district
    in the north of Norway.

    Örnulf’s “drapa” and his snatches of verse are rhymed as well as
    alliterated in the original. I had the less hesitation in
    suppressing the rhyme, as it was actually foreign to the practice of
    the skalds.

                            THE PRETENDERS.

                               INTRODUCTION.


    Six years elapsed between the composition of _The Vikings_ and that
    of _The Pretenders_.[3] In the interval Ibsen wrote _Love’s Comedy_,
    and brought all the world of Norwegian philistinism, and (as we
    should now say) suburbanism, about his ears. Whereas hitherto his
    countrymen had ignored, they now execrated him. In his
    autobiographic letter of 1870, to Peter Hansen, he wrote: “The only
    person who at that time approved of the book was my wife.... My
    countrymen excommunicated me. All were against me. The fact that all
    were against me—that there was no longer any one outside my own
    family circle of whom I could say ‘He believes in me’—must, as you
    can easily see, have aroused a mood which found its outlet in _The
    Pretenders_.” It is to be noted that this was written during a
    period of estrangement from Björnson. I do not know what was
    Björnson’s attitude towards _Love’s Comedy_ in particular; but there
    can be no doubt that, in general, he believed in and encouraged his
    brother poet, and employed his own growing influence in efforts to
    his advantage. In representing himself as standing quite alone,
    Ibsen probably forgets, for the moment, his relation to his great
    contemporary.

    Yet the relation to Björnson lay at the root of the
    character-contrast on which _The Pretenders_ is founded. Ibsen
    always insisted that each of his plays gave poetic form to some
    motive gathered from his own experience or observation; and this is
    very clearly true of the present play. Ever since _Synnöve
    Solbakken_ had appeared in 1857, Björnson, the expansive, eloquent,
    lyrical Björnson, had been the darling child of fortune. He had gone
    from success to success unwearied. He was recognised throughout
    Scandinavia (in Denmark no less than in Norway) as the leader of the
    rising generation in almost every branch of imaginative literature.
    He was full, not only of inspiration and energy, but of serene
    self-confidence. Meanwhile Ibsen, nearly five years older than he,
    had been pursuing his slow and painful course of development in
    comparative obscurity, in humiliating poverty, and amid almost
    complete lack of appreciation. “Mr. Ibsen is a great cipher” (or
    “nullity”) wrote a critic in 1858; another, in 1863, laid it down
    that “Ibsen has a certain technical and artistic talent, but nothing
    of what can be called ‘genius.’” The scoffs of the critics, however,
    were not the sorest trials that he had to bear. What was hardest to
    contend against was the doubt as to his own poetic calling and
    election that constantly beset him. This doubt could not but be
    generated by the very tardiness of his mental growth. We see him
    again and again (in the case of _Olaf Liliekrans_, of _The Vikings_,
    of _Love’s Comedy_, and of _The Pretenders_ itself), conceiving a
    plan and then abandoning it for years—no doubt because he found
    himself, in one respect or another, unripe for its execution. Every
    such experience must have involved for him days and weeks of
    fruitless effort and discouragement. To these moods of scepticism as
    to his own powers he gave expression in a series of poems (for the
    most part sonnets) published in 1859 under the title of _In the
    Picture Gallery_. In it he represents the “black elf” of doubt,
    whispering to him: “Your soul is like the dry bed of a mountain
    stream, in which the singing waters of poetry have ceased to flow.
    If a faint sound comes rustling down the empty channel, do not
    imagine that it portends the return of the waters—it is only the dry
    leaves eddying before the autumn wind, and pattering among the
    barren stones.” In those years of struggle and stress, of depressing
    criticism, and enervating self-criticism, he must often have
    compared his own lot and his own character with Björnson’s, and
    perhaps, too, wondered whether there were no means by which he could
    appropriate to himself some of his younger and more facile
    brother-poet’s kingly self-confidence. For this relation between two
    talents he partly found and partly invented a historic parallel in
    the relation between two rival pretenders to the Norwegian throne,
    Håkon Håkonsson and Skule Bårdsson.

    Dr. Brandes, who has admirably expounded the personal element in the
    genesis of this play, compares Håkon-Björnson and Skule-Ibsen with
    the Aladdin and Nureddin of Oehlenschläger’s beautiful dramatic
    poem. Aladdin is the born genius, serene, light-hearted, a trifle
    shallow, who grasps the magic lamp with an unswerving confidence in
    his right to it. (“It is that which the Romans called _ingenium_”
    says Bishop Nicholas, “truly I am not strong in Latin; but ’twas
    called _ingenium_.”) Nureddin, on the other hand, is the far
    profounder, more penetrating, but sceptical and self-torturing
    spirit. When at last he seizes Aladdin’s lamp, as Skule annexes
    Håkon’s king’s thought, his knees tremble, and it drops from his
    grasp, just as the Genie is ready to obey him.

    It is needless to cite the passages from the scenes between Skule
    and Bishop Nicholas in the second act, Skule and Håkon in the third,
    Skule and Jatgeir in the fourth, in which this element of personal
    symbolism is present. The reader will easily recognise them, while
    recognising at the same time that their dramatic appropriateness,
    their relevance to the historic situation as the poet viewed it, is
    never for a moment impaired. The underlying meaning is never allowed
    to distort or denaturalise the surface aspect of the picture.[4] The
    play may be read, understood, and fully appreciated, by a person for
    whom this underlying meaning has no existence. One does not point it
    out as an essential element in the work of art, or even as adding to
    its merit, but simply as affording a particularly clear instance of
    Ibsen’s method of interweaving “Wahrheit” with “Dichtung.”

    So early as 1858, soon after the completion of _The Vikings_, Ibsen
    had been struck by the dramatic material in _Håkon Håkonsson’s
    Saga_, as related by Snorri Sturlasson’s nephew, Sturla Thordsson,
    and had sketched a play on the subject. At that time, however, he
    put the draft aside. It was only as the years went on, as he found
    himself “excommunicated” after _Love’s Comedy_, and as the contrast
    between Björnson’s fortune and his became ever more marked, that the
    figures of Skule and Håkon took more and more hold upon his
    imagination. In June 1863, he attended a “Festival of Song” at
    Bergen, and there met Björnson, who had been living abroad since
    1860. Probably under the stimulus of this meeting he set to work
    upon _The Pretenders_ immediately on his return to Christiania, and
    wrote it with almost incredible rapidity. The manuscript went to the
    printers in September; the book was published in October 1863
    (though dated 1864), and the play was produced at the Christiania
    Theatre, under the author’s own supervision, on January 17, 1864.
    The production was notably successful; yet no one seems fully to
    have realised what it meant for Norwegian literature. Outside of
    Norway, at any rate, it awoke no echo. George Brandes declares that
    scarcely a score of copies of the play found their way to Denmark.
    Not until Ibsen had left Norway (April 1864) and had taken the
    Danish reading public by storm with _Brand_ and _Peer Gynt_, did
    people go back upon _The Pretenders_ and discover what an
    extraordinary achievement it was. In January 1871, it was produced
    at the Royal Theatre, Copenhagen, where Emil Poulsen found in Bishop
    Nicholas one of the great triumphs of his career. It was produced by
    the Meiningen Company and at the Munich Hoftheater in 1875, in
    Stockholm in 1879, at the Königliches Schauspielhaus, Berlin, and at
    the Vienna Burgtheater in 1891; and it has from time to time been
    acted at many other Scandinavian and German theatres. The character
    of Nicholas has fascinated many great actors: what a pity that it
    did not come in the way of Sir Henry Irving when he was at the
    height of his power! But of course no English actor-manager would
    dream of undertaking a character which dies in the middle of the
    third act.

    Ibsen’s treatment of history in this play may be proposed as a model
    to other historic dramatists. Although he has invented a great deal,
    his inventions supplement rather than contradict the records.
    Chronology, indeed, he treats with considerable freedom, and at the
    same time with ingenious vagueness. The general impression one
    receives in reading the play is that the action covers a space of
    four or five years; as a matter of fact it covers twenty-two years,
    between the folkmote in Bergen, 1218, and Skule’s death, 1240. All
    the leading characters are historical; and although much is read
    into them which history does not warrant, there is little that
    history absolutely forbids us to conceive. The general features of
    the struggle between the two factions—Håkon’s Birkebeiner, or
    Birchlegs, and Skule’s Vargbælgs—are correctly enough reproduced. In
    his treatment of this period, the Norwegian historian, J. E. Sars,
    writing thirteen years after the appearance of _The Pretenders_,
    uses terms which might almost have been suggested by Ibsen’s play.
    “On the one side,” he says, “we find strength and certainty, on the
    other lameness and lack of confidence. The old Birchlegs[5] go to
    work openly and straightforwardly, like men who are immovably
    convinced of the justice of their cause, and unwaveringly assured of
    its ultimate victory. Skule’s adherents, on the other hand, are ever
    seeking by intrigues and chicanery to place stumbling-blocks in the
    way of their opponents’ enthusiasm.” Håkon represented Sverre’s
    ideal of a democratic kingship, independent of the oligarchy of
    bishops and barons. “He was,” says Sars, “reared in the firm
    conviction of his right to the Throne; he grew up among the veterans
    of his grandfather’s time, men imbued with Sverre’s principles, from
    whom he accepted them as a ready-made system, the realisation of
    which could only be a question of time. He stood from the first in a
    clear and straightforward position to which his whole personality
    corresponded.... He owed his chief strength to the repose and
    equilibrium of mind which distinguished him, and had its root in his
    unwavering sense of having right and the people’s will upon his
    side.” His great “king’s-thought,” however, seems to be an invention
    of the poet’s. Skule, on the other hand, represented the old
    nobility in its struggle against the new monarchy. “He was the
    centre of a hierarchic aristocratic party; but after its repeated
    defeats this party must have been lacking alike in number and in
    confidence.... It was clear from the first that his attempt to
    reawaken the old wars of the succession in Norway was undertaken in
    the spirit of the desperate gambler, who does not count the chances,
    but throws at random, in the blind hope that luck may befriend
    him.... Skule’s enterprise had thus no support in opinion or in any
    prevailing interest, and one defeat was sufficient to crush him.”

    In the character of Bishop Nicholas, too, Ibsen has widened and
    deepened his historical material rather than poetised with a free
    hand. “Bishop Nicholas,” says Sars, “represented rather the
    aristocracy ... than the cloth to which he belonged. He had begun
    his career as a worldly chieftain, and, as such, taken part in
    Magnus Erlingsson’s struggles with Sverre; and although he must have
    had some tincture of letters, since he could contrive to be elected
    a bishop ... there is no lack of indications that his spiritual lore
    was not of the deepest. During his long participation in the civil
    broils, both under Sverre and later, we see in him a man to whose
    character any sort of religious or ecclesiastical enthusiasm must
    have been foreign, his leading motives being personal ambition and
    vengefulness rather than any care for general interests—a cold and
    calculating nature, shrewd but petty and without any impetus, of
    whom Håkon Håkonsson, in delivering his funeral speech ... could
    find nothing better to say than that he had not his equal in worldly
    wisdom (_veraldar vit_).” I cannot find that the Bishop played any
    such prominent part in the struggle between the King and the Earl as
    Ibsen assigns to him, and the only foundation for the great
    death-bed scene seems to be the following passage from _Håkon
    Håkonsson’s Saga_, Cap. 138: “As Bishop Nicholas at that time lay
    very sick, he sent a messenger to the King praying him to come to
    him. The King had on this expedition seized certain letters, from
    which he gathered that the Bishop had not been true to him. With
    this he upbraided him, and the Bishop, confessing it, prayed the
    King to forgive him. The King replied that he did so willingly, for
    God’s sake; and as he could discern that the Bishop lay near to
    death, he abode with him until God called him from the world.”

    In the introduction to _The Vikings at Helgeland_ I have suggested
    that in that play Ibsen had reached imaginative and technical
    maturity, but was as yet intellectually immature. The six years that
    elapsed between _The Vikings_ and _The Pretenders_ placed him at the
    height of his intellectual power. We have only to compare Skule,
    Håkon, and Bishop Nicholas with Gunnar, Sigurd, and Örnulf to feel
    that we have passed from nobly-designed and more or less animated
    waxworks to complex and profoundly-studied human beings. There is no
    Hiördis in _The Pretenders_, and the female character-drawing is
    still controlled by purely romantic ideals;[6] but how exquisitely
    human is Margrete in comparison with the almost entirely
    conventional Dagny! The criticism of life, too, which in _The
    Vikings_ is purely sentimental, here becomes intense and searching.
    The only point of superiority in _The Vikings_—if it be a point of
    superiority—is purely technical. The action of the earlier play is
    concentrated and rounded. It has all the “unity,” or “unities,” that
    a rational criticism can possibly demand. In a word, it is, in form
    as well as essence, an ideal tragedy. _The Pretenders_, on the other
    hand, is a chronicle-play, far more close-knit than Shakespeare’s or
    Schiller’s works in that kind, but, nevertheless, what Aristotle
    would call “episodic” in its construction. The weaving of the plot,
    however, is quite masterly, betokening an effort of invention and
    adjustment incomparably greater than that which went to the making
    of _The Vikings_. It was doubtless his training in the school of
    French intrigue that enabled Ibsen to depict with such astonishing
    vigour that master wire-puller, Bishop Nicholas. This form of
    technical dexterity he was afterwards to outgrow and bring into
    disrepute. But from _The Vikings_ to _Pillars of Society_ he
    practised, whenever he was writing primarily for the stage, the
    methods of the “well-made play”; and in everything but
    concentration, which the very nature of the subject excluded, _The
    Pretenders_ is thoroughly “well-made.”

    With this play, though the Scandinavian criticism of 1864 seems to
    have been far from suspecting the fact, Ibsen took his place among
    the great dramatists of the world. In wealth of characterisation,
    complexity and nobility of emotion, and depth of spiritual insight,
    it stands high among the masterpieces of romantic drama. It would be
    hard to name a more vigorous character-projection than that of
    Bishop Nicholas, or any one dramatic invention more superbly
    inspired than the old man’s death scene, with the triumphant
    completion of his _perpetuum mobile_. But even if the Bishop were
    entirely omitted, the play would not be _Hamlet_ without the Prince
    of Denmark. The characters of Håkon and Skule, and the struggle
    between them, would still make one of the greatest historic dramas
    in literature.

    It has not been generally noticed, I think, that Ibsen found in
    Björnson’s _King Sverre_, published in 1861, a study of Bishop
    Nicholas in his younger days. The play, as a whole, is a poor one,
    and does not appear in the collected edition of Björnson’s works;
    but there is distinct merit in the drawing of the Bishop’s
    character. Furthermore, it ought to be remembered that _The
    Pretenders_ was not the first work, or even the first great work, of
    its class in Norwegian literature. In 1862, Björnson had published
    his splendid trilogy of _Sigurd Slembe_, which, though more fluid
    and uneven than _The Pretenders_, contains several passages of
    almost Shakespearean power. It was certainly greater than anything
    Ibsen had done up to that date. Ibsen reviewed it on its appearance,
    in terms of unmixed praise, yet, as one cannot but feel, rather
    over-cautiously.

    If anything could excuse the coolness of Norwegian criticism towards
    _The Pretenders_, it was the great and flagrant artistic blemish of
    the Ghost Scene in the last act. This outburst of prophetico-topical
    satire is a sheer excrescence on the play, indefensible, but, at the
    same time, fortunately negligible. It is, however, of interest as a
    symptom of Ibsen’s mood in the last months before he left Norway,
    and also as one of the links in that chain which binds all his works
    together. Just as Skule’s attempt to plagiarise Håkon’s
    king’s-thought points backwards to Gunnar’s moral lapse in taking
    advantage of the fraud on Hiördis, so the ironic rhymes of the
    Bagler-Bishop’s ghost point forwards to the lyric indignation and
    irony of _Brand_ and _Peer Gynt_.

                                                               W. A.

-----

Footnote 1:

      Though he himself wrote no more plays in the key of _The Feast at
      Solhoug_, the “accommodating prosody” of the ballads had doubtless
      its influence on the metres of _Peer Gynt_.

Footnote 2:

      _Correspondence_, Letter 74.

Footnote 3:

      The original title _Kongsemnerne_ might be more literally
      translated “The Scions of Royalty.” It is rendered by Brandes in
      German “Königsmaterie,” or “the stuff from which kings are made.”

Footnote 4:

      This remark does not apply, of course, to the satiric “parabasis”
      uttered by the Bishop’s ghost in the fifth act. That is a totally
      different matter.

Footnote 5:

      The followers of Håkon’s grandfather, King Sverre. See Note, p.
      125.

Footnote 6:

      On page 277 will be found a reference to Brandes’s _Ibsen and
      Björnson_; but I may as well give here the substance of the
      passage. In the original form of the play, three speeches of
      Ingeborg’s, in her scene with Skule, ran as follows: “It is man’s
      right to forget,” “It is woman’s happiness to remember,” and “To
      have to sacrifice all and be forgotten, that is woman’s saga.” It
      was only on Brandes’s remonstrance that Ibsen substituted the
      present form of these speeches, in which they became, not the
      generalised expression of an ideal, but merely utterances of
      Ingeborg’s individual character.




                                  THE
                          VIKINGS AT HELGELAND

                                   (1858)

                              CHARACTERS.

    ÖRNULF OF THE FIORDS, _an Icelandic Chieftain._
    SIGURD THE STRONG, _a Sea-King._
    GUNNAR HEADMAN,[7] _a rich yeoman of Helgeland._
    THOROLF, _Örnulf’s youngest son._
    DAGNY, _Örnulf’s daughter._
    HIÖRDIS, _his foster-daughter._
    KÅRE THE PEASANT, _a Helgeland-man._
    EGIL, _Gunnar’s son, four years old._
    ÖRNULF’S SIX OLDER SONS.
    ÖRNULF’S AND SIGURD’S MEN.
    _Guests, house-carls, serving-maids, outlaws, etc._

    _The action takes place in the time of Erik Blood-axe (about 933_
    A.D.) _at, and in the neighbourhood of, Gunnar’s house, on the
    island of Helgeland, in the north of Norway._

    _Pronunciation of Names_: Helgeland=Helgheland; Örnulf=Örnoolf;
    Sigurd=Sigoord; Gunnar=Goonnar; Thorolf=Toorolf; Hiördis=Yördeess;
    Kåre=Koarë; Egil=Ayghil. The letter “ö” as in German.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                    THE
                           VIKINGS AT HELGELAND.

                             PLAY IN FOUR ACTS.


                               ACT FIRST.


    _A rocky coast, running precipitously down to the sea at the back.
          To the left, a boat-house; to the right, rocks and pinewoods.
          The masts of two warships can be seen down in the cove. Far
          out to the right, the sea, dotted with reefs and skerries, on
          which the surf is running high; it is a stormy snow-grey
          winter-day._

    SIGURD _comes up from the ships; he is clad in a white tunic with a
          silver belt, a blue cloak, cross-gartered hose, untanned
          brogues, and a steel cap; at his side hangs a short sword._
          ÖRNULF _comes in sight immediately afterwards, high up among
          the rocks, clad in a dark lamb-skin tunic with a breastplate
          and greaves, woollen stockings, and untanned brogues; over his
          shoulders he has a cloak of brown frieze, with the hood drawn
          over his steel cap, so that his face is partly hidden. He is
          very tall and massively built, with a long white beard, but is
          somewhat bowed by age; his weapons are a round shield, sword,
          and spear._

    SIGURD _enters first, looks around, sees the boat-shed, goes quickly
          up to it, and tries to burst open the door._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Appears among the rocks, starts on seeing_ SIGURD, _seems to
    recognise him, descends and cries:_] Give place, Viking!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Turns, lays his hand on his sword, and answers:_] ’Twere the first
    time if I did!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Thou shalt and must! I need the shelter for my stiff-frozen men.

                                  SIGURD.

    And I for a weary woman!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    My men are worth more than thy women!

                                  SIGURD.

    Then must outlaws be highly prized in Helgeland!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Raising his spear._] Thou shalt pay dear for that word!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Drawing his sword._] Now will it go ill with thee, old man!

            [ÖRNULF _rushes upon him;_ SIGURD _defends himself._

    DAGNY _and some of_ SIGURD’S _men come up from the strand;_ ÖRNULF’S
          _six sons appear on the rocks to the right._

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Who is a little in front, clad in a red kirtle, blue cloak, and
    fur hood, calls down to the ships:_] Up, all Sigurd’s men! My
    husband is fighting with a stranger!

                               ÖRNULF’S SONS.

    Help! Help for our father! [_They descend._

                                  SIGURD.

    [_To his men._] Hold! I can master him alone!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_To his sons._] Let me fight in peace! [_Rushes in upon_ SIGURD.] I
    will see thy blood!

                                  SIGURD.

    First see thine own!

                       [_Wounds him in the arm so that his spear falls._

                                  ÖRNULF.

        A stout stroke, Viking!
              Swift the sword thou swingest,
              keen thy blows and biting;
              Sigurd’s self, the Stalwart,
              stood before thee shame-struck.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Smiling._] Then were his shame his glory!

                               ÖRNULF’S SONS.

    [_With a cry of wonder._] Sigurd himself! Sigurd the Strong!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    But sharper was thy stroke that night thou didst bear away Dagny, my
    daughter.

                                                 [_Casts his hood back._

                            SIGURD AND HIS MEN.

    Örnulf of the Fiords!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Glad, yet uneasy._] My father and my brothers.

                                  SIGURD.

    Stand thou behind me.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Nay, no need. [_Approaching_ SIGURD.] I no sooner saw thee than I
    knew thee, and therefore I stirred the strife; I was fain to prove
    the fame that tells of thee as the stoutest man of his hands in
    Norway. Hereafter let peace be between us.

                                  SIGURD.

    Best if so it could be.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Here is my hand. Thou art a warrior indeed; stouter strokes than
    these has old Örnulf never given or taken.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Seizes his outstretched hand._] Let them be the last strokes given
    and taken between us two; and be thou thyself the judge in the
    matter between us. Art willing?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That am I, and straightway shall the quarrel be healed. [_To the
    others._] Be the matter, then, known to all. Five winters ago came
    Sigurd and Gunnar Headman as vikings to Iceland; they lay in harbour
    close under my homestead. Then Gunnar, by force and craft, carried
    away my foster-daughter, Hiördis; but thou, Sigurd, didst take
    Dagny, my own child, and sailed with her over the sea. For that I
    now doom thee to pay three hundred pieces of silver, and thereby
    shall thy misdeed be atoned.

                                  SIGURD.

    Fair is thy judgment, Örnulf; the three hundred pieces will I pay,
    and add thereto a silken cloak fringed with gold. ’Tis a gift from
    King Æthelstan of England, and better has no Icelander yet borne.

                                   DAGNY.

    Well said, my brave husband; and my father, I thank thee. Now at
    last is my mind at ease.

            [_She presses her father’s and brothers’ hands, and talks
                low to them._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Then thus stands the troth between us; and from this day shall Dagny
    be to the full as honourably regarded as though she had been
    lawfully betrothed to thee, with the good will of her kin.

                                  SIGURD.

    And in me canst thou trust, as in one of thine own blood.

                                  ARNULF.

    That I doubt not, and will forthwith prove thy friendship.

                                  SIGURD.

    Ready shalt thou find me; say, what dost thou crave?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Thy help in rede and deed. I have sailed hither to Helgeland to seek
    out Gunnar Headman and call him to account for the carrying away of
    Hiördis.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Surprised._] Gunnar!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_In the same tone._] And Hiördis—where are they?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    In Gunnar’s homestead, I trow.

                                  SIGURD.

    And it is——?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Not many bow-shots hence; did ye not know?

                                  SIGURD.

    [_With suppressed emotion._] No, truly I have had scant tidings of
    Gunnar since we sailed from Iceland together. While I have wandered
    far and wide and served many outland kings, Gunnar has stayed at
    home. We made the land here at daydawn, storm-driven. I knew,
    indeed, that Gunnar’s homestead lay here in the north, but——

                                   DAGNY.

    [_To_ ÖRNULF.] So _that_ errand has brought thee hither?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That and no other. [_To_ SIGURD.] Our meeting is the work of the
    Mighty Ones above; they willed it so. Had I wished to find thee,
    little knew I where to seek.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Thoughtfully._] True, true!—But concerning Gunnar—tell me, Örnulf,
    art thou minded to go sharply to work, with all thy might, be it for
    good or ill?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That must I. Listen, Sigurd, for thus it stands: Last summer I rode
    to the Council where many honourable men were met. When the
    Council-days were over, I sat in the hall and drank with the men of
    my shire, and the talk fell upon the carrying-away of the women;
    scornful words they gave me, because for all these years I had let
    that wrong rest unavenged. Then, in my wrath, I swore to sail to
    Norway, seek out Gunnar, and crave reckoning or revenge, and never
    again to set foot in Iceland till my claim was made good.

                                  SIGURD.

    Ay, ay, since so it stands, I see well that if need be the matter
    must be pressed home.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    It must; but I shall not crave overmuch, and Gunnar has the fame of
    an honourable man. I am glad, too, that I set forth on this quest;
    the time lay heavy on me in Iceland; out upon the blue waters had I
    grown old and grey, and meseemed that I must fare forth once again
    before I——; well well—Bergthora, my good wife, was dead these many
    years; my elder sons sailed on viking-ventures summer by summer; and
    since Thorolf was growing up——

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Joyfully._] Thorolf is with thee? Where is he?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    On board the ship. [_Points towards the background, to the right._]
    Scarce shalt thou know the boy again, so stout and strong and fair
    has he grown. He will be a mighty warrior, Sigurd; one day he will
    equal thee.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Smiling._] I see it is now as ever: Thorolf stands nearest thy
    heart.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    He is the youngest, and like his mother; therefore it is.

                                  SIGURD.

    But tell me—thy errand to Gunnar—thinkest thou to-day——?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Rather to-day than to-morrow. Fair amends will content me; should
    Gunnar say me nay, then must he abide what may follow.

    KÅRE THE PEASANT _enters hastily from the right; he is clad in a
          grey frieze cloak and low-brimmed felt hat; he carries in his
          hand a broken fence-rail._

                                   KÅRE.

    Well met, Vikings!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Vikings are seldom well met.

                                   KÅRE.

    If ye be honourable men, ye will grant me refuge among you; Gunnar
    Headman’s house-carls are hunting me to slay me.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Gunnar’s?

                                  SIGURD.

    Then hast thou done him some wrong!

                                   KÅRE.

    I have done myself right. Our cattle grazed together upon an island,
    hard by the coast; Gunnar’s men carried off my best oxen, and one of
    them flouted me for a thrall. Then I raised my sword against him and
    slew him.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That was a lawful deed.

                                   KÅRE.

    But this morning his men came in arms against me. By good hap I
    heard of their coming, and fled; but my foemen are on my tracks, and
    short shrift can I look for at their hands.

                                  SIGURD.

    Ill can I believe thee, peasant! In bygone days I knew Gunnar as I
    know myself, and this I wot, that never did he wrong to a peaceful
    man.

                                   KÅRE.

    Gunnar has no part in this wrong-doing; he is in the southland; nay,
    it is Hiördis his wife——

                                   DAGNY.

    Hiördis!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_To himself._] Ay, ay, ’tis like her!

                                   KÅRE.

    I offered Gunnar amends for the thrall, and he was willing; but then
    came Hiördis, and egged her husband on with many scornful words, and
    hindered the peace. Since then has Gunnar gone to the south, and
    to-day——

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Looking out to the left._] Here comes a band of wayfarers towards
    the north. Is it not——?

                                   KÅRE.

    It is Gunnar himself!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Be of good heart; I trow I can make peace between you.

    GUNNAR HEADMAN, _with several men, enters from the left. He is in
          peaceful attire, wearing a brown tunic, cross-gartered hose, a
          blue mantle, and a broad hat; he has no weapon but a small
          axe._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Stops in surprise and uncertainty on seeing the knot of men._]
    Örnulf of the Fiords! Yes, surely——!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Thou seest aright.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Approaching._] Then peace and welcome to thee in my land, if thou
    come in peace.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    If thy will be as mine, there shall be no strife between us.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Standing forward._] Well met, Gunnar!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Gladly._] Sigurd—foster-brother! [_Shakes his hand._] Now truly,
    since thou art here, I know that Örnulf comes in peace. [_To_
    ÖRNULF.] Give me thy hand, greybeard! Thy errand here in the north
    is lightly guessed: it concerns Hiördis, thy foster-daughter.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    As thou sayest; great wrong was done me when thou didst bear her
    away from Iceland without my will.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Thy claim is rightful; what the youth has marred, the man must mend.
    Long have I looked for thee, Örnulf, for this cause; and if amends
    content thee, we shall soon be at one.

                                  SIGURD.

    So deem I too. Örnulf will not press thee over hard.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Warmly._] Nay, Örnulf, didst thou crave her full worth, all my
    goods were not enough!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    I shall go by law and usage, be sure of that. But now another
    matter. [_Pointing to_ KÅRE.] Seest thou yonder man?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Kåre! [_To_ ÖRNULF.] Thou knowest, then, that there is a strife
    between us?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Thy men have stolen his cattle, and theft must be atoned.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Murder no less; he has slain my thrall.

                                   KÅRE.

    Because he flouted me.

                                  GUNNAR.

    I have offered thee terms of peace.

                                   KÅRE.

    But Hiördis had no mind to that, and this morning, whilst thou wert
    gone, she fell upon me and now hunts me to my death.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Angrily._] Sayest thou true? Has she——?

                                   KÅRE.

    True, every word.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Therefore the peasant besought me to stand by him, and that will I
    do.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_After a moment’s thought._] Thou hast dealt honourably with me,
    Örnulf; therefore it is fit that I should yield to thy will. Hear
    then, Kåre: I am willing to let the slaying of the thrall and the
    wrongs done toward thee quit each other.

                                   KÅRE.

    [_Gives_ GUNNAR _his hand._] It is a good offer; I am content.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    And he shall have peace for thee and thine?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Peace shall he have, both at home and where soever he may go.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Pointing to the right._] See yonder!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Disturbed_.] It is Hiördis!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    With armed men!

                                   KÅRE.

    She is seeking me!

    HIÖRDIS _enters, with a troop of house-carls. She is clad in black,
          wearing a kirtle, cloak, and hood; the men are armed with
          swords and axes; she herself carries a light spear._

                                  HIÖRDIS

    [_Stops on entering._] We meet here in force, meseems.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Rushes to meet her._] Peace and joy to thee, Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Coldly._] I thank thee.—’Twas told me thou wert not far off.
    [_Comes forward, looking sharply at those assembled._] Gunnar,
    and—Kåre, my foeman—Örnulf and his sons, and——[_As she catches sight
    of_ SIGURD, _she starts almost imperceptibly, is silent a moment,
    but collects herself and says:_] Many I see here who are known to
    me—but little I know who is best minded towards me.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    We are all well-minded towards thee.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    If so be, thou wilt not deny to give Kåre into my husband’s hands.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    There is no need.

                                  GUNNAR.

    There is peace and friendship between us.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With suppressed scorn._] Friendship? Well well, I know thou art a
    wise man, Gunnar! Kåre has found mighty friends, and doubtless thou
    deem’st it safest——

                                  GUNNAR.

    Thy taunts avail not! [_With dignity._] Kåre is at peace for us!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Restraining herself._] Well and good; if thou hast sworn him
    peace, the vow must be held.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Forcibly, but without anger._] It must and it shall.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_To_ HIÖRDIS.] Another pact had been well-nigh made ere thy coming.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Sharply._] Between thee and Gunnar?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Nods._] It had to do with thee.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Well can I guess what it had to do with; but this I tell thee,
    foster-father, never shall it be said that Gunnar let himself be
    cowed because thou camest in arms to the isle. Hadst thou come
    alone, a single wayfarer, to our hall, the quarrel had more easily
    been healed.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Örnulf and his sons come in peace.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Mayhap; but will it sound otherwise in the mouths of men; and thou
    thyself, Gunnar, didst show scant trust in the peace yesterday, in
    sending our son Egil to the southland so soon as it was told us that
    Örnulf’s warship lay in the fiord.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_To_ GUNNAR.] Didst thou send thy son to the south?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Ay, that he might be in safety should Örnulf fall upon us.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Scoff not at that, Hiördis; what Gunnar has done may prove wise in
    the end, if so be thou hinder the pact.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Life must take its chance; come what will, I had liever die than
    save my life by a shameful pact.

                                   DAGNY.

    Sigurd makes atonement, and will not be deemed the lesser man for
    that.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Sigurd best knows what his own honour can bear.

                                  SIGURD.

    On that score shall I never need reminding.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Sigurd has done famous deeds, but bolder than all was Gunnar’s deed,
    when he slew the white bear that guarded my bower.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_With an embarrassed glance at_ SIGURD.] Nay, nay, no more of that!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    In truth it was the boldest deed that e’er was seen in Iceland; and
    therefore——

                                  SIGURD.

    The more easily can Gunnar yield, and ne’er be held faint-hearted.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    If amends are to be made, amends shall be craved as well. Bethink
    thee, Gunnar, of thy vow!

                                  GUNNAR.

    That vow was ill bethought; wilt thou hold me to it?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    That will I, if we two are to dwell under one roof after this day.
    Know then, Örnulf, that if atonement is to be made for the carrying
    away of thy foster-daughter, thou, too, must atone for the slaying
    of Jökul my father, and the seizing of all his goods and gear.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Jökul was slain in fair fight;[8] thy kinsmen did me a worse wrong
    when they sent thee to Iceland and beguiled me into adopting[9]
    thee, unwitting who thou wert.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Honour, and no wrong, was thy lot in fostering Jökul’s daughter.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Nought but strife hast thou brought me, that I know.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Sterner strife may be at hand, if——

                                  ÖRNULF.

    I came not hither to bandy words with women!—Gunnar, hear my last
    word: art willing to make atonement?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_To_ GUNNAR.] Think of thy vow!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_To_ ÖRNULF.] Thou hearest, I have sworn a vow, and that must I——

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Irritated._] Enough, enough! Never shall it be said that I made
    atonement for slaying in fair fight.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Forcibly._] Then we defy thee and thine.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_In rising wrath._] And who has the right to crave atonement for
    Jökul? Where are his kinsmen? There is none alive! Where is his
    lawful avenger?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    That is Gunnar, on my behalf.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Gunnar! Ay, hadst thou been betrothed to him with thy
    foster-father’s good-will, or had he made atonement for carrying
    thee away, then were he thy father’s lawful avenger; but——

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Apprehensive and imploring._] Father, father!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Quickly._] Speak it not!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Raising his voice._] Nay, loudly shall it be spoken! A woman
    wedded by force has no lawful husband!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Vehemently._] Örnulf!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_In a wild outburst._] Flouted and shamed! [_In a quivering
    voice._] This—this shalt thou come to rue!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Continuing._] A woman wedded by force is in law no more than a
    leman! Wilt thou regain thine honour, then must thou——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Controlling herself._] Nay, Örnulf, I know better what is fitting.
    If I am to be held as Gunnar’s leman—well and good, then must he win
    me honour by his deeds—by deeds so mighty that my shame shall be
    shame no more! And thou, Örnulf, beware! Here our ways part, and
    from this day shall I make war at all times upon thee and thine;
    thou shalt know no safety for life or limb, thou, nor any whom
    thou——[_Looking fiercely at_ KÅRE.] Kåre! Örnulf has stood thy
    friend, forsooth, and there is peace between us; but I counsel thee
    not to seek thy home yet awhile; the man thou slewest has many
    avengers, and it well might befall——See, I have shown thee the
    danger; thou must e’en take what follows. Come, Gunnar, we must gird
    ourselves for the fight. A famous deed didst thou do in Iceland, but
    greater deeds must be done here, if thou wouldst not have thy—thy
    leman shrink with shame from thee and from herself!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Curb thyself, Hiördis; it is unseemly to bear thee thus!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Imploringly._] Stay, foster-sister—stay; I will appease my father.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Without listening to her._] Homewards, homewards! Who could have
    foretold me that I should wear out my life as a worthless leman? But
    if I am to bear this life of shame, ay, even for one day more, then
    must my husband do such a deed—such a deed as shall make his name
    more famous than all other names of men.

                                               [_Goes out to the right._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Softly._] Sigurd, promise me this, that we shall have speech
    together ere thou leave the land.

                                  [_Goes out with his men to the right._

            [_The storm has meanwhile ceased; the mid-day sun is now
                visible, like a red disc, low upon the rim of the sea._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Threateningly._] Thou shalt pay dear for this day’s work,
    foster-daughter!

                                   DAGNY.

    Father, father! Surely thou wilt not harm her!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Let me be! Now, Sigurd, now can no amends avail between Gunnar and
    me.

                                  SIGURD.

    What thinkest thou to do?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That I know not; but far and wide shall the tale be told how Örnulf
    of the Fiords came to Gunnar’s hall.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_With quiet determination._] Maybe; but this I tell thee, Örnulf,
    thou shalt never bear arms against him so long as I am alive.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    So, so! And what if nought else be my will?

                                  SIGURD.

    It shall not be—let thy will be never so strong.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Angrily._] Go then; join thou with my foes; I dare outface the
    twain of you!

                                  SIGURD.

    Hear me out, Örnulf; the day shall never dawn that shall see thee
    and me at strife. There is honourable peace between us, Dagny is
    dearer to me than weapons or gold, and never shall I forget that
    thou art her nearest kinsman.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    There I know thee again, brave Sigurd!

                                  SIGURD.

    But Gunnar is my foster-brother; we have sworn each other faith and
    friendship. Both in war and peace have we faced fortune together,
    and of all men he is dearest to me. Stout though he be, he loves not
    war;—but as for me, ye know, all of you, that I shrink not from
    strife; yet here I stand forth, Örnulf, and pray for peace on
    Gunnar’s behalf. Let me have my will!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    I cannot; I should be a scoff to all brave men, were I to fare
    empty-handed back to Iceland.

                                  SIGURD.

    Thou shalt not fare empty-handed. Here in the cove my two long-ships
    are lying, with all the wealth I have won in my viking-ventures.
    There are many costly gifts from outland kings, good weapons by the
    chestful, and other priceless chattels. Take thou one of the ships;
    choose which thou wilt, and it shall be thine with all it
    contains—be that the atonement for Hiördis, and let Gunnar be at
    peace.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Brave Sigurd, wilt thou do this for Gunnar?

                                  SIGURD.

    For a faithful friend, no man can do too much.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Give half thy goods and gear!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Urgently._] Take the whole, take both my ships, take all that is
    mine, and let me fare with thee to Iceland as the poorest man in thy
    train. What I give, I can win once more; but if thou and Gunnar come
    to strife, I shall never see a glad day again. Now, Örnulf, thy
    answer?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Reflecting._] Two good long-ships, weapons, and other chattels—too
    much gear can no man have; but——[_Vehemently._] No, no!—Hiördis has
    threatened me; I will not! I were dishonoured should I take thy
    goods!

                                  SIGURD.

    Yet listen——

                                  ÖRNULF.

    No, I say! I must fight for my own right, be my fortune what it may.

                                   KÅRE.

    [_Approaching._] Right friendly is Sigurd’s rede, but if thou wilt
    indeed fight thine own battle with all thy might, I can counsel thee
    better. Dream not of atonement so long as Hiördis has aught to say;
    but revenge can be thine if thou wilt hearken to me.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Revenge? What dost thou counsel?

                                  SIGURD.

    Evil, I can well see!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_To_ ÖRNULF.] Oh, do not hear him!

                                   KÅRE.

    Hiördis has declared me an outlaw; she will set snares for my life;
    do thou swear to see me scatheless, and this night will I burn
    Gunnar’s hall and all within it. Is that to thy mind?

                                  SIGURD.

    Dastard!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Quietly._] To my mind? Knowest thou, Kåre, what were more to my
    mind? [_In a voice of thunder._] To hew off thy nose and ears, thou
    vile thrall. Little dost thou know old Örnulf if thou thinkest to
    have his help in such a deed of shame!

                                   KÅRE.

    [_Who has shrunk backwards._] If thou fall not upon Gunnar he will
    surely fall upon thee.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Have I not weapons, and strength to wield them?

                                  SIGURD.

    [_To_ KÅRE.] And now away with thee! Thy presence is a shame to
    honourable men!

                                   KÅRE.

    [_Going off._] Well well, I must shift for myself as best I may. But
    this I tell you: if ye think to deal gently with Hiördis, ye will
    come to rue it. I know her—and I know where to strike her sorest!

                                         [_Goes down towards the shore._

                                   DAGNY.

    He is hatching some revenge. Sigurd, it must be hindered!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Angrily._] Nay, let him do as he will; she is worth no better!

                                   DAGNY.

    That meanest thou not; bethink thee, she is thy foster-child.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Woe worth the day when I took her under my roof! Jökul’s words begin
    to come true.

                                  SIGURD.

    Jökul’s?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Ay, her father’s. When I gave him his death-wound he fell back upon
    the sward, and fixed his eyes on me and sang:

        Jökul’s kin for Jökul’s slayer
        many a woe shall still be weaving;
        Jökul’s hoard whoe’er shall harry
        thence shall harvest little gladness.

    When he had sung that, he was silent awhile, and laughed; and
    thereupon he died.

                                  SIGURD.

    Why should’st thou heed his words?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Who knows? The story goes, and many believe it, that Jökul gave his
    children a wolf’s heart to eat, that they might be fierce and fell;
    and Hiördis has surely had her share, that one can well see.
    [_Breaks off on looking out towards the right._] Gunnar!—Do we two
    meet again!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Enters._] Ay, Örnulf, think of me what thou wilt, but I cannot
    part from thee as thy foe.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    What is thy purpose?

                                  GUNNAR.

    To hold out the hand of peace to thee ere thou depart. Hear me all
    of you: go with me to my homestead, and be my guests as long as ye
    will. We lack not meat or drink or sleeping-room, and there shall be
    no talk of our quarrel either to-day or to-morrow.

                                  SIGURD.

    But Hiördis——?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Yields to my will; she changed her thought on the homeward way, and
    deemed, as I did, that we would soon be at one if ye would but be
    our guests.

                                   DAGNY.

    Yes, yes; let it be so.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Doubtfully._] But I know not if——

                                   DAGNY.

    Gunnar is thy foster-brother; little I know thee if thou say him
    nay.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_To_ SIGURD.] Thou hast been my friend where’er we fared; thou wilt
    not thwart me now!

                                   DAGNY.

    And to depart from the land, leaving Hiördis with hate in her
    heart—no, no, that must we not!

                                  GUNNAR.

    I have done Örnulf a great wrong; until it is made good, I cannot be
    at peace with myself.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Vehemently._] All else will I do for thee, Gunnar, but not stay
    here! [_Mastering himself._] I am King Æthelstan’s sworn henchman,
    and I must be with him in England ere the winter is out.

                                   DAGNY.

    But that thou canst be, none the less!

                                  GUNNAR.

    No man can know what lot awaits him; mayhap this is our last
    meeting, Sigurd, and thou wilt repent that thou didst not stand by
    me to the end.

                                   DAGNY.

    And long will it be ere thou see me glad again, if thou set sail
    to-day.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Determined._] Well, be it so! It shall be as ye will,
    although——But no more of that; here is my hand; I will stay to feast
    with thee and Hiördis.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Shakes his hand._] I knew it, Sigurd, and I thank thee.—And thou,
    Örnulf, say’st thou likewise?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Gruffly._] I shall think upon it. Bitterly has Hiördis galled
    me;—I will not answer to-day.

                                  GUNNAR.

    It is well, old warrior; Sigurd and Dagny will know how to smooth
    thy brow. Now must I prepare the feast; peace be with you the while,
    and well met in my hall. [_Goes out by the right._

                                  SIGURD.

    [_To himself._] Hiördis has changed her thought, said he? Little he
    knows her; I rather deem that she is plotting——[_Interrupting
    himself and turning to his men._] Come, follow me all to the ships;
    good gifts will I choose for Gunnar and his household.

                                   DAGNY.

    Gifts of the best we have. And thou, father—thou shalt have no peace
    for me until thou yield thee.

            _She goes with_ SIGURD _and his men down towards the shore
                at the back._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Yield me? Ay, if there were no women-folk in Gunnar’s house,
    then——Oh, if I but knew where to strike her!—Thorolf, thou here!

                                  THOROLF.

    [_Who has entered hastily._] As thou seest. Is it true that thou
    hast met with Gunnar?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Yes.

                                  THOROLF.

    And art at strife with him?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    H’m—with Hiördis, at least.

                                  THOROLF.

    Then be of good cheer; soon shalt thou be avenged!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Avenged? Who shall avenge me?

                                  THOROLF.

    Listen: as I stood on board the ship, there came a man running, with
    a staff in his hand, and called to me: “If thou be of Örnulf’s
    shipfolk, then greet him from Kåre the Peasant, and say that now
    will I avenge the twain of us.” Thereupon he took a boat and rowed
    away, saying as he passed: “Twenty outlaws are at haven in the
    fiord; with them I fare southward, and ere eventide shall Hiördis be
    childless.”

                                  ÖRNULF.

    He said that! Ha, now I understand; Gunnar has sent his son away;
    Kåre is at feud with him——

                                  THOROLF.

    And now he is rowing southward to slay the boy!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_With sudden resolution._] Up, all! That booty will we fight for!

                                  THOROLF.

    What wilt thou do?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Leave that to me; it shall be I, and not Kåre, that will take
    revenge!

                                  THOROLF.

    I will go with thee!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Nay, do thou follow with Sigurd and thy sister to Gunnar’s hall.

                                  THOROLF.

    Sigurd? Is he in the isle?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    There may’st thou see his warships; we are at one—do thou go with
    him.

                                  THOROLF.

    Among thy foes?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Go thou to the feast. Now shall Hiördis learn to know old Örnulf!
    But hark thee, Thorolf, to no one must thou speak of what I purpose;
    dost hear? to no one!

                                  THOROLF.

    I promise.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Takes his hand and looks at him affectionately._] Farewell then,
    my fair boy; bear thee in courtly wise at the feast-house, that I
    may have honour of thee. Beware of idle babbling; but what thou
    sayest, let it be keen as a sword. Be friendly to those that deal
    with thee in friendly wise; but if thou be taunted, hold not thy
    peace. Drink not more than thou canst bear; but put not the horn
    aside when it is offered thee in measure, lest thou be deemed
    womanish.

                                  THOROLF.

    Nay, be at ease!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Then away to the feast at Gunnar’s hall. I too will come to the
    feast, and that in the guise they least think of. [_Blithely to the
    rest._] Come, my wolf-cubs; be your fangs keen;—now shall ye have
    blood to drink.

            [_He goes off with his elder sons to the right, at the
                back._

    SIGURD _and_ DAGNY _come up from the ships, richly dressed for the
          banquet. They are followed by two men, carrying a chest, who
          lay it down and return as they came._

                                  THOROLF.

    [_Looking out after his father._] Now fare they all forth to fight,
    and I must stay behind; it is hard to be the youngest of the
    house.—Dagny! all hail and greetings to thee, sister mine!

                                   DAGNY.

    Thorolf! All good powers!—thou art a man, grown!

                                  THOROLF.

    That may I well be, forsooth, in five years——

                                   DAGNY.

    Ay, true, true.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Giving him his hand._] In thee will Örnulf find a stout carl, or I
    mistake me.

                                  THOROLF.

    Would he but prove me——!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Smiling._] He spares thee more than thou hast a mind to? Thou wast
    ever well-nigh too dear to him.

                                  SIGURD.

    Whither has he gone?

                                  THOROLF.

    Down to his ship;—go you on; he will follow.

                                  SIGURD.

    I await my men; they are mooring my ships and bringing ashore wares.

                                  THOROLF.

    There must I lend a hand!

                                         [_Goes down towards the shore._

                                  SIGURD.

    [_After a moment’s reflection._] Dagny, my wife, now that we are
    alone, I have that to tell thee which must no longer be hidden.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Surprised._] What meanest thou?

                                  SIGURD.

    There may be danger in this faring to Gunnar’s hall.

                                   DAGNY.

    Danger? Thinkest thou that Gunnar——?

                                  SIGURD.

    Nay, Gunnar is brave and true—yet better had it been that I had
    sailed from the isle without crossing his threshold.

                                   DAGNY.

    Thou makest me fear! Sigurd, what is amiss?

                                  SIGURD.

    First answer me this: the golden ring that I gave thee, where hast
    thou it?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Showing it._] Here, on my arm; thou badest me wear it.

                                  SIGURD.

    Cast it to the bottom of the sea, so deep that none may ever set
    eyes on it again; else may it be the bane of many men!

                                   DAGNY.

    The ring!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_In a low voice._] That night when we bore away the twain of
    you—dost remember?

                                   DAGNY.

    Do I remember!

                                  SIGURD.

    It is of that I would speak.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_In suspense._] What is it? Say on!

                                  SIGURD.

    Thou knowest there had been a feast; thou didst seek thy chamber
    betimes; but Hiördis still sat among the men in the feast-hall. The
    horn went busily round, and many a great vow was sworn. I swore to
    bear away a fair maid with me from Iceland; Gunnar swore the same as
    I, and passed the cup to Hiördis. She grasped it and stood up, and
    vowed this vow, that no warrior should have her to wife, save him
    who should go to her bower, slay the white bear that stood bound at
    the door, and carry her away in his arms.

                                   DAGNY.

    Yes, yes; all this I know!

                                  SIGURD.

    All men deemed that it might not be, for the bear was the fiercest
    of beasts; none but Hiördis might come near it, and it had the
    strength of twenty men.

                                   DAGNY.

    But Gunnar slew it, and by that deed won fame throughout all lands.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_In a low voice._] He won the fame—but—I did the deed!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_With a cry._] Thou!

                                  SIGURD.

    When the men left the feast-hall, Gunnar prayed me to come with him
    alone to our sleeping-place. Then said he: “Hiördis is dearer to me
    than all women; without her I cannot live.” I answered him: “Then go
    to her bower; thou knowest the vow she hath sworn.” But he said:
    “Life is dear to him that loves; if I should assail the bear, the
    end were doubtful, and I am loath to lose my life, for then should I
    lose Hiördis too.” Long did we talk, and the end was that Gunnar
    made ready his ship, while I drew my sword, took Gunnar’s harness
    upon me, and went to the bower.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_With pride and joy._] And thou—thou didst slay the bear!

                                  SIGURD.

    I slew him. In the bower it was dark as under a raven’s wing;
    Hiördis deemed it was Gunnar that sat by her—she was heated with the
    mead—she drew a ring from her arm and gave it to me—it is that thou
    wearest now.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Hesitating._] And thou wast alone that night with Hiördis in her
    bower?

                                  SIGURD.

    My sword lay drawn between us. [_A short pause._] Ere the dawn, I
    bore Hiördis to Gunnar’s ship; she dreamed not of our guile, and he
    sailed away with her. Then went I to thy sleeping-place and found
    thee there among thy women;—what followed, thou knowest; I sailed
    from Iceland with a fair maid, as I had sworn, and from that day
    hast thou stood faithfully at my side whithersoever I have wandered.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Much moved._] My brave husband! And that great deed was thine!—Oh,
    I should have known it; it could have been none else! Hiördis, that
    proud and stately woman, couldst thou have won, yet didst choose me!
    Now wouldst thou be tenfold dearer to me, wert thou not already
    dearer than all the world.

                                  SIGURD.

    Dagny, my sweet wife, now thou knowest all—that need be known. I
    could not but warn thee; for that ring—Hiördis must never see it!
    Wouldst thou do my will, then cast it from thee—into the depths of
    the sea.

                                   DAGNY.

    Nay, Sigurd, it is too dear to me; is it not thy gift? But be at
    ease, I will hide it from every eye, and never shall I breathe a
    word of what thou hast told me.

          THOROLF _comes up from the ships, with_ SIGURD’S _men._

                                  THOROLF.

    All is ready for the feast.

                                   DAGNY.

    Come then, Sigurd—my brave, my noble warrior!

                                  SIGURD.

    Beware, Dagny—beware! With thee it rests now whether this meeting
    shall end in peace or in blood. [_Cheerfully to the others._] Away
    then, to the feast in Gunnar’s hall!

            [_Goes out with_ DAGNY _to the right; the others follow._




                              ACT SECOND.


    _The feast-room in_ GUNNAR’S _house. The entrance-door is in the
          back; smaller doors in the side-walls. In front, on the left,
          the greater high-seat; opposite it, on the right, the lesser.
          In the middle of the floor, a wood fire is burning on a
          built-up hearth. In the background, on both sides of the door,
          are daïses for the women of the household. From each of the
          high-seats, a long table, with benches, stretches backwards,
          parallel with the wall. It is dark outside; the fire lights
          the room._

                HIÖRDIS _and_ DAGNY _enter from the right._

                                   DAGNY.

    Nay, Hiördis, it passes my wit to understand thee. Thou hast shown
    me all the house; I know not what thing thou lackest, and all thou
    hast is fair and goodly;—then why bemoan thy lot?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Cage an eagle and it will bite at the wires, be they of iron or of
    gold.

                                   DAGNY.

    In one thing at least thou art richer than I; thou hast Egil, thy
    little son.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Better no child, than one born in shame.

                                   DAGNY.

    In shame?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Dost thou forget thy father’s saying? Egil is the son of a leman;
    that was his word.

                                   DAGNY.

    A word spoken in wrath—why wilt thou heed it?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Nay, nay, Örnulf was right; Egil is weak; one can see he is no
    freeborn child.

                                   DAGNY.

    Hiördis, how canst thou——?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Unheeding._] Doubt not that shame can be sucked into the blood,
    like the venom of a snake-bite. Of another mettle are the freeborn
    sons of mighty men. I have heard of a queen that took her son and
    sewed his kirtle fast to his flesh, yet he never blinked an eye.
    [_With an evil look._] Dagny, that will I try with Egil!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Horrified._] Hiördis, Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Laughing._] Ha-ha-ha! Dost thou think I meant my words? [_Changing
    her tone._] But, believe me or not as thou wilt, there are times
    when such deeds seem to lure me. Doubtless it is in my blood—for I
    am of the race of the Jötuns,[10] they say.—Come, sit thou here,
    Dagny. Far hast thou wandered in these five long years; tell me,
    thou hast ofttimes been a guest in the halls of kings?

                                   DAGNY.

    Many a time—and chiefly with Æthelstan of England.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    And everywhere thou hast been held in honour, and hast sat in the
    highest seats at the board?

                                   DAGNY.

    Doubtless. As Sigurd’s wife——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Ay, ay—a famous man is Sigurd—though Gunnar stands above him.

                                   DAGNY.

    Gunnar?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    One deed did Gunnar do that Sigurd shrank from. But let that be!
    Tell me, when Sigurd went a-viking and thou with him, when thou
    didst hear the sword-blades sing in the fierce war-game, when the
    blood streamed red on the deck—came there not over thee an
    untameable longing to plunge into the strife? Didst thou not don
    harness and take up arms?

                                   DAGNY.

    Never! How canst thou think it? I, a woman!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    A woman, a woman,—who knows what a woman may do!—But one thing thou
    canst tell me, Dagny, for that thou surely knowest: when a man
    clasps to his breast the woman he loves—is it true that her blood
    burns, that her bosom throbs—that she swoons in a strange ecstasy?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Blushing._] Hiördis, how canst thou——!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Come, tell me——!

                                   DAGNY.

    Surely thou thyself hast known it.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Ay once, and only once; it was that night when Gunnar sat with me in
    my bower; he crushed me in his arms till my byrnie[11] burst, and
    then, then——!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Exclaiming._] What! Sigurd——!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Sigurd? What of Sigurd? I spoke of Gunnar—that night when he bore me
    away——

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Collecting herself._] Yes, yes, I remember.—I know well——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    That was the only time; never, never again! I deemed I was
    bewitched; for that Gunnar could so clasp a woman——[_Stops and looks
    at_ DAGNY.] What ails thee? Methinks thou turnest pale and red!

                                   DAGNY.

    Nay, nay!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Without heeding her._] Aye, the merry viking-raid should have been
    _my_ lot; it had been better for me, and—mayhap for all of us. That
    were life, full and rich life! Dost thou not wonder, Dagny, to find
    me here alive? Art not afraid to be alone with me in the hall, thus
    in the dark? Deem’st thou not that I must have died in all these
    years, and that it is my ghost that stands at thy side?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Painfully ill at ease._] Come—let us go—to the others.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Seizing her by the arm._] No, stay! Seems it not strange to thee,
    Dagny, that any woman can yet live who has spent here five such
    nights?

                                   DAGNY.

    Five nights?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Here in the north each night is a whole winter long. [_Quickly and
    with an altered expression._] Yet the place is fair enough, doubt it
    not! Thou shalt see sights here such as thou hast not seen in the
    halls of the English king. We shall be together as sisters whilst
    thou bidest with me; we shall go down to the sea when the storm
    blows up afresh; thou shalt see the billows racing to the land like
    wild, white-maned horses. And then the whales far out in the offing!
    They dash one against another like steel-clad warriors! Ha, what joy
    to be a witch-wife and ride on a whale’s back—to speed before the
    bark, and wake the storm, and lure men to the deeps with lovely
    songs of sorcery!

                                   DAGNY.

    Fie, Hiördis, how canst thou speak such things!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Canst _thou_ sing sorceries, Dagny?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_With horror._] I!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    I trow thou canst; how else didst thou lure Sigurd to thee?

                                   DAGNY.

    Thy speech is shameful; let me go!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Holding her back._] Because I jest! Nay, hear me to the end!
    Think, Dagny, what it is to sit by the window in the eventide and
    hear the kelpie[12] wailing in the boat-house; to sit waiting and
    listening for the dead men’s ride to Valhal; for their way lies past
    us here in the north. They are the brave men that fell in fight, the
    strong women that did not drag out their lives tamely, like thee and
    me; they sweep through the air in cloud-rack and storm, on their
    black horses, with jangling bells! [_Embraces_ DAGNY, _and presses
    her wildly in her arms._] Ha, Dagny! think of riding the last ride
    on so rare a steed!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Struggling to escape._] Hiördis, Hiördis! Let me go! I will not
    hear thee!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Laughing._] Weak art thou of heart, and easily affrighted.

            GUNNAR _enters from the back, with_ SIGURD _and_ THOROLF.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Now, truly, are all things to my very mind! I have found thee again,
    Sigurd, my brave brother, as kind and true as of old. I have
    Örnulf’s son under my roof, and the old man himself follows speedily
    after; is it not so?

                                  THOROLF.

    So he promised.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Then all I lack is that Egil should be here.

                                  THOROLF.

    ’Tis plain thou lovest the boy, thou namest him so oft.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Truly I love him; he is my only child; and he is like to grow up
    fair and kindly.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    But no warrior.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Nay—that thou must not say.

                                  SIGURD.

    How couldst thou send him from thee——

                                  GUNNAR.

    Would that I had not! [_In an undertone._] But thou knowest, Sigurd,
    he who loves overmuch, takes not always the manliest part.
    [_Aloud._] I had few men in my house, and none could be sure of his
    life when it was known that Örnulf lay in the cove with a ship of
    war.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    One thing I know that ought first to be made safe, life afterwards.

                                  THOROLF.

    And that is——?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Honour and fame among men.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Hiördis!

                                  SIGURD.

    It shall not be said of Gunnar that he has tainted his honour by
    doing this.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Sternly._] No one shall make strife between me and Örnulf’s
    kinsfolk!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Smiling._] Tell me, Sigurd—can thy ship sail with any wind?

                                  SIGURD.

    Ay, when ’tis cunningly steered.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Good! I too will steer my ship cunningly, and make my way whither I
    will.

                                            [_Retires towards the back._

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Whispers, uneasily._] Sigurd, let us hence—this very night!

                                  SIGURD.

    It is too late now; ’twas thou that——

                                   DAGNY.

    Then I held Hiördis dear; but now——; I have heard her speak words I
    shudder to think of.

    SIGURD’S _men, with other guests, men and women, house-carls and
          handmaidens, enter from the back._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_After a short pause, in which greetings and the like are
    exchanged._] Now to the board! My chief guest, Örnulf of the Fiords,
    comes later; so Thorolf promises.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_To the house-folk._] Pass the ale and mead around, that hearts may
    wax merry and tongues may be loosed.

            [GUNNAR _leads_ SIGURD _to the high-seat on the right._
                DAGNY _seats herself on_ SIGURD’S _right,_ HIÖRDIS
                _opposite him, at the other side of the same table._
                THOROLF _is in like manner ushered to a place at the
                other table, and thus sits opposite_ GUNNAR, _who
                occupies the greater high-seat. The others take their
                seats further back._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_After a pause in which they drink with each other and converse
    quietly across the tables._] It seldom chances that so many brave
    men are seated together, as I see to-night in our hall. It were
    fitting, then, that we should essay the old pastime: Let each man
    name the chief of his deeds, that all may judge which is the
    mightiest.

                                  GUNNAR.

    That is an ill custom at a drinking-feast; ’twill oft breed strife.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Little did I deem that Gunnar was afraid.

                                  SIGURD.

    That no one deems; but it were long ere we came to an end, were we
    all to tell of our deeds, so many as we be. Do thou rather tell us,
    Gunnar, of thy journey to Biarmeland; ’tis no small exploit to fare
    so far to the north, and gladly would we hear of it.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    The journey to Biarmeland is chapman’s work, and little worthy to be
    named among warriors. Nay, do thou begin, Sigurd, if thou wouldst
    not have me deem that thou canst ill endure to hear my husband’s
    praise! Say on; name that one of thy deeds which thou dost prize the
    highest.

                                  SIGURD.

    Well, since thou wilt have it so, so must it be. Let it be told,
    then, that I lay a-viking among the Orkneys; there came foemen
    against us, but we swept them from their ships, and I fought alone
    against eight men.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Good was that deed; but wert thou fully armed?

                                  SIGURD.

    Fully armed, with axe, spear, and sword.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Still the deed was good. Now must thou, my husband, name that which
    thou deemest the chief among thy exploits.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Unwillingly._] I slew two berserkers who had seized a
    merchant-ship; and thereupon I sent the captive chapmen home, giving
    them their ship freely, without ransom. The King of England deemed
    well of that deed; he said that I had done honourably, and gave me
    thanks and good gifts.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Nay truly, Gunnar, a better deed than that couldst thou name.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Vehemently._] I will take praise for no other deed! Since last I
    fared from Iceland I have lived at peace and traded in merchandise.
    No word more on this matter!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    If thou thyself wilt hide thy renown, thy wife shall speak.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Peace, Hiördis—I command thee!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Sigurd fought with eight men, being fully armed; Gunnar came to my
    bower in the black night, slew the bear that had twenty men’s
    strength, and yet had but a short sword in his hand.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Violently agitated._] Woman, not a word more!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Softly._] Sigurd, wilt thou endure——?

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Likewise._] Be still!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_To the company._] And now, ye brave men—which is the mightier,
    Sigurd or Gunnar?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Silence!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Loudly._] Speak out; I have the right to crave judgment.

                                AN OLD MAN.

    [_Among the guests._] If the truth be told, then is Gunnar’s deed
    greater than all other deeds of men; Gunnar is the mightiest
    warrior, and Sigurd is second to him.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_With a glance across the table._] Ah, Sigurd, Sigurd, didst thou
    but know——!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Softly._] It is too much—friend though he be!

                                  SIGURD.

    Peace, wife! [_Aloud, to the others._] Ay truly, Gunnar is the most
    honourable of all men; so would I esteem him to my dying day, even
    had he never done that deed; for that I hold more lightly than ye.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    There speaks thy envy, Sigurd Viking!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Smiling._] Mightily dost thou mistake. [_Kindly, to_ GUNNAR,
    _drinking to him across the table._] Hail, noble Gunnar; our
    friendship shall stand fast, whosoever may seek to break it.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    No one, that I wot of, has such a thought.

                                  SIGURD.

    Say not so; I could almost think thou hadst bidden us to the feast
    in the hope to stir up strife.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    That is like thee, Sigurd; now art thou wroth that thou may’st not
    be held the mightiest man at the board.

                                  SIGURD.

    I have ever esteemed Gunnar more highly than myself.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Well, well—second to Gunnar is still a good place, and——[_with a
    side glance at_ THOROLF] had Örnulf been here, he could have had the
    third seat.

                                  THOROLF.

    Then would Jökul, thy father, find a low place indeed; for he fell
    before Örnulf.

            [_The following dispute is carried on, by both parties, with
                rising and yet repressed irritation._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    That shalt thou never say! Örnulf is a skald, and men whisper that
    he has praised himself for greater deeds than he has done.

                                  THOROLF.

    Then woe to him who whispers so loudly that it comes to my ear!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With a smile of provocation._] Wouldst thou avenge it?

                                  THOROLF.

    Ay, so that my vengeance should be told of far and wide.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Then here I pledge a cup to this, that thou may’st first have a
    beard on thy chin.

                                  THOROLF.

    Even a beardless lad is too good to wrangle with women.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    But too weak to fight with men; therefore thy father let thee lie by
    the hearth at home in Iceland, whilst thy brothers went a-viking.

                                  THOROLF.

    It had been well had he kept as good an eye on thee; for then hadst
    thou not left the land an unwedded woman.

                             GUNNAR AND SIGURD.

    Thorolf!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Simultaneously._] Brother!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Softly, and quivering with rage._] Ha! wait—wait!

                                  THOROLF.

    [_Gives_ GUNNAR _his hand._] Be not wroth, Gunnar;—evil words came
    to my tongue; but thy wife goaded me!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Softly and imploringly._] Foster-sister, by any love thou hast
    ever borne me, stir not up strife!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Laughing._] Jests must pass at the feast-board, if the merriment
    is to thrive.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Who has been talking softly to_ THOROLF.] Thou art a brave lad!
    [_Hands him a sword which hangs beside the high-seat._] Here,
    Thorolf, here is a good gift for thee. Wield it well, and let us be
    friends.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Beware how thou givest away thy weapons, Gunnar; men may say thou
    dost part with things thou canst not use!

                                  THOROLF.

    [_Who has meanwhile examined the sword._] Thanks for the gift,
    Gunnar; it shall never be drawn in an unworthy cause.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    If thou wilt keep that promise, then do thou never lend the sword to
    thy brothers.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Continuing._] Neither let it hang on thy father’s wall; for there
    it would hang with base men’s weapons.

                                  THOROLF.

    True enough, Hiördis—for there thy father’s axe and shield have hung
    this many a year.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Mastering herself._] That Örnulf slew my father—that deed is ever
    on thy tongue; but if report speak true, ’twas scarce so honourable
    a deed as thou deemest.

                                  THOROLF.

    Of what report dost thou speak?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Smiling._] I dare not name it, for it would make thee wroth.

                                  THOROLF.

    Then hold thy peace—I ask no better.

    [_Turns from her._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Nay, why should I not tell it? Is it true, Thorolf, that for three
    nights thy father sat in woman’s weed, doing sorceries with the
    witch of Smalserhorn, ere he dared face Jökul in fight?

            [_All rise; violent excitement among the guests._

                         GUNNAR, SIGURD, AND DAGNY.

    Hiördis!

                                  THOROLF.

    [_Bitterly exasperated._] So base a lie has no man spoken of Örnulf
    of the Fiords! Thou thyself hast made it, for no one less venomous
    than thou could dream of such a thing. The blackest crime a man can
    do hast thou laid at my father’s door. [_Throwing the sword away._]
    There, Gunnar, take thy gift again; I can take nought from that
    house wherein my father is reviled.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Thorolf, hear me——!

                                  THOROLF.

    Let me go! But beware both thou and Hiördis; for my father has now
    in his power one whom ye hold dearest of all!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Starting._] Thy father has——!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_With a cry._] What sayest thou?

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Vehemently._] Where is Örnulf?

                                  THOROLF.

    [_With mocking laughter._] Gone southward—with my brothers.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Southward!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Shrieking_.] Gunnar! Örnulf has slain Egil, our son.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Slain!—Egil slain! Then woe to Örnulf and all his race! Thorolf,
    speak out;—is this true?

                                  SIGURD.

    Gunnar, Gunnar—hear me!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Speak out, if thou care for thy life!

                                  THOROLF.

    Thou canst not fright me! Wait till my father comes, he shall plant
    a mark of shame over against Gunnar’s house! And meanwhile, Hiördis,
    do thou cheer thee with these words I heard to-day: “Ere eventide
    shall Gunnar and his wife be childless.”

                                                [_Goes out by the back._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_In agony._] Slain—slain! My little Egil slain.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Wildly._] And thou—dost thou let him go? Let Egil, thy child, lie
    unavenged! Then wert thou the dastard of dastards——!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_As if beside himself._] A sword—an axe! ’Tis the last tidings he
    shall ever bring!

    [_Seizes an axe from one of the bystanders and rushes out._

                                  SIGURD.

    [_About to follow._] Gunnar, hold thy hand!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Holding him back._] Stay, stay! The men will part them; I know
    Gunnar!

            [_A cry from the crowd, which has flocked together at the
                main door._

                             SIGURD AND DAGNY.

    What is it?

                          A VOICE AMONG THE CROWD.

    Thorolf has fallen.

                                  SIGURD.

    Thorolf! Ha, let me go!

                                   DAGNY.

    My brother! Oh, my brother!

            [SIGURD _is on the point of rushing out. At the same moment,
                the crowd parts,_ GUNNAR _enters, and throws down the
                axe at the door._

                                  GUNNAR.

    Now it is done. Egil is avenged!

                                  SIGURD.

    Well for thee if thy hand has not been too hasty.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Mayhap, mayhap; but Egil, Egil, my fair boy!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Now must we arm us, and seek help among our friends; for Thorolf has
    many avengers.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Gloomily._] He will be his own worst avenger; he will be with me
    night and day.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Thorolf got his reward. Kinsmen must suffer for kinsmen’s deeds.

                                  GUNNAR.

    True, true; but this I know, my mind was lighter ere this befell.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    The first night[13] is ever the worst;—when that is over, thou wilt
    heed it no more. Örnulf has sought his revenge by shameful guile; he
    would not come against us in open strife; he feigned to be
    peacefully minded; and then he falls upon our defenceless child! Ha,
    I saw more clearly than ye; well I deemed that Örnulf was
    evil-minded and false; good cause had I to egg thee on against him
    and all his faithless tribe.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Fiercely._] That hadst thou! My vengeance is poor beside Örnulf’s
    crime. He has lost Thorolf, but he has six sons left—and I have
    none—none!

                               A HOUSE-CARL.

    [_Enters hastily from the back._] Örnulf of the Fiords is at hand!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Örnulf!

                          HIÖRDIS AND SEVERAL MEN.

    To arms! to arms!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Simultaneously._] My father!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_As if seized by a foreboding._] Örnulf——! Ah, Gunnar, Gunnar!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Draws his sword._] Up, all my men! Vengeance for Egil’s death!

                 ÖRNULF _enters, with_ EGIL _in his arms._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_With a shriek._] Egil!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    I bring you back little Egil.

                                    ALL.

    [_One to another._] Egil! Egil alive!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Letting his sword fall._] Woe is me! what have I done?

                                   DAGNY.

    Oh, Thorolf, my brother!

                                  SIGURD.

    I knew it! I knew it!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Setting Egil down._] There, Gunnar, hast thou thy pretty boy
    again.

                                   EGIL.

    Father! Old Örnulf would not do me ill, as thou saidst when I went
    away.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_To_ HIÖRDIS.] Now have I atoned for thy father; now surely there
    may be peace between us.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With repressed emotion._] Mayhap!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_As if waking up._] Is it a hideous dream that maddens me!
    Thou—thou bringest Egil home!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    As thou seest; but in truth he has been near his death.

                                  GUNNAR.

    That I know.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    And hast no more joy in his return?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Had he come sooner, I had been more glad. But tell me all that has
    befallen!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That is soon done. Kåre the Peasant was plotting evil against you;
    with other caitiffs he fared southward after Egil.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Kåre! [_To himself._] Ha, now I understand Thorolf’s words!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    His purpose came to my ears; I needs must thwart so black a deed. I
    would not give atonement for Jökul, and, had things so befallen, I
    had willingly slain thee, Gunnar, in single combat—yet I could not
    but save thy child. With my sons, I hasted after Kåre.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Softly._] An accursed deed has here been done.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    When I came up with him, Egil’s guards lay bound; thy son was
    already in thy foemen’s hands, and they would not long have spared
    him. Hot was the fight! Seldom have I given and taken keener
    strokes; Kåre and two men fled inland; the rest sleep safely, and
    will be hard to waken.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_In eager suspense._] But thou—thou, Örnulf——?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Darkly._] Six sons followed me into the fight.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Breathlessly._] But homewards——?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    None.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Appalled._] None! [_Softly._] And Thorolf, Thorolf!

            [_Deep emotion among the bystanders._ HIÖRDIS _shows signs
                of a violent mental struggle;_ DAGNY _weeps silently by
                the high-seat on the right._ SIGURD _stands beside her,
                painfully agitated._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_After a short pause._] It is hard for a many-branching pine to be
    stripped in a single storm. But men die and men live;—hand me a
    horn; I will drink to my sons’ memory. [_One of_ SIGURD’S _men gives
    him a horn._] Hail to you where now ye ride, my bold sons! Close
    upon your heels shall the bronze-gates not clang, for ye come to the
    hall with a great following. [_Drinks, and hands back the horn._]
    And now home to Iceland! Örnulf has fought his last fight; the old
    tree has but one green branch left, and it must be shielded warily.
    Where is Thorolf?

                                   EGIL.

    [_To his father._] Ay, let me see Thorolf! Örnulf says he will carve
    me a ship with many, many warriors aboard.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    I praise all good wights that Thorolf came not with us; for if he
    too—nay, strong though I be, _that_ had been too heavy for me to
    bear. But why comes he not? He was ever the first to meet his
    father; for to both of us it seemed we could not live apart a single
    day.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Örnulf, Örnulf!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_With growing uneasiness._] Ye stand all silent, I mark it now.
    What ails you? Where is Thorolf?

                                   DAGNY.

    Sigurd, Sigurd—this will be the sorest blow to him!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Struggling with himself._] Old man!—No——and yet, it cannot be
    hid——

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Vehemently._] My son! Where is he?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Thorolf is slain!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Slain! Thorolf? Thorolf? Ha, thou liest!

                                  GUNNAR.

    I would give my warmest heart-blood to know him alive!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_To_ ÖRNULF.] Thorolf was himself to blame for what befell; with
    dark sayings he gave us to wit that thou hadst fallen upon Egil and
    slain him;—we had parted half in wrath, and thou hast ere now
    brought death among my kindred. And moreover—Thorolf bore himself at
    the feast like a wanton boy; he brooked not our jesting, and spoke
    many evil things. Not till then did Gunnar wax wroth; not till then
    did he raise his hand upon thy son; and well I wot that he had good
    and lawful ground for that deed.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Calmly._] Well may we see that thou art a woman, for thou usest
    many words. To what end? If Thorolf is slain, then is his saga over.

                                   EGIL.

    If Thorolf is slain, I shall have no warriors.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Nay, Egil—we have lost our warriors now, both thou and I. [_To_
    HIÖRDIS.] Thy father sang:

        Jökul’s kin for Jökul’s slayer
        many a woe shall still be weaving.

    Well hast thou wrought that his words should come true. [_Pauses a
    moment, then turns to one of the men._] Where got he his
    death-wound?

                                  THE MAN.

    Right across his brow.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Pleased._] Ha; that is an honourable wound; he did not turn his
    back. But fell he sideways, or in toward Gunnar’s feet?

                                  THE MAN.

    Half sideways and half toward Gunnar.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That bodes but half vengeance; well well,—we shall see!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Approaching._] Örnulf, I know well that all my goods were naught
    against thy loss; but crave of me what thou wilt——

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Sternly interrupting him._] Give me Thorolf’s body, and let me go!
    Where lies he?

                                  [GUNNAR _points silently to the back._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Takes a step or two, but turns and says in a voice of thunder to_
    SIGURD, DAGNY, _and others who are making as though to follow him,
    sorrowing._] Stay! Think ye Örnulf will be followed by a train of
    mourners, like a whimpering woman? Stay, I say!—I can bear my
    Thorolf alone. [_With calm strength._] Sonless I go; but none shall
    say that he saw me bowed.

                                                  [_He goes slowly out._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With forced laughter._] Ay, let him go as he will; we shall scarce
    need many men to face him should he come with strife again! Now,
    Dagny—I wot it is the last time thy father shall sail from Iceland
    on such a quest!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Indignant._] Oh, shame!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Likewise._] And thou canst mock him—mock him, after all that has
    befallen?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    A deed once done, ’tis wise to praise it. This morning I swore hate
    and vengeance against Örnulf;—the slaying of Jökul I might have
    forgotten—all, save that he cast shame upon my lot. He called me a
    leman; if it _be_ so, it shames me not; for Gunnar is mightier now
    than thy father; he is greater and more famous than Sigurd, thine
    own husband!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_In wild indignation._] There thou errest, Hiördis—and even now
    shall all men know that thou dwellest under a coward’s roof!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Vehemently._] Dagny, beware!

                                  GUNNAR.

    A coward!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With scornful laughter._] Thou pratest senselessly.

                                   DAGNY.

    It shall no longer be hidden; I held my peace till thou didst mock
    at my father and my dead brothers; I held my peace while Örnulf was
    here, lest he should learn that Thorolf fell by a dastard’s hand.
    But now—praise Gunnar nevermore for that deed in Iceland; for Gunnar
    is a coward! The sword that lay drawn between thee and the
    bear-slayer hangs at my husband’s side—the ring thou didst take from
    thy arm thou gavest to Sigurd. [_Takes it off and holds it aloft._]
    Behold it!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Wildly._] Sigurd!

                                 THE CROWD.

    Sigurd! Sigurd did the deed!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Quivering with agitation._] He! he!—Gunnar, is this true?

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_With lofty calm._] It is all true, save only that I am a coward;
    no coward or dastard am I.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Moved._] That art thou not, Gunnar! That hast thou never been!
    [_To the rest._] Away, my men! Away from here!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_At the door, to_ HIÖRDIS.] Who is now the mightiest man at the
    board—my husband, or thine?

                                [_She goes out with Sigurd and his men._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_To herself._] Now have I but one thing left to do—but one deed to
    think upon: Sigurd or I must die!




                               ACT THIRD.

    _The hall in_ GUNNAR’S _house. It is day._

    HIÖRDIS _sits on the bench in front of the smaller high-seat, busy
          twisting a bow-string; on the table lie a bow and some
          arrows._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Pulling at the bow-string._] It is tough and strong; [_With
    a glance at the arrows_] the shaft is both keen and
    well-weighted—[_Lets her hands fall in her lap_] but where is
    the hand that——! [_Vehemently._] Flouted, flouted by him—by
    Sigurd! I must hate him more than others, that can I well
    mark; but many days shall not pass ere I have——[_Meditating._]
    Ay, but the arm, the arm that shall do the deed——?

           GUNNAR _enters, silent and thoughtful, from the back._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_After a short pause._] How goes it with thee, my husband?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Ill, Hiördis; I cannot away with that deed of yesterday; it lies
    heavy on my heart.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Do as I do; get thee some work to busy thee.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Doubtless I must.

            [_A pause;_ GUNNAR _paces up and down the hall, notices
                what_ HIÖRDIS _is doing, and approaches her._

                                  GUNNAR.

    What dost thou there?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Without looking up._] I am twisting a bow-string; canst thou not
    see?

                                  GUNNAR.

    A bow-string—of thine own hair?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Smiling._] Great deeds are born with every hour in these times;
    yesterday thou didst slay my foster-brother, and I have woven this
    since daybreak.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Hiördis, Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Looking up._] What is amiss?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Where wast thou last night?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Last night?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Thou wast not in the sleeping-room.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Know’st thou that?

                                  GUNNAR.

    I could not sleep; I tossed in restless dreams of that—that which
    befell Thorolf. I dreamt that he came——No matter; I wakened. Then
    methought there sounded a strange, fair song through all the house;
    I arose; I pushed the door ajar; here I saw thee sitting by the
    log-fire—it burned blue and red—fixing arrow-heads, and singing
    sorceries over them.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    I did what was needful; for strong is the breast that must be
    pierced this day.

                                  GUNNAR.

    I understand thee well: thou wouldst have Sigurd slain.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Mayhap.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Thou shalt never have thy will. I will keep peace with Sigurd,
    howe’er thou goad me.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Smiling._] Dost think so?

                                  GUNNAR.

    I know it!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Hands him the bow-string._] Tell me, Gunnar—canst loose this knot?

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Tries it._] Nay, it is too cunningly and firmly woven.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Rising._] The Norns[14] weave yet more cunningly; their web is
    still harder to unravel.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Dark are the ways of the Mighty Ones;—what know we of them, thou or
    I?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Yet one thing I know surely: that to both of us must Sigurd’s life
    be baleful.

    [_A pause;_ GUNNAR _stands lost in thought._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Who has been silently watching him._] Of what thinkest thou?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Of a dream I had of late. Methought I had done the deed thou
    cravest; Sigurd lay slain on the earth; thou didst stand beside him,
    and thy face was wondrous pale. Then said I: “Art thou glad, now
    that I have done thy will?” But thou didst laugh and answer:
    “Blither should I be didst thou, Gunnar, lie there in Sigurd’s
    stead.”

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With forced laughter._] Ill must thou know me if such a senseless
    dream can stay thy hand.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Tell me, Hiördis, what thinkest thou of this hall?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    To speak truly, Gunnar, sometimes it seems to me too strait and
    narrow.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Ay, ay, so I have thought; we are one too many.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Two, mayhap.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Who has not heard her last words._] But that shall be set right.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Looks at him interrogatively._] Set right? Then thou art minded
    to——?

                                  GUNNAR.

    To fit out my warships and put to sea; I will win back the honour I
    have lost because thou wast dearer to me than all beside.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Thoughtfully._] Thou wilt put to sea? Ay, so it may be best for us
    both.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Even from the day we sailed from Iceland, I saw that it would go ill
    with us. Thy soul is strong and proud; there are times when I
    well-nigh fear thee; yet, it is strange—chiefly for that do I hold
    thee so dear. Dread goes forth from thee like a spell; methinks thou
    couldst lure me to the blackest deeds, and all would seem good to me
    that thou didst crave. [_Shaking his head reflectively._]
    Unfathomable is the Norn’s rede; Sigurd should have been thy
    husband.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Vehemently._] Sigurd!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Yes, Sigurd. Vengeance and hatred blind thee, else wouldst thou
    prize him better. Had I been like Sigurd, I could have made life
    glad for thee.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With strong but suppressed emotion._] That—that deemest thou
    Sigurd could have done?

                                  GUNNAR.

    He is strong of soul, and proud as thou to boot.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Violently._] If that be so—[_Collecting herself._] No matter, no
    matter! [_With a wild outburst._] Gunnar, take Sigurd’s life!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Never!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    By fraud and falsehood thou mad’st me thy wife—that shall be
    forgotten! Five joyless years have I spent in this house—all shall
    be forgotten from the day when Sigurd lives no more!

                                  GUNNAR.

    No harm shall e’er befall him from my hand. [_Shrinks back
    involuntarily._] Hiördis, Hiördis, tempt me not!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Then must I find another avenger; not long shall Sigurd mock at me
    and thee! [_Clenching her hands in convulsive rage._] With her—that
    simpleton—with her mayhap he is even now sitting alone, dallying,
    and making sport of us; speaking of the bitter wrong that was done
    me when in thy stead he bore me away; telling how he laughed over
    his guile as he stood in the mirk of my bower, and I knew him not!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Nay, nay, he does not so!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Firmly._] Sigurd and Dagny must die! I cannot draw breath till
    they two are gone! [_Comes close up to him, with sparkling eyes, and
    speaks passionately, but in a whisper._] Wouldst thou help me to
    _that_, Gunnar, then should I live in love with thee; then should I
    clasp thee in such warm and wild embraces as thou dream’st not of.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Wavering._] Hiördis! Wouldst thou——?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Set thy hand to the work, Gunnar—and the heavy days shall be past.
    No longer will I quit the hall when thou comest, no longer speak
    harsh things and quench thy smile when thou art glad. I will clothe
    me in furs and costly silken robes. When thou goest to war, I will
    follow thee; when thou ridest forth in peace, I will ride by thy
    side. At the feast I will sit by thee and fill thy horn, and drink
    to thee and sing fair songs to make glad thy heart!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Almost overcome._] Is it true? Thou wouldst——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    More than that, trust me, ten times more! Give me but revenge!
    Revenge on Sigurd and Dagny, and I will——[_Stops as she sees the
    door open._] Dagny—comest thou here!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_From the back._] Haste thee, Gunnar! Call thy men to arms!

                                  GUNNAR.

    To arms! Against whom?

                                   DAGNY.

    Kåre the Peasant is coming, and many outlaws with him; he means thee
    no good; Sigurd has once barred his way; but who can tell——

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Moved._] Sigurd has done this for me!

                                   DAGNY.

    Sigurd is ever thy faithful friend.

                                  GUNNAR.

    And we, Hiördis—we, who thought to——! It is as I say—there is
    witchcraft in all thy speech; no deed but seemeth fair to me, when
    thou dost name it.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Astonished._] What meanest thou?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Nothing, nothing! I thank thee for thy tidings, Dagny; I go to
    gather my men together. [_Turns towards the door, but stops and
    comes forward again._] Tell me—how goes it with Örnulf?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Bowing her head._] Ask not of him. Yesterday he bore Thorolf’s
    body to the ships; now he is raising a grave-mound on the
    shore;—there shall his sons be laid.

    [GUNNAR _goes out by the back in silence._

                                   DAGNY.

    Until evening there is no danger. [_Coming nearer._] Hiördis, I have
    another errand in thy house; it is to thee I come.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    To me? After all that befell yesterday?

                                   DAGNY.

    Even because of that. Hiördis, foster-sister, do not hate me; forget
    the words that sorrow and evil spirits placed in my mouth; forgive
    me all the wrong I did thee; for, trust me, I am now tenfold more
    hapless than thou!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Hapless—thou! Sigurd’s wife!

                                   DAGNY.

    It was _my_ doing, all that befell—the stirring up of strife, and
    Thorolf’s death, and all the scorn that fell upon Gunnar and thee.
    Mine is all the guilt! Woe upon me!—I have lived so happily; but
    after this day I shall never know joy again.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_As if seized by a sudden thought._] But before—in these five long
    years—all that time hast thou been happy?

                                   DAGNY.

    Canst thou doubt it?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Yesterday I doubted it not; but——

                                   DAGNY.

    What meanest thou?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Nay, ’tis nought; let us speak of other matters.

                                   DAGNY.

    No truly. Hiördis, tell me——!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    It will profit thee little; but since thou wilt have it so——[_With a
    malignant expression._] Canst thou remember once, over in Iceland—we
    had followed with Örnulf thy father to the Council, and we sat with
    our playmates in the Council Hall, as is the manner of women. Then
    came two strangers into the hall.

                                   DAGNY.

    Sigurd and Gunnar.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    They greeted us in courtly fashion, and sat on the bench beside us;
    and there passed between us much merry talk. There were some who
    must needs know why these two vikings came thither, and if they were
    not minded to take them wives there in the island. Then said Sigurd:
    “Twill be hard for me to find the woman that shall be to my mind.”
    Örnulf laughed, and said there was no lack of high-born and
    well-dowered women in Iceland; but Sigurd answered: “The warrior
    needs a high-souled wife. She whom I choose must not rest content
    with a humble lot; no honour must seem too high for her to strive
    for; gladly must she follow me a-viking; war-weed must she wear; she
    must egg me on to strife, and never blink her eyes where
    sword-blades lighten; for if she be faint-hearted, scant honour will
    befall me.” Is it not true, so Sigurd spake?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Hesitatingly._] True, he did—but——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    _Such_ was she to be, the woman who could make life fair to him; and
    then—[With a scornful smile] then he chose _thee_!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Starting, as in pain._] Ha, thou wouldst say that——?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Doubtless thou hast proved thyself proud and high-souled; hast
    claimed honour of all, that Sigurd might be honoured in thee—is it
    not so?

                                   DAGNY.

    Nay, Hiördis, but——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Thou hast egged him on to great deeds, followed him in war-weed, and
    joyed to be where the strife raged hottest—hast thou not?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Deeply moved._] No, no!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Hast thou, then, been faint of heart, so that Sigurd has been put to
    shame?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Overwhelmed._] Hiördis, Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Smiling scornfully._] Yet thy lot has been a happy one all these
    years! Think’st thou that Sigurd can say the same?

                                   DAGNY.

    Enough, enough. Woe is me! thou hast made me see myself too clearly.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    A jesting word, and straightway thou art in tears! Think no more of
    it. Look what I have done to-day. [_Takes some arrows from the
    table._] Are they not keen and biting—feel! I know well how to
    sharpen arrows, do I not?

                                   DAGNY.

    And to use them too; thou strikest surely, Hiördis! All this thou
    hast said to me—I had never thought of it before. [_More
    vehemently._] But that Sigurd——! That for all these years I should
    have made his life heavy and unhonoured;—no, no, it cannot be true!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Nay now, comfort thee, Dagny; indeed it is not true. Were Sigurd of
    the same mind as in former days, it might be true enough; for then
    was his whole soul bent on being the foremost man in the land;—now
    he is content with a lowlier lot.

                                   DAGNY.

    No, Hiördis; Sigurd is high-souled now as ever; I see it well, I am
    not the right mate for him. He has hidden it from me; but it shall
    be so no longer.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    What wilt thou do?

                                   DAGNY.

    I will no longer hang like a clog upon his feet; I will be a
    hindrance to him no longer.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Then thou wilt——?

                                   DAGNY.

    Peace; some one comes!

                    _A House-carl enters from the back._

                                 THE CARL.

    Sigurd Viking is coming to the hall.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Sigurd! Then call Gunnar hither.

                                 THE CARL.

    Gunnar has ridden forth to gather his neighbours together; for Kåre
    the Peasant would——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Good, good, I know it; go! [_The Carl goes. To_ DAGNY, _who is also
    going._] Whither wilt thou?

                                   DAGNY.

    I will not meet Sigurd. Too well I feel that we must part; but to
    meet him _now_—no, no, I cannot!

                                                [_Goes out to the left._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Looks after her in silence for a moment._] And it was she I would
    have——[_Completes her thought by a glance at the bow-string_]. That
    had been a poor revenge;—nay, I have cut deeper now! —Tis hard to
    die, but sometimes harder still to live!

                       SIGURD _enters from the back._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Belike it is Gunnar thou seekest; be seated, he will be here even
    now.

                                                            [_Is going._

                                  SIGURD.

    Nay, stay; it is thee I seek, rather than him.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Me?

                                  SIGURD.

    And ’tis well I find thee alone.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    If thou comest to mock me, it would sure be no hindrance to thee
    though the hall were full of men and women.

                                  SIGURD.

    Ay, ay, well I know what thoughts thou hast of me.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Bitterly._] I do thee wrong mayhap! Nay, nay, Sigurd, thou hast
    been as a poison to all my days. Bethink thee who it was that
    wrought that shameful guile; who it was that sat by my side in the
    bower, feigning love, with the laugh of cunning in his heart; who it
    was that flung me forth to Gunnar, since for him I was good enough,
    forsooth—and then sailed away with the woman he held dear!

                                  SIGURD.

    Man’s will can do this thing and that; but fate rules in the deeds
    that shape our lives—so has it gone with us twain.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    True enough; evil Norns hold sway over the world; but their might is
    little if they find not helpers in our own heart. Happy is he who
    has strength to battle with the Norn—and it is that I have now in
    hand.

                                  SIGURD.

    What mean’st thou?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    I will venture a trial of strength against those—those who are over
    me. But let us talk no more of this; I have much to do to-day.

                                      [_She seats herself at the table._

                                  SIGURD.

    [_After a short pause._] Thou makest good weapons for Gunnar.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With a quiet smile._] Not _for_ Gunnar, but _against_ thee.
    SIGURD.

    Most like it is the same thing.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Ay, most like it is; for if I be a match for the Norn, then sooner
    or later shalt thou and Gunnar——[_Breaks off, leans backwards
    against the table, looks at him with a smile, and says with an
    altered ring in her voice:_] Wouldst know the thought that sometimes
    comes to me? Oft have I made it my pastime to limn pleasant pictures
    in my mind; at such times I sit and close my eyes and think: Now
    comes Sigurd the Strong to the isle;—he will burn us in our house,
    me and my husband. All Gunnar’s men have fallen; only he and I are
    left; they set light to the roof from without:—“A bow-shot,” cries
    Gunnar, “one bow-shot may save us”;—then the bow-string
    breaks—“Hiördis, cut a tress of thy hair and make of it a
    bow-string—our life is at stake.” But then I laugh—“Let it burn, let
    it burn—to me, life is not worth a wisp of hair!”

                                  SIGURD.

    There is a strange might in all thy speech.

                                                      [_Approaches her._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Looks coldly at him._] Wouldst sit beside me?

                                  SIGURD.

    Thou deemest my heart is bitter toward thee. ’Tis the last time,
    Hiördis, that we shall have speech together; there is something that
    gnaws me like a sore sickness, and in this wise I cannot part from
    thee; thou must know me better.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    What wouldst thou?

                                  SIGURD.

    Tell thee a saga.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Is it sad?

                                  SIGURD.

    Sad, as life itself.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Bitterly._] What knowest thou of the sadness of life?

                                  SIGURD.

    Judge when my saga is over.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Then tell it me; I will work the while.

                                 [_He sits on a low stool to her right._

                                  SIGURD.

    Once upon a time there were two young vikings, who set forth from
    Norway to win wealth and honour; they had sworn each other
    friendship, and held truly together, how far soever they might fare.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    And the two young vikings hight Sigurd and Gunnar?

                                  SIGURD.

    Ay, we may call them so. At last they came to Iceland; and there
    dwelt an old chieftain, who had come forth from Norway in King
    Harald’s days. He had two fair women in his house; but one, his
    foster-daughter, was the noblest, for she was wise and strong of
    soul; and the vikings spoke of her between themselves, and never had
    they seen a fairer woman, so deemed they both.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_In suspense._] Both? Wilt thou mock me?

                                  SIGURD.

    Gunnar thought of her night and day, and that did Sigurd no less;
    but both held their peace, and no man could say from her bearing
    whether Gunnar found favour in her eyes; but that Sigurd found none,
    that was easy to discern.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Breathlessly._] Go on, go on——!

                                  SIGURD.

    Yet ever the more must Sigurd dream of her; but of that wist no man.
    Now it befell one evening that there was a drinking-feast; and there
    did that proud woman vow that no man should possess her save he who
    wrought a mighty deed, which she named. Then high beat Sigurd’s
    heart for joy; for he felt within him the strength to do that deed.
    But Gunnar took him apart and told him of his love;—Sigurd said
    nought of his, but went to the——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Vehemently._] Sigurd, Sigurd! [_Controlling herself._] And this
    saga—is it true?

                                  SIGURD.

    True it is. One of us had to yield; Gunnar was my friend; I could do
    nought else. So Gunnar had thee to wife, and I wedded another woman.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    And didst come to love her!

                                  SIGURD.

    I learned to prize her; but one woman only has Sigurd loved, and
    that is she who frowned upon him from the first day they met.
    [_Rises._] Here ends my saga; and now let us part.—Farewell,
    Gunnar’s wife; never shall we meet again.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Springing up._] Stay, stay! Woe to us both; Sigurd, what hast thou
    done?

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Starting._] I, done? What ails thee?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    And all this dost thou tell me now! But no—it cannot be true!

                                  SIGURD.

    These are my last words to thee, and every word is true. I would not
    thou shouldst think hardly of me, therefore I needs must speak.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Involuntarily clasps her hands together, and gazes at him in
    voiceless astonishment._] Loved—loved me—thou! [_Vehemently, coming
    close up to him._] I will not believe thee! [_Looks hard at him, and
    bursts forth in wild grief._] Yes, it is true, and—hateful for us
    both!

            [_Hides her face in her hands, and turns away from him._

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Appalled._] Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Softly, struggling with tears and laughter._] Nay, heed me not! I
    meant but this, that——[_Lays her hand on his arm._] Sigurd, thou
    hast not told thy saga to the end; that proud woman thou didst tell
    of—she returned thy love!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Starts backwards._] Thou?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With composure._] Aye, Sigurd, I have loved thee, at last I
    understand it. Thou sayest I was ungentle and short of speech
    towards thee; what wouldst thou have a woman do? Could I offer thee
    my love? Then had I been little worthy of thee. I deemed thee ever
    the noblest man of men; and then to know thee another’s
    husband—’twas that caused me the bitter pain, that myself I could
    not understand!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Much moved._] A baleful web has the Norn woven around us twain.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    The blame is thine own; bravely and firmly it becomes a man to act.
    When I set that hard proof for him who should win me, my thought was
    all of thee;—yet couldst thou——!

                                  SIGURD.

    I knew Gunnar’s soul-sickness; I alone could heal it;—was there
    aught for me to choose? And yet, had I known what I now know, I
    scarce dare answer for myself; for great is the might of love.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With animation._] But now, Sigurd!—A baleful hap has held us apart
    all these years; now the knot is loosed; the days to come shall make
    good the past to us.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Shaking his head._] It cannot be; thou knowest we must part again.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Nay, we must not. I love thee, that may I now say unashamed; for my
    love is no mere dalliance, like a weak woman’s; were I a man—by all
    the Mighty Ones, I could still love thee, even as now I do! Up then,
    Sigurd! Happiness is worth a daring deed; we are both free if we but
    will it, and then the game is won.

                                  SIGURD.

    Free? What meanest thou?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    What is Dagny to thee? What can she be to thee? No more than I count
    Gunnar in my secret heart. What matter though two worthless lives be
    wrecked?

                                  SIGURD.

    Hiördis, Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Let Gunnar stay where he is; let Dagny fare with her father to
    Iceland; I will follow thee in harness of steel, whithersoever thou
    wendest. [SIGURD _makes a movement._] Not as thy wife will I follow
    thee; for I have belonged to another, and the woman lives that has
    lain by thy side. No, Sigurd, not as thy wife, but like those mighty
    women, like Hildë’s sisters,[15] will I follow thee, and fire thee
    to strife and to manly deeds, so that thy name shall be heard over
    every land. In the sword-game will I stand by thy side; I will fare
    forth among thy warriors in the storm and on the viking-raid; and
    when thy death-song is sung, it shall tell of Sigurd and Hiördis in
    one!

                                  SIGURD.

    Once was that my fairest dream; now, it is too late. Gunnar and
    Dagny stand between us, and that by right. I crushed my new-born
    love for Gunnar’s sake;—how great soever my suffering, I cannot undo
    my deed. And Dagny—full of faith and trust she left her home and
    kindred; never must she dream that I longed for Hiördis as often as
    she took me to her breast.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    And for such a cause wilt thou lay a burden on all thy life! To what
    end hast thou strength and might, and therewith all noble gifts of
    the mind? And deemest thou it can now beseem me to dwell beneath
    Gunnar’s roof? Nay, Sigurd, trust me, there are many tasks awaiting
    such a man as thou. Erik is king in Norway—do thou rise against him!
    Many goodly warriors will join thee and swear thee fealty; with
    unconquerable might will we press onward, and fight and toil
    unresting, until thou art seated on the throne of Hårfager!

                                  SIGURD.

    Hiördis, Hiördis, so have I dreamt in my wild youth; let it be
    forgotten—tempt me not!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With dignity._] It is the Norn’s will that we two shall hold
    together; it cannot be altered. Plainly now I see my task in life:
    to make thee famous over all the world. Thou hast stood before me
    every day, ever hour of my life; I sought to tear thee out of my
    mind, but I lacked the might; now it is needless, now that I know
    thou lovest me.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_With forced coldness._] If that be so—then know—I _have_ loved
    thee; it has passed now;—I have forgot those days.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Sigurd, in that thou liest! So much at least am I worth, that if
    thou hast loved me once, thou canst never forget it.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Vehemently._] I must; and now I will.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    So be it; but thou _canst_ not. Thou wilt seek to hinder me, but in
    vain; ere evening falls, Gunnar and Dagny shall know all.

                                  SIGURD.

    Ha, that wilt thou never do!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    That will I do!

                                  SIGURD.

    Then must I know thee ill; high-souled have I ever deemed thee.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Evil days breed evil thoughts; too great has been thy trust in me. I
    will, I must, go forth by thy side—forth to face life and strife;
    Gunnar’s roof-tree is too low for me.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_With emphasis._] But honour between man and man hast thou highly
    prized. There lack not grounds for strife between me and Gunnar;
    say, now, that he fell by my hand—wouldst thou still make all known
    and follow me?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Starting._] Wherefore askest thou?

                                  SIGURD.

    Answer me first: what wouldst thou do, were I to give thy husband
    his bane.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Looks hard at him._] Then must I keep silence and never rest until
    I had seen thee dead.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_With a smile._] It is well, Hiördis—I knew it.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Hastily._] But it can never come to pass!

                                  SIGURD.

    It must come to pass; thou thyself hast cast the die even now for
    Gunnar’s life and mine.

            [GUNNAR, _with some House-carls, enters from the back._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Gloomily, to_ HIÖRDIS.] See now; the seed thou hast sown is
    sprouting!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Approaching._] What is amiss with thee?

                                  GUNNAR.

    Sigurd, is it thou? What is amiss? Nought but what I might well have
    foreseen. As soon as Dagny, thy wife, had brought tidings of Kåre
    the Peasant, I took horse and rode to my neighbours to seek help
    against him.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Eagerly._] Well?

                                  GUNNAR.

    I was answered awry where’er I came: my dealings with Kåre had been
    little to my honour, it was said;—aye, and other things were said to
    boot, that I will not utter—I am a dishonoured man; I am thought to
    have done a dastard deed; men hold it shame to make common cause
    with me.

                                  SIGURD.

    It shall not long be held shame; ere evening comes, thou shalt have
    men enough to face Kåre.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Sigurd!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_In a low voice, triumphantly._] Ha, I knew it well!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_With forced resolution._] But thereafter is the peace between us
    at an end; for hearken to my words, Gunnar Headman—thou hast slain
    Thorolf, my wife’s kinsman, and therefore do I challenge thee to
    single combat[16] to-morrow at break of day.

            [HIÖRDIS, _in violent inward emotion, makes a stride
                towards_ SIGURD, _but collects herself and remains
                standing motionless during the following._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_In extreme astonishment._] To single combat——! Me!—Thou art
    jesting, Sigurd!

                                  SIGURD.

    Thou art lawfully challenged to single combat; ’twill be a game for
    life or death; one of us must fall!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Bitterly._] Ha, I understand it well. When I came, thou didst talk
    with Hiördis alone; she has goaded thee afresh!

                                  SIGURD.

    Mayhap. [_Half towards_ HIÖRDIS.] A high-souled woman must ever
    guard her husband’s honour. [_To the men in the background._] And do
    ye, house-carls, now go to Gunnar’s neighbours, and say to them that
    to-morrow he is to ply sword-strokes with me; none dare call that
    man a dastard who bears arms against Sigurd Viking!

                                  [_The House-carls go out by the back._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Goes quickly up to_ SIGURD _and presses his hands, in strong
    emotion._] Sigurd, my brave brother, now I understand thee! Thou
    venturest thy life for my honour, as of old for my happiness!

                                  SIGURD.

    Thank thy wife for that; she has the main part in what I do.
    To-morrow at break of day——

                                  GUNNAR.

    I will meet thee. [_Tenderly._] Foster-brother, wilt thou have a
    good blade of me? ’Tis a gift of price.

                                  SIGURD.

    I thank thee; but let it hang.—Who knows if next evening I may have
    any use for it.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Shakes his hand._] Farewell, Sigurd!

                                  SIGURD.

    Again farewell, and fortune befriend thee this night!

            [_They part._ GUNNAR _goes out to the right._ SIGURD _casts
                a glance at_ HIÖRDIS, _and goes out by the back._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_After a pause, softly and thoughtfully._] To-morrow they fight!
    Which will fall? [_After a moment’s silence, she bursts forth as if
    seized by a strong resolution._] Let fall who will—Sigurd and I
    shall still be together!




                              ACT FOURTH.

    _By the coast. It is evening; the moon breaks forth now and again,
          from among dark and ragged storm-clouds. At the back, a black
          grave-mound, newly heaped up._

    ÖRNULF _sits on a stone, in front on the right, his head bare, his
          elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands.
          His men are digging at the mound; some give light with
          pine-knot torches. After a short pause,_ SIGURD _and_ DAGNY
          _enter from the boat-house, where a wood fire is burning._

                                   DAGNY.

    [_In a low voice._] There sits he still. [_Holding_ SIGURD _back._]
    Nay, speak not to him.

                                  SIGURD.

    Thou say’st well; it is too soon; best leave him to himself.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Goes over to the right, and gazes at her father in quiet sorrow._]
    So strong was he yesterday when he bore Thorolf’s body on his back;
    strong was he as he helped to heap the grave-mound; but when they
    were all laid to rest, and earth and stones piled over them—then the
    sorrow seized him; then seemed it of a sudden as though his fire
    were quenched. [_Dries her tears._] Tell me, Sigurd, when thinkest
    thou to fare homeward to Iceland?

                                  SIGURD.

    So soon as the storm abates, and my dealings with Gunnar are ended.

                                   DAGNY.

    And then wilt thou buy land and build thee a homestead, and go
    a-viking no more?

                                  SIGURD.

    Yes, yes,—that have I promised thee.

                                   DAGNY.

    And I may believe without doubt that Hiördis spoke falsely when she
    said that I was unworthy to be thy wife?

                                  SIGURD.

    Yes yes, Dagny, trust thou to my word.

                                   DAGNY.

    Then am I glad again, and will try to forget all the evil that here
    has been wrought. In the long winter evenings we will talk together
    of Gunnar and Hiördis, and——

                                  SIGURD.

    Nay, Dagny, wouldst thou have things go well with us, never do thou
    speak Hiördis’ name when once we are at home in Iceland.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Mildly upbraiding him._] Unjust is thy hatred towards her. Sigurd,
    Sigurd, it is little like thee.

                              ONE OF THE MEN.

    [_Approaching._] There now, the mound is finished.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_As if awaking._] The mound? Is it—ay, ay——

                                  SIGURD.

    Now speak to him, Dagny.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Approaching._] Father, it is cold out here; the storm is rising
    with the night.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Nay, never heed it; the mound is close-heaped and crannyless; they
    lie warm in there.

                                   DAGNY.

    Ay, but thou——

                                  ÖRNULF.

    I? I am not cold.

                                   DAGNY.

    Nought hast thou eaten to-day; wilt thou not go in? The supper-board
    stands ready.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Let the supper-board stand; I have no hunger.

                                   DAGNY.

    But to sit here so still—trust me, thou wilt take hurt of it; thou
    art ever wont to be stirring.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    May be so; there is somewhat that crushes my breast; I cannot draw
    breath.

            [_He again hides his face in his hands. A pause._ DAGNY
                _seats herself beside him._

                                   DAGNY.

    To-morrow wilt thou make ready thy ship and set forth for Iceland?

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Without looking up._] What should I do there? Nay, I will to my
    sons.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_With pain._] Father!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Raises his head._] Go in and let me sit here; when the storm has
    played with me for a night or two, the game will be over, I ween.

                                  SIGURD.

    Thou canst not think to deal thus with thyself.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Dost marvel that I fain would rest? My day’s work is done; I have
    laid my sons in their grave-mound. [_Vehemently._] Go from me!—Go,
    go!

                                                   [_He hides his face._

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Softly, to_ DAGNY_, who rises._] Let him sit yet awhile.

                                   DAGNY.

    Nay, I have one rede yet untried;—I know him. [_To_ ÖRNULF.] Thy
    day’s work done, say’st thou? Nay, that it is not. Thou hast laid
    thy sons in the grave;—but art thou not a skald? It is meet that
    thou should’st sing their memory.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Shaking his head._] Sing? Nay, nay; yesterday I could sing; I am
    too old to-day.

                                   DAGNY.

    But needs must thou; honourable men were thy sons, one and all; a
    song must be made of them, and that can none of our kin but thou.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Looks inquiringly at_ SIGURD.] To sing? What thinkest _thou_,
    Sigurd?

                                  SIGURD.

    Meseems it is but meet; thou must e’en do as she says.

                                   DAGNY.

    Thy neighbours in Iceland will deem it ill done when the grave-ale
    is drunk over Örnulf’s children, and there is no song to sing with
    it. Thou hast ever time enough to follow thy sons.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Well well, I will try it; and thou, Dagny, give heed, that
    afterwards thou mayst carve the song on staves.

            _The men approach with the torches, forming a group around
                him; he is silent for a time, reflecting; then he says:_

        Bragi’s[17] gift is bitter
        when the heart is broken;
        sorrow-laden singer,
        singing, suffers sorely.

        Natheless, since the Skald-god
        gave me skill in song-craft,
        in a lay loud-ringing
        be my loss lamented!
                               [_Rises._

        Ruthless Norn[18] and wrathful
        wrecked my life and ravaged,
        wiled away my welfare,
        wasted Örnulf’s treasure.

        Sons had Örnulf seven,
        by the great gods granted;—
        lonely now and life-sick
        goes the greybeard, sonless.

        Seven sons so stately,
        bred among the sword-blades,
        made a mighty bulwark
        round the snow-locked sea-king.

        Levelled lies the bulwark,
        dead my sons strong-hearted;
        gone the greybeard’s gladness,
        desolate his dwelling.

        Thorolf,—thou my last-born!
        ’Mongst the bold the boldest!
        Soon were spent my sorrow
        so but thou wert left me!

        Fair thou wast as springtide,
        fond towards thy father,
        waxing straight and stalwart
        to so wight a warrior.

        Dark and drear his death-wound
        leaves my life’s lone evening;
        grief hath gripped my bosom
        as ’twixt hurtling targes.

        Nought the Norn denied me
        of her rueful riches,
        showering woes unstinted
        over Örnulf’s world-way.

        Weak are now my weapons.
        But, were god-might given me,
        _one_ thing would I strive for—
        on the Norn to venge me!

        _One_ thing would I toil for—
        down to death to hurl thee,
        Norn, that now hast left me
        nought but yonder grave-mound.

        Nought, I said? Nay, truly,
        somewhat still is Örnulf’s,
        since of Suttung’s[19] mead-horn
        he betimes drank deeply.
              [_With rising enthusiasm._

        Though she stripped me sonless,
        one great gift she gave me—
        songcraft’s mighty secret,
        skill to sing my sorrows.

        On my lips she laid it,
        goodly gift of songcraft;
        loud, then, let my lay sound,
        e’en where they are lying!

        Hail, my stout sons seven!
        Hail, as homeward ride ye!
        Songcraft’s glorious god-gift
        stauncheth woe and wailing.

            [_He draws a deep breath, throws back the hair from his
                brow, and says calmly:_

    So—so; now is Örnulf sound and strong again. [_To the men._] Follow
    me to the supper-board, lads; heavy has been our day’s work!

                               [_Goes with the men into the boat-house._

                                   DAGNY.

    Praised be the Mighty Ones on high that gave me so good a rede.
    [_To_ SIGURD.] Wilt thou not go in?

                                  SIGURD.

    Nay, I list not to. Tell me, are all things ready for to-morrow?

                                   DAGNY.

    They are ready; a silk-sewn shroud lies on the bench; but I know
    full surely that thou wilt hold thee against Gunnar, so I have not
    wept over it.

                                  SIGURD.

    Grant all good powers, that thou mayst never weep for my sake.

                                              [_He stops and looks out._

                                   DAGNY.

    What art thou listening to?

                                  SIGURD.

    Hear’st thou nought—_yonder_?

                                             [_Points towards the left._

                                   DAGNY.

    Ay, there goes a fearsome storm over the sea!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Going up a little towards the background._] There will fall hard
    hailstones in that storm. [_Shouts._] Who comes?

                             KÅRE THE PEASANT.

    [_Without on the left._] Folk thou wotst of, Sigurd Viking!

    KÅRE THE PEASANT, _with a band of armed men, enters from the left._

                                  SIGURD.

    Whither would ye?

                                   KÅRE.

    To Gunnar’s hall.

                                  SIGURD.

    As foemen?

                                   KÅRE.

    Ay, trust me for that! Thou didst hinder me before; but now I ween
    thou wilt scarce do the like.

                                  SIGURD.

    Maybe not.

                                   KÅRE.

    I have heard of thy challenge to Gunnar; but if things go to my
    mind, weak will be his weapons when the time comes for your meeting.

                                  SIGURD.

    ’Tis venturesome work thou goest about; take heed for thyself,
    Peasant!

                                   KÅRE.

    [_With defiant laughter._] Leave that to me; wouldst thou tackle thy
    ship to-night, we will see that thou hast light enow!—Come, all my
    men; here goes the way.

                               [_They go off to the right, at the back._

                                   DAGNY.

    Sigurd, Sigurd, this misdeed must thou hinder.

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Goes quickly to the door of the hut, and calls in._] Up from the
    board, Örnulf; take vengeance on Kåre the Peasant.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Comes out, with the rest._] Kåre the Peasant—where is he?

                                  SIGURD.

    He is making for Gunnar’s hall to burn it over their heads.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Ha-ha—let him do as he will; so shall I be avenged on Gunnar and
    Hiördis, and afterwards I can deal with Kåre.

                                  SIGURD.

    Nay, that rede avails not; wouldst thou strike at Kåre, thou must
    seek him out to-night; for when his misdeed is done, he will take to
    the mountains. I have challenged Gunnar to meet me, man to man; him
    thou hast safe enough, unless I myself—but no matter.—To-night he
    must be shielded from his foes; it would ill befit thee to let so
    vile a caitiff as Kåre rob thee of thy revenge.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Thou say’st truly. To-night will I shield the slayer of Thorolf; but
    to-morrow he must die.

                                  SIGURD.

    He or I—doubt not of that!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Come then, to take vengeance for Örnulf’s sons.

                  [_He goes out with his men by the back, to the right._

                                  SIGURD.

    Dagny, do thou follow them;—I must bide here; for the rumour of the
    combat is already abroad, and I may not meet Gunnar ere the time
    comes. But thou—do thou keep rein on thy father; he must go
    honourably to work; in Gunnar’s hall there are many women; no harm
    must befall Hiördis or the rest.

                                   DAGNY.

    Yes, I will follow them. Thou takest thought even for Hiördis; I
    thank thee for it.

                                  SIGURD.

    Go, go, Dagny!

                                   DAGNY.

    I go; but be thou at ease as to Hiördis; she has gilded armour in
    her bower, and will know how to shield herself.

                                  SIGURD.

    That deem I too; but go thou nevertheless; guide thy father’s
    course; watch over all—and over Gunnar’s wife!

                                   DAGNY.

    Trust to me. Farewell, till we meet again!

                                              [_She follows the others._

                                  SIGURD.

    ’Tis the first time, foster-brother, that I stand weaponless
    whilst thou art in danger. [_Listens._] I hear shouts and
    sword-strokes;—they are already at the hall. [_Goes towards the
    right, but stops and recoils in astonishment._] Hiördis! Comes she
    hither!

    HIÖRDIS _enters, clad in a short scarlet kirtle, with gilded armour:
          helmet, hauberk, arm-plates, and greaves. Her hair is flying
          loose; at her back hangs a quiver, and at her belt a small
          shield. She has in her hand the bow strung with her hair._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Hastily looking behind her, as though in dread of something
    pursuing her, goes close up to_ SIGURD, _seizes him by the arm, and
    whispers:_] Sigurd, Sigurd, canst thou see it?

                                  SIGURD.

    What? Where?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    The wolf _there_—close behind me; it does not move; it glares at me
    with its two red eyes. It is my wraith,[20] Sigurd! Three times has
    it appeared to me; that bodes that I shall surely die to-night!

                                  SIGURD.

    Hiördis, Hiördis!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    It has sunk into the earth! Aye, aye, now it has warned me.

                                  SIGURD.

    Thou art sick; come, go in with me.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Nay, here will I bide; I have but little time left.

                                  SIGURD.

    What has befallen thee?

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    What has befallen? That know I not; but ’twas true what thou said’st
    to-day, that Gunnar and Dagny stand between us; we must away from
    them and from life; then can we be together!

                                  SIGURD.

    We? Ha, thou meanest——

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_With dignity._] I have been homeless in this world from that day
    thou didst take another to wife. That was ill done of thee! All good
    gifts may a man give to his faithful friend—all, save the woman he
    loves; for if he do that, he rends the Norn’s secret web, and two
    lives are wrecked. An unerring voice within me tells me I came into
    the world that my strong soul might cheer and uphold thee through
    heavy days, and that thou wert born to the end I might find in _one_
    man all that seemed to me great and noble; for this I know
    Sigurd—had we two held together, then hadst thou become more famous
    than all others, and I happier.

                                  SIGURD.

    It avails not now to mourn. Think’st thou ’tis a merry life that
    awaits me? To be by Dagny’s side day by day, and feign a love my
    heart shrinks from? Yet so it must be; it cannot be altered.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_In a growing frenzy._] It _shall_ be altered! We must out of this
    life, both of us! Seest thou this bow-string? With it can I surely
    hit my mark; for I have crooned fair sorceries over it! [_Places an
    arrow in the bow, which is strung._] Hark! hark! that rushing in the
    air? It is the dead men’s ride to Valhal: I have bewitched them
    hither;—we two will join them in their ride!

                                  SIGURD.

    [_Shrinking back._] Hiördis, Hiördis—I fear thee!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Not heeding him._] Our fate no power can alter now! Oh, ’tis
    better so than if thou hadst wedded me here in this life—if I had
    sat in thy homestead weaving linen and wool for thee and bearing
    thee children—pah!

                                  SIGURD.

    Hold, hold! Thy sorceries have been too strong for thee; they have
    made thee soul-sick, Hiördis! [_Horror-struck._] Ha, see—see!
    Gunnar’s hall—it is burning!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Let it burn, let it burn! The cloud-hall up yonder is loftier than
    Gunnar’s rafter-roof!

                                  SIGURD.

    But Egil, thy son—they are slaying him!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    Let him die—my shame dies with him!

                                  SIGURD.

    And Gunnar—they are taking thy husband’s life!

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    What care I! A better husband shall I follow home this night! Ay,
    Sigurd, so must it be; here on this earth grows no happiness for me.
    The White God is coming northward; him will I not meet; the old gods
    are strong no longer;—they sleep, they sit half shadow-like on
    high;—with them will we strive! Out of this life, Sigurd! I will
    enthrone thee king in heaven, and I myself will sit by thy side.
    [_The storm bursts wildly._] Hark, hark, here comes our company!
    Canst see the black steeds galloping?—one is for me and one for
    thee. [_Draws the arrow to her ear and shoots._] Away, then, on thy
    last ride home!

                                  SIGURD.

    Well aimed, Hiördis! [_He falls._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Jubilant, rushes up to him._] Sigurd, my brother,—now art thou
    mine at last!

                                  SIGURD.

    Now less than ever. Here our ways part; for I am a Christian man.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Appalled._] Thou——! Ha, no, no!

                                  SIGURD.

    The White God is mine; King Æthelstan taught me to know him; it is
    to _him_ I go.

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_In despair._] And I——! [_Drops her bow._] Woe! woe!

                                  SIGURD.

    Heavy has my life been from the hour I tore thee out of my own heart
    and gave thee to Gunnar. I thank thee, Hiördis;—now am I so light
    and free.

                                                                [_Dies._

                                  HIÖRDIS.

    [_Quietly._] Dead! Then truly have I brought my soul to wreck! [_The
    storm increases; she breaks forth wildly._] They come! I have
    bewitched them hither! No, no! I will not go with you! I will not
    ride without Sigurd! It avails not—they see me; they laugh and
    beckon to me; they spur their horses! [_Rushes out to the edge of
    the cliff at the back._] They are upon me;—and no shelter, no
    hiding-place! Ay, mayhap at the bottom of the sea!

                                              [_She casts herself over._

    [ÖRNULF, DAGNY, GUNNAR, _with_ EGIL, _gradually followed by_
          SIGURD’S _and_ ÖRNULF’S _men, enter from the right._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Turning towards the grave-mound._] Now may ye sleep in peace; for
    ye lie not unavenged.

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Entering._] Father, father—I die of fear—all that blood and
    strife—and the storm;—hark, hark!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Carrying_ EGIL.] Peace, and shelter for my child.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Gunnar!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Ay, Örnulf, my homestead is burnt and my men are slain; I am in thy
    power; do with me what thou wilt!

                                  ÖRNULF.

    That Sigurd must look to. But in, under roof! It is not safe out
    here.

                                   DAGNY.

    Ay, ay, in! [_Goes towards the boat-house, catches sight of_
    SIGURD’S _body, and shrieks._] Sigurd, my husband!—They have slain
    him!

                                           [_Throwing herself upon him._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    [_Rushes up._] Sigurd!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Sets_ EGIL _down._] Sigurd dead!

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Looks despairingly at the men, who surround the body._] No, no, it
    is not so;—he must be alive! [_Catches sight of the bow._] Ha, what
    is that?

                                                               [_Rises._

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Daughter, it is as first thou saidst—Sigurd is slain.

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_As if seized by a sudden thought._] And Hiördis!—Has Hiördis been
    here?

                                   DAGNY.

    [_Softly and with self-control._] I know not; but this I know, that
    her bow has been here.

                                  GUNNAR.

    Ay, I thought no less!

                                   DAGNY.

    Hush, hush! [_To herself._] So bitterly did she hate him!

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_Aside._] She has slain him—the night before the combat; then after
    all she loved me.

            [_A thrill of dread runs through the whole group;_
                ASGÅRDSREIEN—_the ride of the fallen warriors to
                Valhal—hurtles through the air._

                                   EGIL.

    [_In terror._] Father! See, see!

                                  GUNNAR.

    What is it?

                                   EGIL.

    Up there—all the black horses——!

                                  GUNNAR.

    It is the clouds that——

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Nay, it is the dead men’s home-faring.

                                   EGIL.

    [_With a shriek._] Mother is with them.

                                   DAGNY.

    All good spirits!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Child, what say’st thou?

                                   EGIL.

    There—in front—on the black horse! Father, father!

            [EGIL _clings in terror to his father; a short pause; the
                storm passes over, the clouds part, the moon shines
                peacefully on the scene._

                                  GUNNAR.

    [_In quiet sorrow._] Now is Hiördis surely dead.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    So it must be, Gunnar;—and my vengeance was rather against her than
    thee. Dear has this meeting been to both of us;—there is my hand; be
    there peace between us!

                                  GUNNAR.

    Thanks, Örnulf! And now aboard; I sail with thee to Iceland.

                                  ÖRNULF.

    Ay, to Iceland! Long will it be ere our forthfaring is forgotten.

        Weapon-wielding warriors’ meeting,
        woful, by the norland seaboard,
        still shall live in song and saga
        while our stem endures in Iceland.

                                  THE END

-----

Footnote 7:

      Failing to find a better equivalent for the Norwegian “Herse,” I
      have used the word “Headman” wherever it seemed necessary to give
      Gunnar a title or designation. He is generally spoken of as
      “Gunnar Herse” in the Norwegian text; but where it could be done
      without inconvenience, the designation has here been omitted.

Footnote 8:

      “I ærlig holmgang.” The established form of duel in the viking
      times was to land the combatants on one of the rocky islets or
      “holms” that stud the Norwegian coast, and there let them fight it
      out. Hence “holmgang”=duel.

Footnote 9:

      “At knæsætte” = to knee-set a child, to take it on one’s knee, an
      irrevocable form of adoption.

Footnote 10:

      The giants or Titans of Scandinavian mythology.

Footnote 11:

      Breastplate.

Footnote 12:

      “Draugen,” a vague and horrible sea-monster.

Footnote 13:

      Literally the “blood-night.”

Footnote 14:

      The “Nornir” were the Fates of northern mythology.

Footnote 15:

      The Valkyries.

Footnote 16:

      Holmgang—see note, p. 19.

Footnote 17:

      Bragi, the god of poetry and eloquence.

Footnote 18:

      See note, p. 72.

Footnote 19:

      Suttung was a giant who kept guard over the magic mead of poetical
      inspiration.

Footnote 20:

      The word “wraith” is here used in an obviously inexact sense; but
      the wraith seemed to be the nearest equivalent in English
      mythology to the Scandinavian “fylgie,” an attendant spirit, often
      regarded as a sort of emanation from the person it accompanied,
      and sometimes (as in this case) typifying that person’s moral
      attributes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             THE PRETENDERS
                                 (1863)




                              CHARACTERS.

    HÅKON HÅKONSSON, _the King elected by the Birchlegs._
    INGA OF VARTEIG, _his mother._
    EARL SKULE.
    LADY RAGNHILD, _his wife._
    SIGRID, _his sister._
    MARGRETE, _his daughter._
    GUTHORM INGESSON.
    SIGURD RIBBUNG.
    NICHOLAS ARNESSON, _Bishop of Oslo._
    DAGFINN THE PEASANT, _Håkon’s marshal._
    IVAR BODDE, _his chaplain._
    VEGARD VÆRADAL, _one of his guard._
    GREGORIUS JONSSON, _a nobleman._
    PAUL FLIDA, _a nobleman._
    INGEBORG, _Andres Skialdarband’s wife._
    PETER, _her son, a young priest._
    SIRA VILIAM, _Bishop Nicholas’s chaplain._
    MASTER SIGARD OF BRABANT, _a physician._
    JATGEIR SKALD,_ an Icelander._
    BÅRD BRATTE, _a chieftain from the Trondhiem district._
    _Populace and Citizens of Bergen, Oslo, and Nidaros._
    _Priests, Monks, and Nuns._
    _Guests, Guards, and Ladies._
    _Men-at-Arms, etc. etc._

      _The action passes in the first half of the Thirteenth Century._

    _Pronunciation of Names_: Håkon=Hoakoon (“oa” as in “board”);
    Skule=Skoolë; Margrete=Margraytë; Guthorm=Gootorm; Sigurd
    Ribbung=Sigoord Ribboong; Dagfinn (“a” as in “hard”); Ivar
    Bodde=Eevar Boddë; Vegard=Vaygard; Jonsson=Yoonson; Flida=Fleeda;
    Ingeborg=Ingheborg; Jatgeir=Yatgheir; Bård Bratte=Board Brattë. The
    name “Ingeborg” appears as “Ingebjörg” in Ibsen’s text. The form I
    have substituted is equally current in Norway, and less troublesome
    to pronounce.




                              THE PRETENDERS.
                        HISTORIC PLAY IN FIVE ACTS.


                             --------------


                               ACT FIRST.


    _The churchyard of Christ Church, Bergen. At the back rises the
          church, the main portal of which faces the spectators. In
          front, on the left, stands_ HÅKON HÅKONSSON, _with_ DAGFINN
          THE PEASANT, VEGARD OF VÆRADAL, IVAR BODDE, _and several other
          nobles and chieftains. Opposite to him stand_ EARL SKULE,
          GREGORIUS JONSSON, PAUL FLIDA, _and others of the Earl’s men.
          Further back on the same side are seen_ SIGURD RIBBUNG _and
          his followers, and a little way from him_ GUTHORM INGESSON,
          _with several chiefs. Men-at-arms line the approaches to the
          church; the common people fill the churchyard; many are
          perched in the trees and seated on the walls; all seem to
          await, in suspense, the occurrence of some event. All the
          church bells of the town are ringing far and near._

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Softly and impatiently, to_ GREGORIUS JONSSON.] Why tarry they so
    long in there?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Hush! The psalm is beginning.

            [_From inside the closed church doors, to the accompaniment
                of trumpets, is heard a_ CHOIR OF MONKS AND NUNS
                _singing_ Domine cœli, _etc. etc. While the singing
                is going on, the church door is opened from inside; in
                the porch_ BISHOP NICHOLAS _is seen, surrounded by
                Priests and Monks._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Steps forward to the doorway and proclaims with uplifted
    crozier._] Inga of Varteig is even now bearing the iron on behalf of
    Håkon the Pretender.

            [_The church door is closed again; the singing inside
                continues._

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_In a low voice, to the_ EARL.] Call upon Holy King Olaf to protect
    the right.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Hurriedly, with a deprecating gesture._] Not now. Best not remind
    him of me.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_Seizing_ HÅKON _by the arm._] Pray to the Lord thy God, Håkon
    Håkonsson.

                                   HÅKON.

    No need; I am sure of him.

            [_The singing in the church grows louder; all uncover; many
                fall upon their knees and pray._

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_To the_ EARL.] A solemn hour for you and for many!

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Looking anxiously towards the church._] A solemn hour for Norway.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Near the_ EARL.] Now is the glowing iron in her hands.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Beside_ HÅKON.] They are coming down the nave.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    Christ protect thy tender hands, Inga, mother of the King!

                                   HÅKON.

    Surely all my life shall reward her for this hour.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Who has been listening intently, breaks out suddenly._] Did she
    cry out? Has she let the iron fall?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Goes up._] I know not what it was.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Hark to the women weeping in the outer hall!

                          THE CHOIR IN THE CHURCH.

    [_Breaks forth in jubilation._] Gloria in excelsis Deo!

            [_The doors are thrown open._ INGA _comes forth, followed by
                Nuns, Priests, and Monks._

                                   INGA.

    [_On the church steps._] God has given judgment! Behold these hands;
    with them I bore the iron!

                       VOICES AMONGST THE MULTITUDE.

    They are tender and white as before!

                               OTHER VOICES.

    Fairer still!

                            THE WHOLE MULTITUDE.

    He is Håkon’s son! He is Sverre’s[21] grandson!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Embraces her._] Thanks to thee, thanks to thee, blessed among
    women!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_In passing, to the_ EARL.] ’Twas ill done to press for the ordeal.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Nay, my lord Bishop, needs must we pray for God’s voice in this
    matter.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Deeply moved, holding_ INGA _by the hand._] It is done, then, that
    which my every fibre cried out against—that which has made my heart
    shrivel and writhe within me——

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Turning towards the multitude._] Ay, look upon this woman and
    bethink you, all that are gathered here! Who ever doubted her word,
    until certain folk required that it should be doubted.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Doubt has whispered in every corner from the hour when Håkon the
    Pretender was borne, a little child, into King Inge’s[22] hall.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    And last winter it swelled to a roar, and sounded forth over the
    land, both north and south; I trow every man can bear witness to
    that.

                                   HÅKON.

    I myself can best bear witness to it. Therefore have I yielded to
    the counsel of many faithful friends, and humbled myself as no other
    chosen king has done for many a day. I have proved my birth by the
    ordeal, proved my right, as the son of Håkon Sverresson, to succeed
    to the throne of Norway. I will not now question who fostered the
    doubt, and made it, as the Earl’s kinsman says, swell into a roar;
    but this I know, that I have suffered bitterly under it. I have been
    chosen king from boyhood, but little kingly honour has been shown
    me, even where it seemed I might look for it most securely. I will
    but remind you of last Palm Sunday in Nidaros,[23] when I went up to
    the altar to make my offering, and the Archbishop turned away and
    made as though he saw me not, to escape greeting me as kings are
    wont to be greeted. Yet such slights I could easily have borne, had
    not open war been like to break loose in the land; that I must needs
    hinder.

                                  DAGFINN.

    It may be well for kings to hearken to counsels of prudence; but had
    my counsel been heard in this matter, it had not been with hot iron,
    but with cold steel that Håkon Håkonsson had called for judgment
    between himself and his foes.

                                   HÅKON.

    Curb yourself, Dagfinn; think what beseems the man who is to be
    foremost in the State.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_With a slight smile._] ’Tis easy to call every one the King’s foe
    who chimes not with the King’s will. Methinks _he_ is the King’s
    worst foe who would counsel him against making good his right to the
    kingship.

                                   HÅKON.

    Who knows? Were my right alone in question, mayhap I had not paid so
    dear to prove it; but higher things are here at stake: my calling
    and my duty. Deep and warm is the faith within me—and I blush not to
    own it—that I alone am he who in these times can sway the land to
    its weal. Kingly birth begets kingly duty——

                                EARL SKULE.

    There are others here who bear themselves the like fair witness.

                              SIGURD RIBBUNG.

    That do I, and with full as good ground. My grandfather was King
    Magnus Erlingsson——

                                   HÅKON.

    Ay, if your father, Erling Steinvæg, was indeed King Magnus’s son;
    but most folk deny it, and in that matter none has yet faced the
    ordeal.

                              SIGURD RIBBUNG.

    The Ribbungs chose me as king of their own free will, whereas ’twas
    by threats that Dagfinn the Peasant and other Birchlegs[24] gained
    for you the name of King.

                                   HÅKON.

    Ay, so ill had you dealt with Norway that the stock of Sverrë had to
    claim its right with threats.

                             GUTHORM INGESSON.

    I am of the stock of Sverrë as much as you——

                                  DAGFINN.

    But not in the true male line.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    You come on the spindle side, Guthorm.

                             GUTHORM INGESSON.

    Yet this I know, that my father, Ingë Bårdsson, was lawfully chosen
    king of Norway.

                                   HÅKON.

    Because none knew that Sverrë’s grandson was alive. From the day
    that became known, he held the kingdom in trust for me—not
    otherwise.

                                EARL SKULE.

    That cannot truly be said; Ingë was king all his days, with all
    lawful power and without reserve. ’Tis true enough that Guthorm has
    but little claim, for he was born out of wedlock; but I am King
    Ingë’s lawfully begotten brother, and the law is with me if I claim,
    and take, his full inheritance.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Ah, Sir Earl, of a truth you have taken full inheritance, not of
    your father’s wealth alone, but of all the goods Håkon Sverresson
    left behind him.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Not all, good Dagfinn. Respect the truth;—King Håkon has kept a
    brooch and the golden ring he wears on his arm.

                                   HÅKON.

    Be that as it will; with God’s help I shall win myself wealth again.
    And now, ye barons and thanes, ye churchmen and chieftains and
    men-at-arms, now it is time we held the folkmote, as has been
    agreed. I have sat with bound hands until this day; methinks no man
    will blame me for longing to have them loosed.

                                EARL SKULE.

    There are others in like case, Håkon Håkonsson.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_His attention arrested._] What mean you, Sir Earl?

                                EARL SKULE.

    I mean that all we Pretenders have the same cause for longing. We
    have all alike been straitly bound, for none of us has known how far
    his right might reach.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The Church has been even as unstable as the kingdom; but now must we
    abide by the sainted King Olaf’s law.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Half aloud._] Fresh subtleties!

                            [HÅKON’S _men gather more closely together._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_With forced calmness, advances a couple of paces towards the_
    EARL.] I would fain think I have not rightly taken your meaning. The
    ordeal has made good my birthright to the kingdom, and therefore, as
    I deem, the folkmote has nought to do but to confirm my election,
    made at the Örething[25] six years ago.

                  SEVERAL OF THE EARL’S AND SIGURD’S MEN.

    No, no! That we deny!

                                EARL SKULE.

    ’Twas with no such thought that we agreed to hold the folkmote here.
    The ordeal has not given you the kingdom; it has but proved your
    title to come forward to-day, along with the other Pretenders here
    present, and contend for the right you hold to be yours——

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Constraining himself to be calm._] That means, in brief, that for
    six years I have unlawfully borne the name of King, and you, Sir
    Earl, have for six years unlawfully ruled the land as regent for me.

                                EARL SKULE.

    In no wise. When my brother died, ’twas needful that some one should
    bear the kingly title. The Birchlegs, and most of all Dagfinn the
    Peasant, were active in your cause, and hastened your election
    through before we others could set forth our claims.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_To_ HÅKON.] The Earl would say that that election gave you but the
    use of the kingly power, not the right to it.

                                EARL SKULE.

    You have held all the marks of kingship; but Sigurd Ribbung and
    Guthorm Ingesson and I hold ourselves to the full as near inheritors
    as you; and now shall the law judge between us, and say whose shall
    be the inheritance for all time.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    In truth, Earl Skule reads the case aright.

                                EARL SKULE.

    There has been talk more than once in these years of both ordeal and
    folkmote; but something has ever come between. And, Sir Håkon, if
    you deemed your right for ever fixed by the first election, how came
    you to accept the ordeal?

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Exasperated._] To your swords, King’s men, let _them_ decide!

                          MANY OF THE KING’S MEN.

    [_Rushing forward._] Down with the King’s enemies!

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Calls to his men._] Slay none! Wound none! Only keep them off.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Restraining his men._] Up with your blades, all who have drawn
    them!—Up with your blades, I say! [_Calmly._] You make things
    tenfold worse for me by such doings.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Even so are men flying at each other’s throats all the country over.
    You see now, Håkon Håkonsson; does not this show clearly what you
    have to do, if you care aught for the country’s peace and the lives
    of men?

                                   HÅKON.

    [_After some reflection._] Yes—I see it. [_Takes_ INGA _by the hand
    and turns to one of those standing by him._] Torkell, you were a
    trusty man in my father’s guard; take this woman to your own abode
    and see you tend her well; she was very dear to Håkon
    Sverresson.—God bless you, my mother,—now I must gird me for the
    folkmote. [INGA _presses his hand, and goes with_ TORKELL. HÅKON _is
    silent awhile, then steps forward and says with emphasis:_] The law
    shall decide, and it alone. Ye Birchlegs who, at the Örething, took
    me for your King, I free you from the oath ye sware to me. You,
    Dagfinn, are no longer my marshal; I will not appear with marshal or
    with guard,[26] with vassals or with henchmen. I am a poor man; all
    my inheritance is a brooch and this gold ring;—these are scant goods
    wherewith to reward so many good men’s service. Now, ye other
    Pretenders, now we stand equal; I will have no advantage of you,
    save the right which I have from above—that I neither can nor will
    share with any one.—Let the assembly-call be sounded, and then let
    God and the Holy King Olaf’s law decide.

            [_Goes out with his men to the left; blasts of trumpets and
                horns are heard in the distance._

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_To the_ EARL, _as the crowd is departing._] Methought you seemed
    afraid during the ordeal, and now you look so glad and of good
    cheer.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Well at ease._] Marked you that he had Sverre’s eyes as he spoke?
    Whether he or I be chosen king, the choice will be good.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Uneasily._] But do not you give way. Think of all who stand or
    fall with your cause.

                                EARL SKULE.

    I stand now upon justice; I no longer fear to call upon Saint Olaf.

                             [_Goes out to the left with his followers._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Hastening after_ DAGFINN THE PEASANT.] All goes well, good
    Dagfinn, all goes well;—but keep the Earl far from the King when he
    is chosen;—see you keep them far apart!

                           [_All go out to the left, behind the church._

                             --------------

    _A hall in the Palace. In front, on the left, is a low window; on
          the right, the entrance-door; at the back, a larger door which
          leads into the King’s Hall. By the window, a table; chairs and
          benches stand about._

      LADY RAGNHILD _and_ MARGRETE _enter by the smaller door;_ SIGRID
                           _follows immediately._

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    In here?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Ay, here it is darkest.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Goes to the window._] And here we can look down upon the
    mote-stead.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Looks out cautiously._] Ay, there they are, all gathered behind
    the church. [_Turns, in tears._] Yonder must now betide what will
    bring so much in its train.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Who will be master in this hall to-morrow?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh, hush! So heavy a day I had never thought to see.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    It had to be; to rule in another’s name was no full work for him.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Ay, it had to be; _he_ could never rest content with but the name of
    king.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Of whom speak you?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Of Håkon.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    I spoke of the Earl.

                                 MARGRETE.

    There breathe not nobler men than they two.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    See you Sigurd Ribbung? With what a look of evil cunning he sits
    there—like a wolf in chains.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Ay, see!—He folds his hands before him on his sword-hilt and rests
    his chin upon them.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    He bites his beard and laughs——

                                 MARGRETE.

    ’Tis an evil laugh.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    He knows that none will further his cause;—’tis that which makes him
    wroth. Who is yonder thane that speaks now?

                                 MARGRETE.

    That is Gunnar Grionbak.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Is he for the Earl?

                                 MARGRETE.

    No, he is for the King——

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Looking at her._] For whom say you?

                                 MARGRETE.

    For Håkon Håkonsson.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Looks out; after a short pause._] Where sits Guthorm Ingesson?—I
    see him not.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Behind his men, lowest of all there—in a long mantle.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Ay, there.

                                 MARGRETE.

    He looks as though he were ashamed——

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    That is for his mother’s sake.

                                 MARGRETE.

    So looked not Håkon.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Who speaks now?

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Looking out._] Tord Skolle, the thane of Ranafylke.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Is _he_ for the Earl?

                                 MARGRETE.

    No—for Håkon.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    How motionless the Earl sits listening!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Håkon seems thoughtful—but strong none the less. [_With animation._]
    If there came a traveller from afar, he could pick out those two
    amongst all the thousand others.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    See, Margrete! Dagfinn the Peasant drags forth a gilded chair for
    Håkon——

                                 MARGRETE.

    Paul Flida places one like it behind the Earl——

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Håkon’s men seek to hinder it!

                                 MARGRETE.

    The Earl holds fast to the chair——!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Håkon speaks wrathfully to him. [_Starts back, with a cry, from the
    window._] Lord Jesus! Saw you his eyes—and his smile——! No, that was
    not the Earl!

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Who has followed her in terror._] ’Twas not Håkon either! Neither
    one nor the other!

                                  SIGRID.

    [_At the window._] Oh pitiful! Oh pitiful!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Sigrid!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    You here!

                                  SIGRID.

    Goes the path so low that leads up to the throne!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh, pray with us, that all be guided for the best.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_White and horror-stricken, to_ SIGRID.] Saw you him——? Saw you my
    husband——? His eyes and his smile—I should not have known him!

                                  SIGRID.

    Looked he like Sigurd Ribbung?

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Softly._] Ay, he looked like Sigurd Ribbung.

                                  SIGRID.

    Laughed he like Sigurd?

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Ay, ay!

                                  SIGRID.

    Then must we all pray.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_With the force of despair._] The Earl _must_ be chosen King!
    ’Twill work ruin in his soul if he be not the first man in the land!

                                  SIGRID.

    [_More loudly._] Then must we all pray!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Hist! What is _that_? [_At the window._] What shouts! All the men
    have risen; all the banners and standards wave in the wind.

                                  SIGRID.

    [_Seizes her by the arm._] Pray, woman! Pray for your husband!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Ay, Holy King Olaf, give him all the power in this land!

                                  SIGRID.

    [_Wildly._] None—none! Else is he lost!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    He _must_ have the power. All the good in him will grow and blossom
    should he win it.—Look forth, Margrete! Listen! [_Starts back a
    step._] All hands are lifted for an oath!

                                      [MARGRETE _listens at the window._

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    God and St. Olaf, to whom do they swear?

                                  SIGRID.

    Pray!

            [MARGRETE _listens, and with uplifted hand motions for
                silence._

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_After a little while._] Speak!

            [_From the mote-stead is heard a loud blast of trumpets and
                horns._

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    God and St. Olaf! To whom have they sworn?

                                                       [_A short pause._

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Turns her head and says:_] They have chosen Håkon Håkonsson king.

            [_The music of the royal procession is heard, first in the
                distance and then nearer and nearer._ LADY RAGNHILD
                _clings weeping to_ SIGRID, _who leads her quietly out
                on the right;_ MARGRETE _remains immovable, leaning
                against the window-frame. The_ KING’S _attendants open
                the great doors, disclosing the interior of the Hall,
                which is gradually filled by the procession from the
                mote-stead._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_In the doorway, turning to_ IVAR BODDE.] Bring me a pen and wax
    and silk—I have parchment here. [_Advances exultantly to the table
    and spreads some rolls of parchment upon it._] Margrete, now am I
    King!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Hail to my lord and King!

                                   HÅKON.

    I thank you. [_Looks at her and takes her hand._] Forgive me; I
    forgot that it must wound you.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Drawing her hand away._] It did not wound me;—of a surety you are
    born to be king.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_With animation._] Ay, must not all men own it, who remember how
    marvellously God and the saints have shielded me from all harm? I
    was but a year old when the Birchlegs bore me over the mountains, in
    frost and storm, and through the very midst of those who sought my
    life. At Nidaros I came scatheless from the Baglers[27] when they
    burnt the town with so great a slaughter, while King Ingë himself
    barely saved his life by climbing on shipboard up the anchor-cable.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Your youth has been a hard one.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Looking steadily at her._] Methinks you might have made it easier.

                                 MARGRETE.

    I?

                                   HÅKON.

    You might have been so good a foster-sister to me, through all the
    years when we were growing up together.

                                 MARGRETE.

    But it fell out otherwise.

                                   HÅKON.

    Ay, it fell out otherwise;—we looked at each other, I from my
    corner, you from yours, but we seldom spoke——[_Impatiently._] What
    is keeping him? [IVAR BODDE _comes with the writing materials._] Are
    you there? Give me the things!

            [HÅKON _seats himself at the table and writes. A little
                while after,_ EARL SKULE comes in; then DAGFINN THE
                PEASANT, BISHOP NICHOLAS _and_ VEGARD VÆRADAL.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Looks up and lays down his pen._] Know you, Sir Earl, what I am
    writing here? [_The_ EARL _approaches._] This is to my mother; I
    thank her for all her love, and kiss her a thousand times—here in
    the letter you understand. She is to be sent eastward to
    Borgasyssel, there to live with all queenly honours.

                                EARL SKULE.

    You will not keep her in the palace?

                                   HÅKON.

    She is too dear to me, Earl;—a king must have none about him whom he
    loves too well. A king must act with free hands; he must stand alone
    he must neither be led nor lured. There is so much to be mended in
    Norway.

                                                     [_Goes on writing._

                              VEGARD VÆRADAL.

    [_Softly to_ BISHOP NICHOLAS.] ’Tis by _my_ counsel he deals thus
    with Inga, his mother.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I knew your hand in it at once.

                              VEGARD VÆRADAL.

    But now one good turn deserves another.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Wait. I will keep my promise.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Gives the parchment to_ IVAR BODDE.] Fold it together and bear it
    to her yourself, with many loving greetings——

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_Who has glanced at the parchment._] My lord—you write
    here—“to-day”——!

                                   HÅKON.

    The wind is fair for a southward course.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Slowly._] Bethink you, my lord King, that she has lain all night
    on the altar-steps in prayer and fasting.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    And she may well be weary after the ordeal.

                                   HÅKON.

    True, true;—my good, kind mother—— [_Collects himself._] Well, if
    she be too weary, let her wait until to-morrow.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    It shall be as you will. [_Puts another parchment forward._] But
    this other, my lord.

                                   HÅKON.

    That other?—Ivar Bodde, I cannot.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Points to the letter for_ INGA.] Yet you could do _that_.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    All things sinful must be put away.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Who has drawn near in the meantime._] Bind the Earl’s hands, King
    Håkon.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_In a low voice._] Think you _that_ is needful?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    At no cheaper rate can you buy peace in the land.

                                   HÅKON.

    Then I can do it! Give me the pen!

                                                              [_Writes._

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_To the_ BISHOP, _who crosses to the right._] You have the King’s
    ear, it would seem.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    For your behoof.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Say you so?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Before nightfall you will thank me.

                                                       [_He moves away._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Hands the_ EARL _the parchment._] Read that, Earl Skule.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Reads, looks in surprise at the_ KING, _and says in a low voice._]
    You break with Kanga the Young?

                                   HÅKON.

    With Kanga whom I have loved more than all the world. From this day
    forth she must never more cross the King’s path.

                                EARL SKULE.

    This that you do is a great thing, Håkon. Mine own memory tells me
    what it must cost.

                                   HÅKON.

    Whoever is too dear to the King must away.—Tie up the letter.
    [_Gives it to_ IVAR BODDE.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Bending over the chair._] You have made a great stride towards the
    Earl’s friendship, my lord King.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Holds out his hand to him._] I thank you, Bishop Nicholas; you
    counselled me for the best. Ask a grace of me, and I will grant it.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Will you?

                                   HÅKON.

    I promise it on my kingly faith.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Then make Vegard Væradal thane of Halogaland.

                                   HÅKON.

    Vegard? He is well-nigh the trustiest friend I have; I am loath to
    send him so far from me.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The King’s friend must be royally rewarded. Bind the Earl’s hands as
    I have counselled you, and you will be secure for ever and a day.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Takes a sheet of parchment._] Vegard shall bear rule in
    Halogaland. [_Writing._] I hereby grant it under my royal hand.
    [_The Bishop retires._

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Approaches the table._] What write you now?

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Hands him the sheet._] Read.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Reads, and looks steadily at the_ KING.] Vegard Væradal? In
    Halogaland?

                                   HÅKON.

    The northern part stands vacant.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Bethink you that Andres Skialdarband[28] has also a charge in the
    north. They two are bitter foes;—Andres Skialdarband is of my
    following——

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Smiling and rising._] And Vegard Væradal of mine. Therefore they
    must e’en make friends again, the sooner the better. Henceforth
    there must be no enmity between the King’s men and the Earl’s.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ha!—this may go too far. [_Approaches, uneasy._

                                EARL SKULE.

    Your thoughts are wise and deep, Håkon.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Warmly._] Earl Skule, to-day have I taken the kingdom from you—let
    your daughter share it with me!

                                EARL SKULE.

    My daughter!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh, God!

                                   HÅKON.

    Margrete, will you be my Queen?

    [_Margrete is silent._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Takes her hand._] Answer me.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Softly._] I will gladly be your wife.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Pressing Håkon’s hand._] Peace and friendship from my heart!

                                   HÅKON.

    I thank you.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_To_ DAGFINN.] Heaven be praised; here is the dawn.

                                  DAGFINN.

    I almost believe it. Never before have I liked the Earl so well.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Behind him._] Ever on your guard, good Dagfinn—ever on your guard.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_To_ VEGARD.] Now are you thane in Halogaland; here you have it
    under the King’s hand.

                                                [_Gives him the letter._

                              VEGARD VÆRADAL.

    I will thank the King for his favour another time.

                                                         [_About to go._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Stops him._] Andres Skialdarband is an ugly neighbour; be not
    cowed by him.

                              VEGARD VÆRADAL.

    No one has yet cowed Vegard Væradal. [_Goes._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Following._] Be as rock and flint to Andres Skialdarband,—and,
    while I think on’t, take my blessing with you.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_Who has been waiting behind the_ KING _with the parchments in his
    hand._] Here are the letters, my lord.

                                   HÅKON.

    Good; give them to the Earl.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    To the Earl? Will you not seal them?

                                   HÅKON.

    The Earl is wont to do that;—he holds the seal.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_Softly._] Ay, hitherto—while he was regent—but _now_!

                                   HÅKON.

    Now as before;—the Earl holds the seal.

    [_Moves away._

                                EARL SKULE.

    Give me the letters, Ivar Bodde.

            [_Goes to the table with them, takes out the Great Seal
                which he wears under his girdle, and seals the letters
                during the following._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Muttering._] Håkon Håkonsson is King—and the Earl holds the royal
    seal;—I like that—I like that.

                                   HÅKON.

    What says my lord Bishop?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I say that God and St. Olaf watch over their holy church. [_Goes
    into the King’s Hall._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Approaching Margrete._] A wise queen can do great things in the
    land: I chose you fearlessly, for I know you are wise.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Only _that_?

                                   HÅKON.

    What mean you?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Nothing, my lord, nothing.

                                   HÅKON.

    And you will bear me no grudge if for my sake you have had to forgo
    fair hopes?

                                 MARGRETE.

    I have forgone no fair hopes for your sake.

                                   HÅKON.

    And you will stand ever near me, and give me good counsel?

                                 MARGRETE.

    I would fain stand near to you.

                                   HÅKON.

    And give me good counsel. I thank you for that; a woman’s counsel
    profits every man, and henceforth I have none but you—my mother I
    had to send away——

                                 MARGRETE.

    Ay, she was too dear to you——

                                   HÅKON.

    And I am King. Farewell then, Margrete! You are so young yet; but
    next summer shall our bridal be,—and from that hour I swear to keep
    you by my side in all seemly faith and honour.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Smiles sadly._] Ay, ’twill be long, I know, ere you send me away.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Brightly._] Send you away? That will I never do.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_With tears in her eyes._] No, that Håkon does only to those who
    are too dear to him.

            [_She goes towards the entrance door._ HÅKON _gazes
                thoughtfully after her._

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_From the right._] The King and the Earl tarry here so long! My
    fears are killing me;—Margrete, what has the King said and done?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh, much, much! Last of all, he chose a thane and a Queen.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    You, Margrete!

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Throws her arms round her mother’s neck._] Yes!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    You are to be Queen!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Queen only;—but I think I am glad even of that.

                              [_She and her mother go out to the right._

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_To_ IVAR BODDE.] Here are our letters; bear them to the King’s
    mother and to Kanga.

                                            [IVAR BODDE _bows and goes._

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_In the doorway of the hall._] The Archbishop of Nidaros craves
    leave to offer King Håkon Håkonsson his homage.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Draws a deep breath._] At last, then, I am King of Norway.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Places the Great Seal in his girdle._] But _I_ rule the realm.




                              ACT SECOND.


    _Banquet Hall in the Palace at Bergen. A large bay-window in the
          middle of the back wall, along which there is a daïs with
          seats for the ladies. Against the left wall stands the throne,
          raised some steps above the floor; in the centre of the
          opposite wall is the great entrance door. Banners, standards,
          shields and weapons, with many-coloured draperies, hang from
          the wall-timbers and from the carven rafters. Around the hall
          stand drinking-tables, with flagons, horns, and beakers._

    KING HÅKON_ sits upon the daïs, with_ MARGRETE, SIGRID, LADY
          RAGNHILD, _and many noble ladies._ IVAR BODDE _stands behind
          the King’s chair. Round the drinking-tables are seated the
          King’s and the Earl’s men, with guests. At the foremost table
          on the right sit, among others,_ DAGFINN THE PEASANT,
          GREGORIUS JONSSON, _and_ PAUL FLIDA. EARL SKULE _and_ BISHOP
          NICHOLAS _are playing chess at a table on the left. The Earl’s
          house-folk go to and fro, bearing cans of liquor. From an
          adjoining room, music is heard during the following scene._

                                  DAGFINN.

    The fifth day now wears on, yet the henchmen are none the less
    nimble at setting forth the brimming flagons.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    It was never the Earl’s wont to stint his guests.

                                  DAGFINN.

    No, so it would seem. So royal a bridal-feast was never seen in
    Norway before.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Earl Skule has never before given a daughter in marriage.

                                  DAGFINN.

    True, true; the Earl is a mighty man.

                               A MAN-AT-ARMS.

    He holds a third part of the kingdom. That is more than any earl has
    held heretofore.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    But the King’s part is larger.

                                  DAGFINN.

    We talk not of that here; we are friends now, and fully at one.
    [_Drinks to_ PAUL.] So let King be King and Earl be Earl.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Laughs._] ’Tis easy to hear that you are a King’s man.

                                  DAGFINN.

    That should the Earl’s men also be.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Never. We have sworn fealty to the Earl, not to the King.

                                  DAGFINN.

    That may yet have to be done.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_To the_ EARL, _under cover of the game._] Hear you what Dagfinn
    the Peasant says?

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Without looking up._] I hear.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Looking steadily at_ DAGFINN.] Has the King thoughts of that?

                                  DAGFINN.

    Nay, nay,—let be;—no wrangling to-day.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The King would force your men to swear him fealty, Earl.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Louder._] Has the King thoughts of that, I ask?

                                  DAGFINN.

    I will not answer. Let us drink to peace and friendship between the
    King and the Earl. The ale is good.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    It has had time enough to mellow.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Three times has the Earl prepared the bridal—three times the King
    promised to come—three times he came not.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Blame the Earl for _that_: he gave us plenty to do in Viken.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    ’Tis said Sigurd Ribbung gave you still more to do in Vermeland.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Flaring up._] Ay, and who was it that let Sigurd Ribbung slip
    through their fingers?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Sigurd Ribbung fled from us at Nidaros, that all men know.

                                  DAGFINN.

    But no man knows that you did aught to hinder him.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_To the_ EARL, _who is pondering on a move._] Hear you, Earl? It
    was you who let Sigurd Ribbung escape.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Makes a move._] That is an old story.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Have you not heard, then, of the Icelander Andres Torsteinsson,
    Sigurd Ribbung’s friend——

                                  DAGFINN.

    Ay; when Sigurd had escaped, you hanged the Icelander—that I know.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Makes a move and says laughingly to the_ EARL.] I take the pawn,
    Sir Earl.[29]

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Aloud._] Take him; a pawn is of small account.

                                                        [_Makes a move._

                                  DAGFINN.

    Ay; that the Icelander found to his cost, when Sigurd Ribbung
    escaped to Vermeland.

            [_Suppressed laughter amongst the King’s men; the
                conversation is continued in a low tone; presently a man
                comes in and whispers to_ GREGORIUS JONSSON.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Then I move here, and you have lost.

                                EARL SKULE.

    So it would seem.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Leaning back in his chair._] You did not guard the king well at
    the last.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Strews the pieces topsy-turvy and rises._] I have long been weary
    of guarding kings.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Approaches and says in a low tone._] Sir Earl, Jostein[30] Tamb
    sends word that the ship now lies ready for sea.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Softly._] Good. [_Takes out a sealed parchment._] Here is the
    letter.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Shaking his head._] Earl, Earl,—is _this_ well bethought?

                                EARL SKULE.

    What?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    It bears the King’s seal.

                                EARL SKULE.

    I am acting for the King’s good.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Then let the King himself reject the offer.

                                EARL SKULE.

    That he will not, if he has his own way. His whole heart is bent on
    cowing the Ribbungs, therefore he is fain to secure himself on other
    sides.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Your way may be wise,—but it is dangerous.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Leave that to me. Take the letter, and bid Jostein sail forthwith.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    It shall be as you command.

    [_Goes out to the right, and presently comes in again._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_To the_ EARL.] You have much to see to, it would seem.

                                EARL SKULE.

    But small thanks for it.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The King has risen.

            [HÅKON _comes down; all the men rise from the tables._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_To the_ BISHOP.] We are rejoiced to see you bear up so bravely and
    well through all these days of merriment.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    There comes a flicker now and again, my lord King; but ’twill scarce
    last long. I have lain sick all the winter through.

                                   HÅKON.

    Ay, ay,—you have lived a strong life, rich in deeds of fame.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Shakes his head._] Ah, ’tis little enough I have done, and I have
    _much_ still left to do. If I but knew whether I should have time
    for it all!

                                   HÅKON.

    The living must take up the tasks of those who go before, honoured
    lord; we all have the welfare of the land at heart. [_Turns to the_
    EARL.] I marvel much at one thing: that neither of our thanes from
    Halogaland has come to the bridal.

                                EARL SKULE.

    True; I doubted not that Andres Skialdarband would be here.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Smiling._] And Vegard Væradal too.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Ay, Vegard too.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_In jest._] And I trust you would now have received my old friend
    better than you did seven years ago on Oslo wharf, when you stabbed
    him in the cheek so that the blade cut its way out.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_With a forced laugh._] Ay, the time that Gunnulf, your mother’s
    brother, cut off the right hand of Sira Eiliv, my best friend and
    counsellor.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Merrily._] And when Dagfinn the Peasant and the men-at-arms set a
    strong night-watch on the King’s ship, saying that the King was
    unsafe in the Earl’s ward?

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Seriously._] Those days are old and forgotten.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Approaching._] Now may we sound the call to the weapon-sports on
    the green, if so please you, my lord.

                                   HÅKON.

    Good. To-day will we give up to nought but merriment; to-morrow we
    must turn our thoughts again to the Ribbungs and the Earl of Orkney.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, he denies to pay tribute, is it not so?

                                   HÅKON.

    Were I once well rid of the Ribbungs, I would myself fare westward.

    [HÅKON _goes towards the daïs, gives his hand to_ MARGRETE, _and
    leads her out to the right; the others gradually follow._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_To_ IVAR BODDE.] Who is the man called Jostein Tamb?

                                IVAR BODDE.

    There is a trader from Orkney who bears that name.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    From Orkney? So, so! And now he sails home again?

                                IVAR BODDE.

    So I think.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Softly._] With a precious freight, Ivar Bodde.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    Corn and raiment, most like.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And a letter from Earl Skule.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_Starting._] To whom?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I know not; it bore the King’s seal——

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_Seizes him by the arm._] Lord Bishop,—is it as you say?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Hush! Do not mix me up in the matter.

    [_Retires._

                                IVAR BODDE.

    Then must I straightway——Dagfinn the Peasant! Dagfinn! Dagfinn——!

                           [_Pushes through the crowd towards the door._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_In a tone of commiseration, to_ GREGORIUS JONSSON.] Never a day
    but one or another must suffer in goods or freedom.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Who is it now?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    A poor trader,—Jostein Tamb methinks they called him.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Jostein——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Dagfinn the Peasant would forbid him to set sail.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Dagfinn, would forbid him, say you?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He went even now.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Pardon, my lord; I must make speed——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, do even so, my dear lord;—Dagfinn the Peasant is so hasty.

            [GREGORIUS JONSSON _hastens out to the right along with the
                remainder of the company; only_ EARL SKULE _and_ BISHOP
                NICHOLAS _are left behind in the hall._

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Walks up and down in deep thought; he seems suddenly to awaken;
    looks round him, and says:_] How still it has become here of a
    sudden!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The King has gone.

                                EARL SKULE.

    And every one has followed him.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    All, save us.

                                EARL SKULE.

    It is a great thing to be King.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Tentatively._] Are you fain to try it, Earl?

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_With a serious smile._] I _have_ tried it; every night that brings
    me sleep makes me King of Norway.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Dreams forbode.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Ay, and tempt.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Not you, surely. In bygone days, that I could understand—but now,
    when you hold a third part of the kingdom, rule as the first man in
    the land, and are the Queen’s father——

                                EARL SKULE.

    Now most of all—now most of all.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Hide nothing! Confess; for verily I can see a great pain is gnawing
    you.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Now most of all, I say. _This_ is the great curse that lies upon my
    whole life: to stand so near to the highest,—with an abyss between.
    One leap, and on the other side are the kingship, and the purple
    robe, the throne, the might, and all! I have it daily before my
    eyes—but can _never_ reach it.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    True, Earl, true.

                                EARL SKULE.

    When they made Guthorm Sigurdsson king, I was in the full strength
    of my youth. It was as though a voice cried aloud within me: Away
    with the child,—I am the man, the strong man!—But Guthorm was the
    king’s son; there yawned an abyss between me and the throne.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And you dared not venture——

                                EARL SKULE.

    Then Erling Steinvæg was chosen by the Slittungs. The voice cried
    within me again: Skule is a greater chieftain than Erling Steinvæg!
    But I must needs have broken with the Birchlegs,—_that_ was the
    abyss that time.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And Erling became king of the Slittungs, and after of the Ribbungs,
    and still you waited!

                                EARL SKULE.

    I waited for Guthorm to die.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And Guthorm died, and Inge Bårdsson, your brother, became king.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Then I waited for my brother’s death. He was sickly from the first;
    every morning, when we met at holy mass, I would cast stolen glances
    to see whether his sickness increased. Every twitch of pain that
    crossed his face was as a puff of wind in my sails, and bore me
    nearer to the throne. Every sigh he breathed in his agony sounded to
    me like an echoing trumpet-blast, like a herald from afar,
    proclaiming that the throne should soon be mine. Thus I tore up by
    the roots every thought of brotherly kindness; and Inge died, and
    Håkon came—and the Birchlegs made _him_ king.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And you waited.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Methought help must come from above. I felt the kingly strength
    within me, and I was growing old; every day that passed was a day
    taken from my life-work. Each evening I thought: To-morrow will come
    the miracle that shall strike him down and set me in the empty seat.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Small was then Håkon’s power; he was no more than a child; it wanted
    but a single step from you—yet you took it not.

                                EARL SKULE.

    That step was hard to take; it would have parted me from my kindred
    and from all my friends.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, _there_ is the rub, Earl Skule,—_that_ is the curse which has
    lain upon your life. You would fain know every way open at need,—you
    dare not break all your bridges and keep only one, defend it alone,
    and on it conquer or fall. You lay snares for your foe, you set
    traps for his feet, and hang sharp swords over his head; you strew
    poison in every dish, and you spread a hundred nets for him; but
    when he walks into your toils you dare not draw the string; if he
    stretch out his hand for the poison, you think it safer he should
    fall by the sword; if he is like to be caught in the morning, you
    hold it wiser to wait till eventide.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Looking earnestly at him._] And what would _you_ do, my lord
    Bishop?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Speak not of me; my work is to build up thrones in this land, not to
    sit on them and rule.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_After a short pause._] Answer me _one_ thing, my honoured lord,
    and answer me truly. How comes it that Håkon can follow the straight
    path so unflinchingly? He is no wiser, no bolder than I.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Who does the greatest work in this world?

                                EARL SKULE.

    The greatest man.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    But who is the greatest man?

                                EARL SKULE.

    The bravest.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    So says the warrior. A priest would say: the man of greatest
    faith,—a philosopher: the most learned. But it is none of these,
    Earl Skule. The most fortunate man[31] is the greatest man. It is
    the most fortunate man that does the greatest deeds—he whom the
    cravings of his time seize like a passion, begetting thoughts he
    himself cannot fathom, and pointing to paths which lead he knows not
    whither, but which he follows and must follow till he hears the
    people shout for joy, and, looking around him with wondering eyes,
    finds that he has done a mighty deed.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Ay, there is that unswerving confidence in Håkon.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    It is that which the Romans called _ingenium_.—Truly I am not strong
    in Latin; but ’twas called _ingenium_.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Thoughtfully at first, afterwards in increasing excitement._] Is
    Håkon made of other clay than mine? The fortunate man?—Ay, does not
    everything thrive with him? Does not everything shape itself for the
    best, when he is concerned? Even the peasants note it; they say the
    trees bear fruit twice, and the fowls hatch out two broods every
    summer, whilst Håkon is king. Vermeland, where he burned and
    harried, stands smiling with its houses built afresh, and its
    cornlands bending heavy-eared before the breeze. ’Tis as though
    blood and ashes fertilised the land where Håkon’s armies pass; ’tis
    as though the Lord clothed with double verdure what Håkon has
    trampled down; ’tis as though the holy powers made haste to blot out
    all evil in his track. And how easy has been his path to the throne!
    He needed that Inge should die early, and Inge died: his youth
    needed to be watched and warded, and his men kept watch and ward
    around him; he needed the ordeal, and his mother arose and bore the
    iron for him.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_With an involuntary outburst._] But we—we two——!

                                EARL SKULE.

    We?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    You, I would say—what of you?

                                EARL SKULE.

    The right is Håkon’s, Bishop.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The right is his, for he is the fortunate one; ’tis even the summit
    of fortune, to have the right. But by what right has Håkon the
    right, and not you?

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_After a short pause._] There are things I pray God to save me from
    thinking upon.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Saw you never an old picture in Christ’s Church at Nidaros? It shows
    the Deluge rising and rising over all the hills, so that there is
    but one single peak left above the waters. Up it clambers a whole
    household, father and mother and son and son’s wife and
    children;—and the son is hurling the father back into the flood to
    gain better footing; and he will cast his mother down and his wife
    and all his children, to win to the top himself;—for up there he
    sees a handsbreadth of ground, where he may keep life in him for an
    hour.—That, Earl, that is the saga of wisdom, and the saga of every
    wise man.

                                EARL SKULE.

    But the right!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The son _had_ the right. He had strength, and the craving for
    life;—fulfil your cravings and use your strength: so much right has
    every man.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Ay, for that which is good.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Words, empty words! There is neither good nor evil, up nor down,
    high nor low. You must forget such words, else will you never take
    the last stride, never leap the abyss. [_In a subdued voice and
    insistently._] You must not hate a party or a cause for that the
    party or the cause would have _this_ and not _that_; but you must
    hate every man of a party for that he is against you, and you must
    hate all who gather round a cause, for that the cause clashes with
    your will. Whatever is helpful to you, is good—whatever lays
    stumbling-blocks in your path is evil.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Gazing thoughtfully before him._] What has that throne not cost
    me, which yet I have not reached! And what has it cost Håkon, who
    now sits in it so securely! I was young, and I forswore my sweet
    secret love to ally myself with a powerful house. I prayed to the
    saints that I might be blessed with a son—I got only daughters.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Håkon will have sons, Earl—mark that!

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Crossing to the window on the right._] Ay—all things fall out to
    Håkon’s wish.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And you—will you suffer yourself to be outlawed from happiness all
    your life through? Are you blind? See you not that it is a stronger
    might than the Birchlegs that stands at Håkon’s back, and furthers
    all his life-work? He has help from above, from—from those that are
    against you—from those that have been your enemies, even from your
    birth! And will you bow before these your enemies? Rouse you, man;
    straighten your back! To what end got you your masterful soul?
    Bethink you that the first great deed in all the world was done by
    one who rose against a mighty realm!

                                EARL SKULE.

    Who?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The angel who rose against the light!

                                EARL SKULE.

    And was hurled into the bottomless pit——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Wildly._] And founded there a kingdom, and made himself a king, a
    mighty king—mightier than any of the ten thousand—earls up yonder!

                            [_Sinks down upon a bench beside the table._

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Looks long at him._] Bishop Nicholas, are you something more or
    something less than a man?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Smiling._] I am in the state of innocence: I know not good from
    evil.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Half to himself._] Why did they send me into the world, if they
    meant not to order it better for me? Håkon has so firm and
    unswerving a faith in himself—all his men have so firm and
    unswerving a faith in him——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Let it not be seen that _you_ have no such faith in yourself! Speak
    as though you had it, swear great oaths that you have it—and all
    will believe you.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Had I a son! Had I but a son, to take all the great heritage after
    me!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Eagerly._] Earl—if you _had_ a son?

                                EARL SKULE.

    I have none.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Håkon will have sons.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Wringing his hands._] And is king-born!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Rising._] Earl—if he were not so?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Has he not proved it? The ordeal——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And if he were not—in spite of the ordeal?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Do you say that God lied in the issue of the ordeal?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    What was it Inga of Varteig called upon God to witness?

                                EARL SKULE.

    That the child she bore in the eastland, in Borgasyssel, was the son
    of Håkon Sverresson.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Nods, looks round, and says softly._] And if King Håkon were not
    that child?

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Starts a step backwards._] Great God——! [_Controls himself._] It
    is beyond belief.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Hearken to me, Earl Skule. I have lived seventy years and six; it
    begins to go sharply downhill with me now, and I dare not take this
    secret with me over yonder——

                                EARL SKULE.

    Speak, speak! Is he not the son of Håkon Sverresson?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Hear me. It was known to none that Inga was with child. Håkon
    Sverresson was lately dead, and doubtless she feared Inge Bårdsson,
    who was then king, and you, and—well, and the Baglers[32] too
    mayhap. She was brought to bed secretly in the house of Trond the
    Priest, in Heggen parish, and after nine days she departed
    homewards; but the child remained a whole year with the priest, she
    not daring to look to it, and none knowing that it breathed saved
    Trond and his two sons.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Ay, ay—and then?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    When the child was a year old, it could scarce be kept hidden
    longer. So Inga made the matter known to Erlend of Huseby—an old
    Birchleg of Sverre’s days, as you know.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Well?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He and other chiefs from the Uplands took the child, bore it over
    the mountains in midwinter, and brought it to the King, who was then
    at Nidaros.

                                EARL SKULE.

    And yet you can say that——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Needless to say, ’twas a dangerous task for a humble priest to rear
    a king’s child. So soon as the child was born, he laid the matter
    before one of his superiors in the church, and prayed for his
    counsel. This his superior bade Trond send the true king’s son with
    secrecy to a place of safety, and give Inga another, if she or the
    Birchlegs should afterwards ask for her child.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Indignantly._] And who was the hound that gave that counsel?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    It was I.

                                EARL SKULE.

    You? Ay, you have ever hated the race of Sverre.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I deemed it not safe for the king’s son to fall into your hands.

                                EARL SKULE.

    But the priest——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Promised to do as I bade.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Seizing him by the arm._] And Håkon is the other child?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    If the priest kept his promise.

                                EARL SKULE.

    _If_ he kept it?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Trond the Priest departed the land the same winter that the child
    was brought to King Inge. He journeyed to Thomas Beckett’s grave,
    and afterwards abode in England till his death.

                                EARL SKULE.

    He departed the land, say you? Then must he have changed the
    children and dreaded the vengeance of the Birchlegs.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Or he did _not_ change the children, and dreaded _my_ vengeance.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Which surmise hold you for the truth?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Either may well be true.

                                EARL SKULE.

    But the priest’s sons of whom you spoke?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    They went with the crusaders to the Holy Land.

                                EARL SKULE.

    And there have since been no tidings of them?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, tidings there have been.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Where are they?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    They were drowned in the Greek Sea on the journey forth.

                                EARL SKULE.

    And Inga——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Knows nought, either of the priest’s confession or of my counsel.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Her child was but nine days old when she left it, you said?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, and the child she next saw was over a year——

                                EARL SKULE.

    Then no living creature can here bring light! [_Paces rapidly to and
    fro._] Almighty God, can this be true? Håkon—the King—he who holds
    sway over all this land, not born of royal blood!—And why should it
    not be like enough? Has not all fortune miraculously followed
    him?—Why not this also, to be taken as a child from a poor cottar’s
    hut and laid in a king’s cradle——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Whilst the whole people believes that he is the king’s son——

                                EARL SKULE.

    Whilst _he himself_ believes it, Bishop—_that_ is the heart of his
    fortune, _that_ is the girdle of strength! [_Goes to the window._]
    See how bravely he sits his horse! None rides as he does. His eyes
    are filled with laughing, dancing sunshine; he looks forth into the
    day as though he knew himself created to go forward, ever forward.
    [_Turns towards the_ BISHOP.] I am a king’s arm, mayhap a king’s
    brain as well; but he is the whole King.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Yet no king after all, mayhap.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Mayhap no king after all.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Lays his hand on the Earl’s shoulder._] Hearken to me, Earl
    Skule——

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Still looking out._] There sits the Queen. Håkon speaks gently to
    her; she turns red and white with joy. He took her to wife because
    it was wise to choose the daughter of the mightiest man in the land.
    There was then no thought of love for her in his heart;—but it will
    come; Håkon has fortune with him. She will shed light over his
    life——[_Stops, and cries out in wonder._] What is _this_?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    What?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Dagfinn the Peasant bursts violently through the crowd. Now he is
    giving the King some tidings.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Looking out from behind the_ EARL.] Håkon seems angered—does he
    not? He clenches his fist——

                                EARL SKULE.

    He looks hitherward—what can it be?

    [_About to go._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Holding him back._] Hearken to me, Earl Skule—there may yet be one
    means of winning assurance as to Håkon’s right.

                                EARL SKULE.

    One means, you say?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Trond the Priest, ere he died, wrote a letter telling his whole
    tale, and took the sacrament in witness of its truth.

                                EARL SKULE.

    And that letter—for God’s pity’s sake—where is it?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    You must know that——[_Looks towards the door._] Hush!—here comes the
    King.

                                EARL SKULE.

    The letter, Bishop—the letter!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The King is here.

    [HÅKON _enters, followed by his Guard and many guests. Immediately
    afterwards,_ MARGRETE _appears; she seems anxious and alarmed, and
    is about to rush up to the King, when she is restrained by_ LADY
    RAGNHILD, _who, with other ladies, has followed her._ SIGRID _stands
    somewhat apart, towards the back. The_ EARL’S _men appear uneasy,
    and gather in a group on the right, where_ SKULE _is standing, but
    some way behind him._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_In strong but repressed excitement._] Earl Skule, who is king in
    this land?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Who is king?

                                   HÅKON.

    That was my question. I bear the kingly title, but who holds the
    kingly might?

                                EARL SKULE.

    The kingly might should dwell with him who has the kingly right.

                                   HÅKON.

    So should it be; but is it so?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Do you summon me to judgment?

                                   HÅKON.

    That do I; for that right I have toward every man in the land.

                                EARL SKULE.

    I fear not to answer for my dealings.

                                   HÅKON.

    Well for us all if you can. [_Mounts a step of throne-daïs, and
    leans upon one arm of the throne._] Here stand I as your king, and
    ask. Know you that Jon, Earl of Orkney, has risen against me?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Yes.

                                   HÅKON.

    That he denies to pay me tribute?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Yes.

                                   HÅKON.

    And is it true that you, Sir Earl, have this day sent him a letter?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Who says so?

                                IVAR BODDE.

    That do I.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Jostein Tamb dared not deny to carry it, since it bore the King’s
    seal.

                                   HÅKON.

    You write to the King’s foes under the King’s seal, although the
    King knows nought of what is written?

                                EARL SKULE.

    So have I done for many a year, with your good will.

                                   HÅKON.

    Ay, in the days of your regency.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Never have you had aught but good thereby. Earl Jon wrote to me
    praying that I would mediate on his behalf; he offered peace, but on
    terms dishonourable to the King. The war in Vermeland has weighed
    much upon your mind; had this matter been left to you, Earl Jon had
    come too lightly off. I can deal better with him.

                                   HÅKON.

    ’Twas our will to deal with him ourself.—And what answer made you?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Read my letter.

                                   HÅKON.

    Give it me!

                                EARL SKULE.

    I deemed you had it.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Nay, you know better than that. Gregorius Jonsson was too swift of
    foot; when we came on board, the letter was gone.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Turns to_ GREGORIUS JONSSON.] Sir Baron, give the King the letter.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Coming close to him, uneasily._] Hearken Earl——!

                                EARL SKULE.

    What now?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Softly._] Bethink you, there were sharp words in it concerning the
    King.

                                EARL SKULE.

    My words I shall answer for. The letter!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    I have it not.

                                EARL SKULE.

    You have it not!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Dagfinn the Peasant was at our heels. I snatched the letter from
    Jostein Tamb, tied a stone to it——

                                EARL SKULE.

    Well?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    It lies at the bottom of the fiord.

                                EARL SKULE.

    You have done ill—ill.

                                   HÅKON.

    I await the letter, Sir Earl.

                                EARL SKULE.

    I cannot give it you.

                                   HÅKON.

    You _cannot_!

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Advancing a step towards the_ KING.] My pride brooks not to be put
    to shifts, as you and your men would call it——

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Controlling his rising wrath._] And so——?

                                EARL SKULE.

    In one word—I _will_ not give it you!

                                   HÅKON.

    Then you defy me!

                                EARL SKULE.

    Since so it must be—yes, I defy you.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    [_Forcibly._] Now, my lord King, I scarce think you or any man can
    now need further proof!

                                  DAGFINN.

    Nay, now I think we know the Earl’s mind.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Coldly, to the_ EARL.] You will hand the Great Seal to Ivar Bodde.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Rushes with clasped hands towards the daïs, where the_ KING _is
    standing._] Håkon, be a kind and gracious husband to me!

            [HÅKON _makes an imperative gesture towards her; she hides
                her face in her veil, and goes up towards her mother
                again._

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_To_ IVAR BODDE.] Here is the Great Seal.

                                IVAR BODDE.

    This was to be the last evening of the feast. It has ended in a
    heavy sorrow for the King; but sooner or later it needs must come,
    and methinks every true man must rejoice that it has come.

                                EARL SKULE.

    And I think every true man must feel bitter wrath to see a priest
    thus make mischief between us Birchlegs;—ay, Birchlegs, I say; for I
    am every whit as good a Birchleg as the King or any of his men. I am
    of the same stock, the stock of Sverre, the kingly stock—but you,
    Priest, you have built up a wall of distrust around the King, and
    shut me out from him; that has been your task this many a year.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Enraged, to the bystanders._] Earl’s men. Shall we abide this
    longer?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Steps forward._] No, we can and will no more abide it. ’Tis time
    to say it plainly—none of the Earl’s men can serve the King in full
    trust and love, so long as Ivar Bodde comes and goes in the palace,
    and makes bad blood between us.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Priest! I bid you look to life and limb, wheresoever I meet you—in
    the field, on shipboard, or in any unconsecrated house.

                              MANY EARL’S MEN.

    I too! I too! You are an outlaw to us!

                                IVAR BODDE.

    God forbid that I should stand between the King and so many mighty
    chieftains.—Håkon, my gracious lord, my soul bears me witness that I
    have served you in all faithfulness. True, I have warned you against
    the Earl; but if I have ever done him wrong, I pray God forgive me.
    Now have I no more to do in the palace; here is your Seal; take it
    into your own hands; there it should have rested long ago.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Who has come down from the daïs._] You shall remain!

                                IVAR BODDE.

    I cannot. If I did, my conscience would gnaw and rend me night and
    day. Greater evil can no man do in these times than to hold the King
    and the Earl asunder.

                                   HÅKON.

    Ivar Bodde, I command you to remain!

                                IVAR BODDE.

    If the Holy King Olaf should rise from his silver shrine to bid me
    stay, still I needs must go. [_Places the Seal in the_ KING’S
    _hand._] Farewell, my noble master! God bless and prosper you in all
    your work!

                            [_Goes out through the crowd, to the right._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Gloomily, to the_ EARL _and his men._] There have I lost a trusty
    friend for your sakes; what requital can you offer to make good that
    loss?

                                EARL SKULE.

    I offer myself and all my friends.

                                   HÅKON.

    I almost fear ’twill not suffice. Now must I gather round me all the
    men I can fully trust. Dagfinn the Peasant, let a messenger set out
    forthwith for Halogaland; Vegard Væradal must be recalled.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Who has been standing somewhat towards the back, in conversation
    with a man in travelling dress who has entered the hall, approaches
    and says with emotion:_] Vegard cannot come, my lord.

                                   HÅKON.

    How know you that?

                                  DAGFINN.

    I have even now had tidings of him.

                                   HÅKON.

    What tidings?

                                  DAGFINN.

    That Vegard Væradal is slain.

                                MANY VOICES.

    Slain!

                                   HÅKON.

    Who slew him?

                                  DAGFINN.

    Andres Skialdarband, the Earl’s friend.

            [_A short pause; uneasy whispers pass among the men._

                                   HÅKON.

    Where is the messenger?

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Leading the man forward._] Here, my lord King.

                                   HÅKON.

    What caused the slaying?

                               THE MESSENGER.

    That no man knows. The talk fell upon the Finnish tribute, and on a
    sudden Andres sprang up and gave him his death-wound.

                                   HÅKON.

    Had there been quarrels between them before?

                               THE MESSENGER.

    Ever and anon. Andres would often say that a wise councillor here in
    the south had written to him that he should be as rock and flint
    toward Vegard Væradal.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Strange! Ere Vegard set forth he told me that a wise councillor had
    said he should be as rock and flint toward Andres Skialdarband.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Spitting._] Shame upon such councillors.

                                   HÅKON.

    We will not question more closely from what root this wrong has
    grown. Two faithful souls have I lost this day. I could weep for
    Vegard, but ’tis no time for weeping; it must be life for life. Sir
    Earl, Andres Skialdarband is your sworn retainer; you offered me all
    service in requital for Ivar Bodde. I take you at your word, and
    look to you to see that this misdeed be avenged.

                                EARL SKULE.

    Of a truth, bad angels are at work between us to-day. On any other
    of my men, I would have suffered you to avenge the murder——

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Expectantly._] Well?

                                EARL SKULE.

    But not on Andres Skialdarband.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Flashing out._] Will you shield the murderer?

                                EARL SKULE.

    _This_ murderer I _must_ shield.

                                   HÅKON.

    And the reason?

                                EARL SKULE.

    That none but God in heaven may know.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Softly, to_ DAGFINN.] I know it.

                                  DAGFINN.

    And I suspect it.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Say nought, good Dagfinn!

                                   HÅKON.

    Earl, I will believe as long as I may, that you mean not in good
    sooth what you have said to me——

                                EARL SKULE.

    Were it my own father Andres Skialdarband had slain, he should still
    go free. Ask me no more.

                                   HÅKON.

    Good. Then we ourselves must do justice in the matter!

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_With an expression of alarm._] There will be bloodshed on both
    sides, my lord King!

                                   HÅKON.

    So be it; none the less shall the deed be avenged.

                                EARL SKULE.

    It shall _not_ be!—It _cannot_ be!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Nay, there the Earl is right.

                                   HÅKON.

    Say you so, my honoured lord?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Andres Skialdarband has taken the Cross.

                           HÅKON AND EARL SKULE.

    Taken the Cross!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And has already sailed from the land.

                                EARL SKULE.

    ’Tis well for all of us!

                                   HÅKON.

    The day wanes; the bridal-feast must now be at an end. I thank you,
    Sir Earl, for all the honour that has been shown me in these
    days.—You are bound for Nidaros, as I think?

                                EARL SKULE.

    That is my intent.

                                   HÅKON.

    And I for Viken.—If you, Margrete, choose rather to abide in Bergen,
    then do so.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Whither you go, I go, until you forbid.

                                   HÅKON.

    Good; then come with me.

                                  SIGRID.

    Now is our kindred spread far abroad. [_Kneels to_ HÅKON.] Grant me
    a grace, my lord King.

                                   HÅKON.

    Rise, Lady Sigrid; whatever you crave shall be granted.

                                  SIGRID.

    I cannot go with the Earl to Nidaros. The nunnery at Rein will soon
    be consecrated; write to the Archbishop—take order that I be made
    Abbess.

                                EARL SKULE.

    You, my sister?

                                   HÅKON.

    You will enter a nunnery!

                                  SIGRID.

    [_Rising._] Since my wedding-night of blood, when the Baglers came
    and hewed down my bridegroom, and many hundreds with him, and fired
    Nidaros town at all its corners—since then, it has been as though
    the blood and flames had dulled and deadened my sight for the world
    around me. But power was given me to catch glimpses of that which
    other eyes see not—and one thing I see now: a time of great dread
    hanging over this land!

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Vehemently._] She is sick! Heed her not!

                                  SIGRID.

    A plenteous harvest is ripening for him that reaps in the darkness.
    Every woman in Norway will have but one task now—to kneel in church
    and cloister, and pray both day and night.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Shaken._] Is it prophecy or soul-sickness that speaks thus?

                                  SIGRID.

    Farewell, my brother—we shall meet once more.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Involuntarily._] When?

                                  SIGRID.

    [_Softly._] When you take the crown; in the hour of danger,—when you
    are fain of me in your direst need.

            [_Goes out to the right, with_ MARGRETE, LADY RAGNHILD, _and
                the women._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_After a short pause, draws his sword, and says with quiet
    determination._] All the Earl’s men shall take the oath of fealty.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Vehemently._] Is this your settled purpose? [_Almost
    imploringly._] King Håkon, do not so!

                                   HÅKON.

    No Earl’s man shall leave Bergen ere he has sworn fealty to the
    King.

            [_Goes out with his Guard. All except the_ EARL _and the_
                BISHOP _follow him._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He has dealt hardly with you to-day!

    [EARL SKULE _is silent, and looks out after the_ KING, _as though
    struck dumb._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_More loudly._] And mayhap not king-born after all.

                                EARL SKULE.

    [_Turns suddenly, in strong excitement, and seizes the_ BISHOP _by
    the arm._] Trond the Priest’s confession—where is it?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He sent it to me from England ere he died; I know not by whom—and it
    never reached me.

                                EARL SKULE.

    But it must be found!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I doubt not but it may.

                                EARL SKULE.

    And if you find it, you will give it into my hands?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    That I promise.

                                EARL SKULE.

    You swear it by your soul’s salvation?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I swear it by my soul’s salvation!

                                EARL SKULE.

    Good; till that time I will work against Håkon, wherever it can be
    done secretly and unnoted. He must be hindered from growing mightier
    than I, ere the struggle begins.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    But should it prove that he is in truth king-born—what then?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Then I must try to pray—to pray for humbleness, that I may serve him
    with all my might, as a faithful chieftain.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    And if he be not the rightful king?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Then shall he give place to me! The kingly title and the kingly
    throne, host and guard, fleet and tribute, towns and strongholds,
    all shall be mine!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He will betake him to Viken——

                                EARL SKULE.

    I will drive him out of Viken!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He will establish himself in Nidaros.

                                EARL SKULE.

    I will storm Nidaros!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He will shut himself up in Olaf’s holy church——

                                EARL SKULE.

    I will force the sanctuary——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He will fly to the high altar, and cling to Olaf’s shrine——

                                EARL SKULE.

    I will drag him down from the altar, though I drag the shrine along
    with him——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    But the crown will still be on his head, Earl Skule!

                                EARL SKULE.

    I will strike off the crown with my sword!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    But if it sits too tight——?

                                EARL SKULE.

    Then, in God’s name or Satan’s—I will strike off the head along with
    it!

                                               [_Goes out to the right._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Looks out after him, nods slowly, and says:_] Ay—ay—’tis in this
    mood I like the Earl!




                               ACT THIRD.


    _A room in the Bishop’s Palace at Oslo._[33] _On the right is the
          entrance door. In the back, a small door, standing open, leads
          into the Chapel, which is lighted up. A curtained door in the
          left wall leads into the Bishop’s sleeping room. In front, on
          the same side, stands a cushioned couch. Opposite, on the
          right, is a writing-table, with letters, documents, and a
          lighted lamp._

    _At first the room is empty; behind the curtain on the left, the
          singing of monks is heard. Presently_ PAUL FLIDA, _in
          travelling dress, enters from the right, stops by the door,
          waits, looks around, and then knocks three times with his
          staff upon the floor._

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    [_Comes out from the left, and exclaims in a hushed voice._] Paul
    Flida! God be praised;—then the Earl is not far off.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    The ships are already at Hoved-isle; I came on ahead. And how goes
    it with the Bishop?

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    He is even now receiving the Extreme Unction.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Then there is great danger.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    Master Sigard of Brabant has said that he cannot outlive the night.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Then meseems he has summoned us too late.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    Nay, nay,—he has his full senses and some strength to boot; every
    moment he asks if the Earl comes not soon.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    You still call him Earl; know you not that the King has granted him
    the title of Duke?

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    Ay, ay, we know it; ’tis but old custom. Hist!

            [_He and_ PAUL FLIDA _cross themselves and bow their heads.
                From the_ BISHOP’S _door issue two acolytes with
                candles, then two more with censers; then priests
                bearing chalice, paten, and crucifix, and a church
                banner; behind them a file of priests and monks;
                acolytes with candles and censers close the procession,
                which passes slowly into the chapel. The door is shut
                behind them._

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    So now the old lord has made up his account with the world.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    I can tell him that Duke Skule comes so soon as may be?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    He comes straight from the wharf up here to the Palace. Farewell!

                                                                [_Goes._

            [_Several priests, among them_ PETER, _with some of the_
                BISHOP’S _servants, come out from the left with rugs,
                cushions, and a large brazier._

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    Why do you this?

                                 A PRIEST.

    [_Arranging the couch._] The Bishop wills to lie out here.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    But is it prudent?

                                THE PRIEST.

    Master Sigard thinks we may humour him. Here he is.

    BISHOP NICHOLAS _enters, supported by_ MASTER SIGARD _and a priest.
          He is in his canonicals, but without crozier and mitre._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Light more candles. [_He is led to a seat upon the couch, near the
    brazier, and is covered with rugs._] Viliam! Now have I been granted
    forgiveness for all my sins! They took them all away with
    them;—meseems I am so light now.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    The Duke sends you greeting, my lord; he has already passed
    Hoved-isle!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    ’Tis well, very well. Belike the King, too, will soon be here. I
    have been a sinful hound in my day, Viliam; I have grievously
    trespassed against the King. The priests in there averred that all
    my sins should be forgiven me;—well well, it may be so; but ’tis
    easy for them to promise; ’tis not against _them_ that I have
    trespassed. No no; it is safest to have it from the King’s own
    mouth. [_Exclaims impatiently._] Light, I say! ’tis so dark in here.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    The candles are lighted——

                               MASTER SIGARD.

    [_Stops him by a sign, and approaches the_ BISHOP.] How goes it with
    you, my lord?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    So-so—so-so; my hands and feet are cold.

                               MASTER SIGARD.

    [_Half aloud, as he moves the brazier nearer._] Ha—’tis the
    beginning of the end.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Apprehensively, to_ VILIAM.] I have commanded that eight monks
    shall chant and pray for me in the chapel to-night. Have an eye to
    them; there are idle fellows among them.

            [SIRA VILIAM _points silently towards the chapel, whence
                singing is heard, which continues during what follows._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    So much still undone, and to go and leave it all! So much undone,
    Viliam!

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    My lord, think of heavenly things!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I have time before me;—till well on in the morning, Master Sigard
    thinks——

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    My lord, my lord!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Give me mitre and crozier!—’Tis very well for you to say that I
    should think——[_A priest brings them._] So, set the cap there, ’tis
    too heavy for me; give me the crozier in my hand; there, now am I in
    my armour. A bishop!——The Evil One dare not grapple with me now!

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    Desire you aught beside?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    No. Stay—tell me:—Peter, Andres Skialdarband’s son,—all speak well
    of him——

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    In truth, his is a blameless soul.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Peter, you shall watch beside me until the King or the Duke shall
    come. Leave us, meanwhile, ye others, but be at hand.

                              [_All except_ PETER _go out on the right._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_After a short pause._] Peter!

                                   PETER.

    [_Approaches._] My lord?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Hast ever seen old men die?

                                   PETER.

    No.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    They are all afeard; that I dare swear. There on the table lies a
    large letter with seals to it; give it to me. [PETER _brings the
    letter._] ’Tis to your mother.

                                   PETER.

    To my mother?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    You must get you northward with it to Halogaland. I have written to
    her touching a great and weighty matter; tidings have come from your
    father.

                                   PETER.

    He is fighting as a soldier of God in the Holy Land. Should he fall
    there, he falls on hallowed ground; for there every foot’s-breadth
    of earth is sacred. I commend him to God in all my prayers.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Is Andres Skialdarband dear to you?

                                   PETER.

    He is an honourable man; but there lives another man whose greatness
    my mother, as it were, fostered and nourished me withal.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Hurriedly and eagerly._] Is that Duke Skule?

                                   PETER.

    Ay, the Duke—Skule Bårdsson. My mother knew him in younger days. The
    Duke must sure be the greatest man in the land!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    There is the letter; get you northward with it forthwith!—Are they
    not singing in there?

                                   PETER.

    They are, my lord!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Eight lusty fellows with throats like trumpets, they must surely
    help somewhat, methinks.

                                   PETER.

    My lord, my lord! Why not pray yourself!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I have too much still undone, Peter. Life is all too short;—besides,
    the King will surely forgive me when he comes——[Gives a start in
    pain.

                                   PETER.

    You are suffering?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I suffer not; but there is a ringing in mine ears, a twinkling and
    flickering before mine eyes——

                                   PETER.

    ’Tis the heavenly bells ringing you home, and the twinkling of the
    altar-lights God’s angels have lit for you.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, sure ’tis so;—there is no danger if only they lag not with their
    prayers in there——Farewell; set forth at once with the letter.

                                   PETER.

    Shall I not first——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Nay, go; I fear not to be alone.

                                   PETER.

    Well met again, then, what time the heavenly bells shall sound for
    me too.

                                               [_Goes out on the right._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The heavenly bells,—ay, ’tis easy talking when you still have two
    stout legs to stand upon.—So much undone! But much will live after
    me, notwithstanding. I promised the Duke by my soul’s salvation to
    give him Trond the Priest’s confession if it came into my hand;—’tis
    well I have not got it. Had he certainty, he would conquer or fall;
    and then one of the twain would be the mightiest man that ever lived
    in Norway. No no,—what _I_ could not reach none other shall reach.
    Uncertainty serves best; so long as the Duke is burdened with that,
    they two will waste each other’s strength, wheresoever they may;
    towns will be burnt, dales will be harried,—neither will gain by the
    other’s loss—[_Terrified._] Mercy, pity! It is I who bear the
    guilt—I, who set it all agoing! [_Calming himself._] Well, well,
    well! but now the King is coming—’tis he that suffers most—he will
    forgive me—prayers and masses shall be said; there is no danger;—I
    am a bishop, and I have never slain any man with mine own hand.—’Tis
    well that Trond the Priest’s confession came not; the saints are
    with me, they will not tempt me to break my promise.—Who knocks at
    the door? It must be the Duke! [_Rubs his hands with glee._] He will
    implore me for proofs as to the kingship,—and I have no proofs to
    give him!

                 INGA OF VARTEIG _enters; she is dressed in
                       black, with a cloak and hood._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Starts._] Who is that?

                                   INGA.

    A woman from Varteig in Borgasyssel, my honoured lord.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The King’s mother!

                                   INGA.

    So was I called once.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Go, go! ’Twas not I counselled Håkon to send you away.

                                   INGA.

    What the King does is well done; ’tis not therefore I come.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Wherefore then?

                                   INGA.

    Gunnulf, my brother, is come home from England——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    From England——!

                                   INGA.

    He has been away these many years, as you know, and has roamed far
    and wide; now has he brought home a letter——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Breathlessly._] A letter——?

                                   INGA.

    From Trond the Priest. ’Tis for you, my lord.

                                                     [_Hands it to him._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ah, truly;—and _you_ bring it?

                                   INGA.

    It was Trond’s wish. I owe him great thanks since the time he
    fostered Håkon. It was told me that you were sick; therefore I set
    forth at once; I have come hither on foot——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    There was no such haste, Inga!

                DAGFINN THE PEASANT _enters from the right._

                                  DAGFINN.

    God’s peace, my honoured lord!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Comes the King?

                                  DAGFINN.

    He is now riding down the Ryen hills, with the Queen and the
    King-child and a great following.

                                   INGA.

    [_Rushes up to_ DAGFINN.] The King,—the King! Comes _he_ hither?

                                  DAGFINN.

    Inga! You here, much-suffering woman!

                                   INGA.

    She is not much-suffering who has so great a son.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Now will his hard heart be melted.

                                   INGA.

    Not a word to the King of me. Yet, oh, I must see him!—Tell
    me,—comes he hither?

                                  DAGFINN.

    Ay, presently.

                                   INGA.

    And it is dark evening. The King will be lighted on his way with
    torches?

                                  DAGFINN.

    Yes.

                                   INGA.

    Then will I hide me in a gateway as he goes by;—and then home to
    Varteig. But first will I into Hallvard’s church; the lights are
    burning there to-night; there will I call down blessings on the
    King, on my fair son.

                                               [_Goes out to the right._

                                  DAGFINN.

    I have fulfilled mine errand; I go to meet the King.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Bear him most loving greeting, good Dagfinn!

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_As he goes out to the right._] _I_ would not be Bishop Nicholas
    to-morrow.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Trond the Priest’s confession——! So it has come after all—here I
    hold it in my hand. [_Muses with a fixed gaze._] A man should never
    promise aught by his soul’s salvation, when he is as old as I. Had I
    years before me, I could always wriggle free from such a promise;
    but this evening, this last evening—no, that were imprudent.—But can
    I keep it? Is it not to endanger all that I have worked for, my
    whole life through? [_Whispering._] Oh, could I but cheat the Evil
    One, only this one more time! [_Listens._] What was _that_?
    [_Calls._] Viliam, Viliam!

                    SIRA VILIAM _enters from the right._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    What is it that whistles and howls so grimly?

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    ’Tis the storm; it grows fiercer.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The storm grows fiercer! Ay truly, I will keep my promise! The
    storm, say you——? Are they singing in there?

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    Yes, my lord.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Bid them bestir themselves, and chiefly brother Aslak; he always
    makes such scant prayers; he shirks whenever he can; he skips, the
    hound! [_Strikes the floor with his crozier._] Go in and say to him
    ’tis the last night I have left; he shall bestir himself, else will
    I haunt him from the dead!

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    My lord, shall I not fetch Master Sigard?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Go in, I say! [VILIAM _goes into the chapel._] It must doubtless be
    heaven’s will that I should reconcile the King and the Duke, since
    it sends me Trond’s letter now. This is a hard thing, Nicholas; to
    tear down at a single wrench what you have spent your life in
    building up. But there is no other way; I must e’en do the will of
    heaven this time.—If I could only read what is written in the
    letter! But I cannot see a word! Mists drive before my eyes; they
    sparkle and flicker; and I dare let none other read it for me! To
    make such a promise——! Is human cunning, then, so poor a thing that
    it cannot govern the outcome of its contrivances in the second and
    third degree? I spoke so long and so earnestly to Vegard Væradal
    about making the King send Inga from him, that at length it came to
    pass. That was wise in the first degree; but had I not counselled
    thus, then Inga had not now been at Varteig, the letter had not come
    into my hands in time, and I had not had any promise to
    keep—therefore ’twas unwise in the second degree. Had I yet time
    before me——! but only the space of one night, and scarce even that.
    I must, I will live longer! [_Knocks with his crozier; a priest
    enters from the right._] Bid Master Sigard come! [_The priest goes;
    the_ BISHOP _crushes the letter in his hands._] Here, under this
    thin seal, lies Norway’s saga for a hundred years! It lies and
    dreams, like the birdling in the egg! Oh, that I had more souls than
    _one_—or else _none_! [_Presses the letter wildly to his breast._]
    Oh, were not the end so close upon me,—and judgment and doom I would
    hatch you out into a hawk that should cast the dreadful shadow of
    his wings overall the land, and strike his sharp talons into every
    heart! [_With a sudden shudder._] But the last hour is at hand!
    [_Shrieking._] No, no! You shall become a swan, a white swan!
    [_Throws the letter far from, him, on to the floor, and calls:_]
    Master Sigard, Master Sigard!

                               MASTER SIGARD.

    [_From the right._] How goes it, honoured lord!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Master Sigard—sell me three days’ life!

                               MASTER SIGARD.

    I have told you——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Yes, yes; but that was in jest; ’twas a little revenge on me. I have
    been a tedious master to you; therefore you thought to scare me.
    Fie, that was evil,—nay, nay—’twas no more than I deserved! But, now
    be good and kind! I will pay you well;—three days’ life, Master
    Sigard, only three days’ life!

                               MASTER SIGARD.

    Though I myself were to die in the same hour as you, yet could I not
    add three days to your span.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    _One_ day, then, only _one_ day! Let it be light, let the sun shine
    when my soul sets forth! Listen, Sigard! [_Beckons him over, and
    drags him down upon the couch._] I have given well-nigh all my gold
    and silver to the Church, to have high masses sung for me. I will
    take it back again; you shall have it all! How now, Sigard, shall we
    two fool them in there? He-he-he! You will be rich, Sigard, and can
    depart the country; I shall have time to cast about me a little, and
    make shift with fewer prayers. Come, Sigard, shall we——! [SIGARD
    _feels his pulse; the_ BISHOP _exclaims anxiously:_] How now, why
    answer you not?

                               MASTER SIGARD.

    [_Rising._] I have no time, my lord. I must prepare you a draught
    that may ease you somewhat at the last.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Nay, wait with that! Wait,—and answer me!

                               MASTER SIGARD.

    I have no time; the draught must be ready within an hour.

                                               [_Goes out to the right._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Within an hour! [_Knocks wildly._] Viliam! Viliam!

                               [SIRA VILIAM _comes out from the chapel._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Call more to help in there! The eight are not enough!

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    My lord——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    More to help, I say! Brother Kolbein has lain sick these five
    weeks,—he cannot have sinned much in that time——

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    He was at shrift yesterday.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Eagerly._] Ay, _he_ must be good; call him! [VILIAM _goes into the
    chapel again._] Within an hour! [_Dries the sweat off his brow._]
    Pah—how hot it is here!—The miserable hound—what boots all his
    learning, when he cannot add an hour to my life? There sits he in
    his closet day by day, piecing together his cunning wheels and
    weights and levers; he thinks to fashion a machine that shall go and
    go and never stop—_perpetuum mobile_ he calls it. Why not rather
    turn his art and his skill to making man such a _perpetuum mobile_?
    [_Stops and thinks; his eyes light up._] _Perpetuum mobile_,—I am
    not strong in Latin—but it means somewhat that has power to work
    eternally, through all the ages. If I myself, now, could but——?
    _That_ were a deed to end my life withal! That were to do my
    greatest deed in my latest hour! To set wheel and weight and lever
    at work in the King’s soul and the Duke’s; to set them a-going so
    that no power on earth can stop them; if I can but do that, then
    shall I live indeed, live in my work—and, when I think of it, mayhap
    ’tis _that_ which is called immortality.—Comfortable, soothing
    thoughts, how ye do the old man good! [_Draws a deep breath, and
    stretches himself comfortably upon the couch._] Diabolus has pressed
    me hard to-night. That comes of lying idle; _olium est
    pulvis—pulveris_—pooh, no matter for the Latin——Diabolus shall no
    longer have power over me; I will be busy to the last; I will——; how
    they bellow in yonder——[_Knocks;_ VILIAM _comes out._] Tell them to
    hold their peace; they disturb me. The King and the Duke will soon
    be here; I have weighty matters to ponder.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    My lord, shall I then——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Bid them hold awhile, that I may think in peace. Look you, take up
    yonder letter that lies upon the floor.—Good. Reach me the papers
    here——

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    [_Goes to the writing-table._] Which, my lord?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    It matters not——; the sealed ones; those that lie uppermost—So; go
    now in and bid them be silent. [VILIAM _goes._] To die, and yet rule
    in Norway! To die, and yet so contrive things that no man may come
    to raise his head above the rest. A thousand ways may lead towards
    that goal; yet can there be but _one_ that will reach it;—and now to
    find that one—to find it and follow it——Ha! The way lies so close,
    so close at hand! Ay, so it must be. I will keep my promise; the
    Duke shall have the letter in his hands;—but the King—he shall have
    the thorn of doubt in his heart. Håkon is upright, as they call it;
    many things will go to wreck in his soul along with the faith in
    himself and in his right. Both of them shall doubt and believe by
    turns, still swaying to and fro, and finding no firm ground beneath
    their feet—_perpetuum mobile!_—But will Håkon believe what I say?
    Ay, that will he; am I not a dying man?—And to prepare the way I
    will feed him up with truths.—My strength fails, but fresh life
    fills my soul;—I no longer lie on a sick-bed, I sit in my workroom;
    I will work the last night through, work—till the light goes out——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Enters from the right and advances towards the_ BISHOP.] Peace and
    greeting, my honoured lord! I hear it goes ill with you.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    I am a corpse in the bud, good Duke; this night shall I break into
    bloom; to-morrow you may scent my perfume.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Already to-night, say you?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Master Sigard says: within an hour.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    And Trond the Priest’s letter——?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Think you still upon that?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    ’Tis never out of my thoughts.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    The King has made you Duke; before you, no man in Norway has borne
    that title.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    ’Tis not enough. If Håkon be not the rightful king, then must I have
    all!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ha, ’tis cold in here; the blood runs icy through my limbs.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Trond the Priest’s letter, my lord! For Almighty God’s sake,—have
    you it?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    At least, I know where it may be found.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Tell me then, tell me!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Wait——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Nay, nay—lose not your time; I see it draws to an end;—and ’tis said
    the King comes hither.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, the King comes; thereby you may best see that I am mindful of
    your cause, even now.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    What is your purpose?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Mind you, at the King’s bridal—you said that Håkon’s strength lay in
    his steadfast faith in himself?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Well?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    If I confess, and raise a doubt in his mind, then his faith will
    fall, and his strength with it.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    My lord, this is sinful, sinful, if he be the rightful king.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    ’Twill be in your power to restore his faith. Ere I depart hence, I
    will tell you where Trond the Priest’s letter may be found.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    [_From the right._] The King is now coming up the street, with
    torch-bearers and attendants.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    He shall be welcome. [VILIAM _goes._] Duke, I beg of you one last
    service: do you carry on my feuds against all mine enemies. [_Takes
    out a letter._] Here I have written them down. Those whose names
    stand first I would fain have hanged, if it could be so ordered.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Think not upon vengeance now; you have but little time left——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Not on vengeance, but on punishment. Promise me to wield the sword
    of punishment over all mine enemies when I am gone. They are your
    foemen no less than mine; when you are King you must chastise them;
    do you promise me that?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    I promise and swear it; but Trond’s letter——!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    You shall learn where it is;—but see—the King comes; hide the list
    of our foemen!

            [_The_ DUKE _hides the paper; at the same moment_ HÅKON
                _enters from the right._

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Well met at the grave-feast, my lord King.

                                   HÅKON.

    You have ever withstood me stubbornly; but that shall be forgiven
    and forgotten now; death wipes out even the heaviest reckoning.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    That lightened my soul! Oh how marvellous is the King’s clemency! My
    lord, what you have done for an old sinner this night shall be
    tenfold——

                                   HÅKON.

    No more of that; but I must tell you that I greatly marvel you
    should summon me hither to obtain my forgiveness, and yet prepare
    for me such a meeting as this.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Meeting, my lord?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    ’Tis of me the King speaks. Will you, my lord Bishop, assure King
    Håkon, by my faith and honour, that I knew nought of his coming, ere
    I landed at Oslo wharf?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Alas, alas! The blame is all mine! I have been sickly and bedridden
    all the last year; I have learnt little or nought of the affairs of
    the kingdom; I thought all was now well between the princely
    kinsmen!

                                   HÅKON.

    I have marked that the friendship between the Duke and myself
    thrives best when we hold aloof from one another; therefore
    farewell, Bishop Nicholas, and God be with you where you are now to
    go.

                                               [_Goes towards the door._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Softly and uneasily._] Bishop, Bishop, he is going!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Suddenly and with wild energy._] Stay, King Håkon!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Stops._] What now?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    You shall not leave this room until old Bishop Nicholas has spoken
    his last word!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Instinctively lays his hand upon his sword._] Mayhap you have come
    well attended to Viken, Duke.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    I have no part in this.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    ’Tis by force of words that I will hold you. Where there is a burial
    in the house, the dead man ever rules the roost; he can do and let
    alone as he will—so far as his power may reach. Therefore will I now
    speak my own funeral-speech; in days gone by, I was ever sore afraid
    lest King Sverre should come to speak it——

                                   HÅKON.

    Talk not so wildly, my lord!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    You shorten the precious hour still left to you!

                                   HÅKON.

    Your eyes are already dim.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, my sight is dim; I scarce can see you where you stand; but
    before my inward eye, my life is moving in a blaze of light. _There_
    I see sights——; hear and learn, O King!—My race was the mightiest in
    the land; many great chieftains had sprung from it; _I_ longed to be
    the greatest of them all. I was yet but a boy when I began to thirst
    after great deeds; meseemed I could by no means wait till I were
    grown. Kings arose who had less right than I,—Magnus Erlingsson,
    Sverre the Priest——; I also would be king; but I must needs be a
    chieftain first. Then came the battle at Ilevoldene; ’twas the first
    time I went out to war. The sun went up, and glittering lightnings
    flashed from a thousand burnished blades. Magnus and all his men
    advanced as to a game; I alone felt a tightness at my heart.
    Fiercely our host swept forward; but I could not follow—I was
    afraid! All Magnus’s other chieftains fought manfully, and many fell
    in the fight; but I fled up over the mountain, and ran and ran, and
    stayed not until I came down to the fiord again, far away. Many a
    man had to wash his bloody clothes in Trondheim-fiord that night;—I
    had to wash mine too, but not from blood. Ay, King, I was
    afraid;—born to be a chieftain—and afraid! It fell upon me as a
    thunderbolt; from that hour I hated all men. I prayed secretly in
    the churches, I wept and knelt before the altars, I gave rich gifts,
    made sacred promises; I tried and tried in battle after battle, at
    Saltösund, at Jonsvoldene that summer the Baglers lay in Bergen,—but
    ever in vain. Sverre it was who first noted it; he proclaimed it
    loudly and with mockery, and from that day forth, not a man in the
    host but laughed when Nicholas Arnesson was seen in war-weed. A
    coward, a coward—and yet was I filled with longing to be a chief, to
    be a king; nay, I felt I was born to be King. I could have furthered
    God’s kingdom upon earth; but ’twas the saints themselves that
    barred the way for me.

                                   HÅKON.

    Accuse not heaven, Bishop Nicholas! You have hated much.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Ay, I have hated much; hated every head in this land that raised
    itself above the crowd. But I hated because I could not love. Fair
    women,—oh, I could devour them even now with glistening eyes! I have
    lived eighty years, and yet do I yearn to kill men and clasp
    women;—but my lot in love was as my lot in war: nought but an
    itching will, my strength sapped from my birth; dowered with
    seething desire—and yet a weakling! So I became a priest: king or
    priest must that man be who would have all might in his hands.
    [_Laughs._] I a priest! I a churchman! Yes, for _one_ clerkly office
    Heaven had notably fitted me—for taking the high notes—for singing
    with a woman’s voice at the great church-festivals. And yet they up
    yonder claim of me—the half-man—what they have a right to claim only
    of those whom they have in all things fitted for their life-work!
    There have been times when I fancied such a claim might be just; I
    have lain here on my sick-bed crushed by the dread of doom and
    punishment. Now it is over; my soul has fresh marrow in its bones;
    _I_ have not sinned; it is _I_ that have suffered wrong; _I_ am the
    accuser!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Softly._] My lord—the letter! You have little time left.

                                   HÅKON.

    Think of your soul, and humble you!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    A man’s life-work is his soul, and my life-work still shall live
    upon the earth. But you, King Håkon, you should beware; for as
    Heaven has stood against _me_, and reaped harm for its reward, so
    are you standing against the man who holds the country’s welfare in
    his hand——

                                   HÅKON.

    Ha—Duke, Duke! Now I see the bent of this meeting!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Vehemently, to the_ BISHOP.] Not a word more of this!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_To_ HÅKON.] He will stand against you so long as his head sits
    fast on his shoulders. Share with him! I will have no peace in my
    coffin, I will rise again, if you two share not the kingdom! Neither
    of you shall add the other’s height to his own stature. If that
    befell, there would be a giant in the land, and here shall no giant
    be; for I was never a giant!

                                   [_Sinks back exhausted on the couch._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Falls on his knees beside the couch and cries to_ HÅKON.] Summon
    help! For God’s pity’s sake; the Bishop must not die yet!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    How it waxes dusk before my eyes!—King, for the last time—will you
    share with the Duke?

                                   HÅKON.

    Not a shred will I let slip of that which God gave me.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Well and good. [_Softly._] Your faith, at least, you shall let slip.
    [_Calls._] Viliam!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Softly._] The letter! The letter!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Not listening to him._] Viliam! [VILIAM _enters; the_ BISHOP
    _draws him close down to him and whispers._] When I received the
    Extreme Unction, all my sins were forgiven me?

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    All your sins from your birth, till the moment you received the
    Unction.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    No longer? Not until the very end?

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    You will not sin to-night, my lord!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Who can tell——? Take the golden goblet Bishop Absalon left me—give
    it to the Church— and say seven high masses more.

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    God will be gracious to you, my lord!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Seven more masses, I say—for sins I may commit to-night! Go, go!
    [VILIAM _goes; the_ BISHOP _turns to_ SKULE.] Duke, if you should
    come to read Trond the Priest’s letter, and it should mayhap prove
    that Håkon is the rightful king—what would you do then?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    In God’s name—king he should remain.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Bethink you; much is at stake. Search every fold of your heart;
    answer as though you stood before your Judge! What will you do, if
    he be the rightful king?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Bow my head and serve him.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Mumbles._] So, so: then bide the issue. [_To_ SKULE.] Duke, I am
    weak and weary; a mild and charitable mood comes over me——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    It is death! Trond the Priest’s letter! Where is it?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    First another matter;—I gave you the list of my enemies——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Impatiently._] Yes, yes; I will take full revenge upon them——

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    No, my soul is filled with mildness; I will forgive, as the
    Scripture commands. As you would forgo might, I will forgo revenge.
    Burn the list!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Ay, ay; as you will.

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    Here, in the brazier; so that I may see it——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Throws the paper into the fire._] There, then; see, it burns. And
    now, speak, speak. You risk thousands of lives if you speak not now!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_With sparkling eyes._] Thousands of lives. [_Shrieks._] Light!
    Air!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Rushes to the door and cries._] Help! The Bishop is dying!

           SIRA VILIAM _and several of the_ BISHOP’S _men enter._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Shakes the_ BISHOP’S _arm._] You risk Norway’s happiness through
    hundreds of years, mayhap its greatness to all eternity!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    To all eternity! [_Triumphantly._] _Perpetuum mobile!_

                                DUKE SKULE.

    By your soul’s salvation,—where is Trond the Priest’s letter?

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Calls._] Seven more masses, Viliam!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Beside himself._] The letter! The letter!

                              BISHOP NICHOLAS.

    [_Smiling in his death-agony._] ’Twas it you burned, good Duke!

                                    [_Falls back on the couch and dies._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_With an involuntary cry, starts backwards and covers his face with
    his hands._] Almighty God!

                                 THE MONKS.

    [_Rushing in flight from the chapel._] Save you, all who can!

                                SOME VOICES.

    The powers of evil have broken loose!

                               OTHER VOICES.

    There rang a loud laugh from the corner!—A voice cried: “We have
    him!”——All the lights went out!

                                   HÅKON.

    Bishop Nicholas is even now dead.

                                 THE MONKS.

    [_Fleeing to the right._] Pater noster—Pater noster

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Approaches_ SKULE, _and says in a low voice._] Duke, I will not
    question what secret counsel you were hatching with the Bishop ere
    he died;—but from to-morrow must you give up your powers and
    dignities into my hands; I see clearly now that we two cannot go
    forward together.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Looks at him absently._] Go forward together——?

                                   HÅKON.

    To-morrow I hold an Assembly in the Palace; then must all things be
    made clear between us.

                                               [_Goes out to the right._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    The Bishop dead and the letter burnt! A life full of doubt and
    strife and dread! Oh, could I but pray!—No—I must act; this evening
    must the stride be taken, once for all! [_To_ VILIAM.] Whither went
    the King?

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    [_Terrified._] Christ save me,—what would you with him?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Think you I would slay him to-night?

                                               [_Goes out to the right._

                                SIRA VILIAM.

    [_Looks after him, shaking his head, while the house-folk bear the
    body out to the left._] Seven more masses, the Bishop said; I think
    ’twere safest we should say fourteen.

                                                  [_Follows the others._

                             --------------

    _A room in the Palace. In the back is the entrance door; in each of
          the side walls a smaller door; in front, on the right, a
          window. Hung from the roof, a lamp is burning. Close to the
          door on the left stands a bench, and further back a cradle, in
          which the King-child is sleeping; MARGRETE is kneeling beside
          the child._

                                 MARGRETE.
                      [_Rocks the cradle and sings._]

        Now roof and rafters blend with
        the starry vault on high;
        now flieth little Håkon
        on dream-wings through the sky.

        There mounts a mighty stairway
        from earth to God’s own land;
        there Håkon with the angels
        goes climbing, hand in hand.

        God’s angel-babes are watching
        thy cot, the still night through;
        God bless thee, little Håkon,
        thy mother watcheth too.

            _A short pause._ DUKE SKULE _enters from the back._

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Starts up with a cry of joy and rushes to meet him._] My
    father!—Oh, how I have sighed and yearned for this meeting!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    God’s peace be with you, Margrete! Where is the King?

                                 MARGRETE.

    With Bishop Nicholas.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Ha,—then must he soon be here.

                                 MARGRETE.

    And you will talk together and be at one, be friends again, as in
    the old days?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    That would I gladly.

                                 MARGRETE.

    ’Twould rejoice Håkon no less; and I pray to God every day that so
    it may be. Oh, but come hither and see——

                          [_Takes his hand and leads him to the cradle._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Your child!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Ay, that lovely babe is mine;—is it not marvellous? He is called
    Håkon, like the King! See, his eyes—nay, you cannot see them now he
    is sleeping—but he has great blue eyes; and he can laugh, and reach
    forth his hands to take hold of me.—and he knows me already.

                               [_Smoothes out the bed-clothes tenderly._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Håkon will have sons, the Bishop foretold.

                                 MARGRETE.

    To me this little child is a thousand times dearer than all Norway’s
    land—and to Håkon too. Meseems I cannot rightly believe my
    happiness; I have the cradle standing by my bedside; every night, as
    often as I waken, I look to see if it be there—I am fearful lest it
    should prove to be all a dream——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Listens and goes to the window._] Is not that the King?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Ay; he is going up the other stair; I will bring him. [_Takes her
    father’s hand and leads him playfully up to the cradle._] Duke
    Skule! Keep watch over the King-child the while—for he is a
    King-child too—though I can never remember it! Should he wake, then
    bow deeply before him, and hail him as men hail kings! Now will I
    bring Håkon. Oh, God, God! now at last come light and peace over our
    house. [_Goes out to the right._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_After a short and gloomy silence._] Håkon has a son. His race
    shall live after him. If he die, he leaves an heir who stands nearer
    the throne than all others. All things thrive with Håkon. Mayhap he
    is not the rightful king; but his faith in himself stands firm as
    ever; the Bishop would have shaken it, but Death gave him not time,
    God gave him not leave. God watches over Håkon, and suffers him to
    keep the girdle of strength. Were I to tell him now? Were I to make
    oath to what the Bishop told me? What would it avail? None would
    believe me, neither Håkon nor the others. He would have believed the
    Bishop in the hour of death; the doubt would have rankled
    poisonously in him; but it was not to be. And deep-rooted as is
    Håkon’s faith, so is my doubt deep-rooted; what man on earth can
    weed it out? None, none. The ordeal has been endured, God has
    spoken, and still Håkon may not be the rightful king, while my life
    goes to waste. [_Seats himself broodingly beside a table on the
    right._] And if, now, I won the kingdom, would not the doubt dwell
    with me none the less, gnawing and wearing and wasting me away, with
    its ceaseless icy drip, drip.—Aye; but ’tis better to sit doubting
    on the throne than to stand down in the crowd, doubting of him who
    sits there in your stead.—There must be an end between me and Håkon!
    An end? But how? [_Rises._] Almighty, thou who hast thus bestead me,
    thou must bear the guilt of the issue! [_Goes to and fro, stops and
    reflects._] I must break down all bridges, hold only _one_, and
    there conquer or fall—as the Bishop said at the bridal-feast at
    Bergen. That is now nigh upon three years since, and through all
    that time have I split up and spilt my strength in trying to guard
    all the bridges. [_With energy._] Now must I follow the Bishop’s
    counsel; now or never! Here are we both in Oslo; this time I have
    more men than Håkon; why not seize the advantage—’tis so seldom on
    my side. [_Vacillating._] But to-night——? At once——? No, no! Not
    to-night! Ha-ha-ha—there again!—pondering, wavering! Håkon knows not
    what that means; he goes straight forward, and so he conquers!
    [_Going up the room, stops suddenly beside the cradle._] The
    King-child!—How fair a brow! He is dreaming. [_Smoothes out the
    bed-clothes; and looks long at the child._] Such an one as thou can
    save many things in a man’s soul. I have no son. [_Bends over the
    cradle._] He is like Håkon——[_Shrinks suddenly backwards._] The
    King-child, said the Queen! Bow low before him and hail him as men
    hail kings! Should Håkon die before me, this child will be raised to
    the throne; and I—I shall stand humbly before him, and bow low and
    hail him as king! [_In rising agitation._] This child, Håkon’s son,
    shall sit on high, on the seat that should in right, mayhap, be
    mine—and I shall stand before his footstool, white-haired and bowed
    with age, and see my whole life-work lying undone—die without having
    been king!—I have more men than Håkon—there blows a storm to-night,
    and the wind sweeps down the fiord——! If I took the King-child? I am
    safe with the Trönders.[34] What would Håkon dare attempt, were his
    child in my power? My men will follow me, fight for me and conquer.
    Their reward shall be kingly, and they know it.—So shall it be! I
    will take the stride; I will leap the abyss, for the first time!
    Could I but see if thou hast Sverre’s eyes—or Håkon Sverresson’s——!
    He sleeps. I cannot see them. [_A pause._] Sleep is as a shield.
    Sleep in peace, thou little Pretender! [_Goes over to the table._]
    Håkon shall decide; once again will I speak with him.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Enters, with the_ KING, _from the room on the right._] The Bishop
    dead! Oh, trust me, all strife dies with him.

                                   HÅKON.

    To bed, Margrete! You must be weary after the journey.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Yes, yes. [_To the_ DUKE.] Father, be kind and yielding—Håkon has
    promised to be the like! A thousand good-nights, to both of you!

            [_Makes a gesture of farewell at the door on the left, and
                goes out; two women carry out the cradle._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    King Håkon, this time we must not part as foes. All evil will
    follow; there will fall a time of dread upon the land.

                                   HÅKON.

    The land has known nought else through many generations; but, see
    you, God is with me; every foeman falls that would stand against me.
    There are no more Baglers, no Slittungs, no Ribbungs; Earl Jon is
    slain, Guthorm Ingesson is dead, Sigurd Ribbung likewise—all claims
    that were put forth at the folkmote at Bergen have fallen
    powerless—from whom, then, should the time of dread come now?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Håkon, I fear me it might come from me!

                                   HÅKON.

    When I came to the throne, I gave you the third part of the
    kingdom——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    But kept two-thirds yourself!

                                   HÅKON.

    You ever thirsted after more; I eked out your share until now you
    hold half the kingdom.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    There lack ten ship-wards.[35]

                                   HÅKON.

    I made you Duke; that has no man been in Norway before you.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    But you are king! I must have no king over me! I was not born to
    serve you; I must rule in my own right!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Looks at him for a moment, and says coldly:_] Heaven guard your
    understanding, my lord. Good night.

                                                               [_Going._

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Blocking the way._] You shall not go from me thus! Beware, or I
    will forswear all faith with you; you can no longer be my overlord;
    we two must share!

                                   HÅKON.

    You dare to say this to me!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    I have more men than you in Oslo, Håkon Håkonsson.

                                   HÅKON.

    Mayhap you think to——

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Hearken to me! Think of the Bishop’s words! Let us share; give me
    the ten ship-wards; let me hold my share as a free kingdom, without
    tax or tribute. Norway has ere this been parted into two
    kingdoms;—we will hold firmly together——

                                   HÅKON.

    Duke, you must be soul-sick, that you can crave such a thing.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Ay, I am soul-sick, and there is no other healing for me. We two
    must be equals; there must be no man over me!

                                   HÅKON.

    Every treeless skerry is a stone in the building which Harald
    Hårfager and the sainted King Olaf reared; would you have me break
    in twain what they have mortised together? Never!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Well, then let us reign by turns; let each bear sway for three
    years! You have reigned long; now my turn has come. Depart from the
    land for three years;—I will be king the while; I will even out your
    paths for you against your home-coming; I will guide all things for
    the best;—it wears and blunts the senses to sit ever on the watch.
    Håkon, hear me—three years each; let us wear the crown by turns!

                                   HÅKON.

    Think you my crown would fit well on your brow?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    No crown is too wide for me!

                                   HÅKON.

    It needs a God-sent right and a God-sent calling to wear the crown.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    And know you so surely that you have a God-sent right?

                                   HÅKON.

    I have God’s own word for it.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Rest not too surely on that. Had the Bishop had time to speak—but
    that were bootless now; you would not believe me. Ay, truly you have
    mighty allies on high; but I defy you none the less! You will not
    reign by turns with me? Well—then must we try the last
    resort;—Håkon, let us two fight for it, man to man, with heavy
    weapons, for life or death!

                                   HÅKON.

    Speak you in jest, my lord?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    I speak for my life-work and for my soul’s salvation!

                                   HÅKON.

    Then is there small hope for the saving of your soul.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    You will not fight with me? You shall, you shall!

                                   HÅKON.

    Oh blinded man! I cannot but pity you. You think ’tis the Lord’s
    calling that draws you toward the throne; you see not that ’tis
    nought but pride of heart. What is it that allures you? The royal
    circlet, the purple-bordered mantle, the right to be seated three
    steps above the floor;—pitiful, pitiful: Were that kingship, I would
    cast it into your hat, as I cast a groat to a beggar.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    You have known me since your childhood, and you judge me thus!

                                   HÅKON.

    You have wisdom and courage and all noble gifts of the mind; you are
    born to stand nearest a king, but not to be a king yourself.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    That will we now put to the proof!

                                   HÅKON.

    Name me a single king’s-task you achieved in all the years you were
    regent for me! Were the Baglers or the Ribbungs ever mightier than
    then? You were in ripe manhood, yet the land was harried by
    rebellious factions; did you quell a single one of them? I was young
    and untried when I came to the helm—look at me—all fell before me
    when I became king; there are no Baglers, no Ribbungs left!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Beware how you boast of that; for _there_ lies the greatest danger.
    Party must stand against party, claim against claim, region against
    region, if the king is to have the might. Every village, every
    family, must either need him or fear him. If you strike at the root
    of faction, at the same stroke you kill your own power.

                                   HÅKON.

    And you would be king—you, who think such thoughts! You had been
    well fitted for a chieftain’s part in Erling Skakke’s days; but the
    time has grown away from you, and you know it not. See you not,
    then, that Norway’s realm, as Harald and Olaf built it up, may be
    likened to a church that stands as yet unconsecrate? The walls soar
    aloft with mighty buttresses, the vaultings have a noble span, the
    spire points upward, like a fir-tree in the forest; but the life,
    the throbbing heart, the fresh blood-stream, is lacking to the work;
    God’s living spirit is not breathed into it; it stands
    unconsecrate.—_I_ will bring consecration! Norway has been a
    _kingdom_, it shall become a _people_. The Trönder has stood against
    the man of Viken, the Agdeman against the Hordalander, the
    Halogalander against the Sogndalesman; all shall be one hereafter,
    and all shall feel and know that they are one! _That_ is the task
    which God has laid on my shoulders; _that_ is the work which now
    lies before the King of Norway. That life-work, Duke, I think you
    were best to leave untried, for truly it is beyond you.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Impressed._] To unite——? To unite the Trönders and the men of
    Viken,—all Norway——? [_Sceptically._] ’Tis impossible! Norway’s saga
    tells of no such thing!

                                   HÅKON.

    For you ’tis impossible, for you can but work out the old saga
    afresh; for me, ’tis as easy as for the falcon to cleave the clouds.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_In uneasy agitation._] To unite the whole people—to awaken it so
    that it shall know itself _one_! Whence got you so strange a
    thought? It runs through me like ice and fire. [_Vehemently._] It
    comes from the devil, Håkon; it shall never be carried through while
    I have strength to buckle on my helm.

                                   HÅKON.

    ’Tis from God the thought comes to me, and never shall I let it slip
    while I bear St. Olaf’s circlet on my brow!

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Then must St. Olaf’s circlet fall from your brow!

                                   HÅKON.

    Who will make it fall?

                                DUKE SKULE.

    I, if none other.

                                   HÅKON.

    You, Skule, will be harmless after to-morrow’s Assembly.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    Håkon! Tempt not God! Drive me not out upon the last ledge of the
    deep!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Points to the door._] Go, my lord—and be it forgotten that we have
    spoken with sharp tongues this night.

                                DUKE SKULE.

    [_Looks hard at him for a moment, and says:_] Next time, ’twill be
    with sharper tongues we speak.

                                                    [_Goes to the back._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_After a short pause._] He threatens! No, no, it cannot come to
    that. He must, he shall give way and do my will; I have need of that
    strong arm, that cunning brain.—Whatsoever courage and wisdom and
    strength there maybe in this land, all gifts that God has endowed
    men withal, are but granted them to my uses. For my service did all
    noble gifts fall to Duke Skule’s share; to defy me is to defy
    Heaven; ’tis my duty to punish whosoever shall set himself up
    against Heaven’s will—for Heaven has done so much for me.

                            DAGFINN THE PEASANT.

    [_Enters from the back._] Be on your guard to-night, my lord; the
    Duke has surely evil in his mind.

                                   HÅKON.

    What say you?

                                  DAGFINN.

    What may be his drift, I know not; but sure am I that something is
    brewing.

                                   HÅKON.

    Can he think to fall upon us? Impossible, impossible!

                                  DAGFINN.

    No, ’tis something else. His ships lie clear for sailing; he has
    summoned an Assembly on board them.

                                   HÅKON.

    You must mistake——! Go, Dagfinn, and bring me sure tidings.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Ay ay, trust to me.

                                                                [_Goes._

                                   HÅKON.

    No,—’tis not to be thought of! The Duke dare not rise against me.
    God will not suffer it—God, who has hitherto guided all things for
    me so marvellously. I must have peace now, for ’tis now I must set
    about my work!—I have done so little yet; but I hear the unerring
    voice of the Lord calling to me: Thou shalt do a great king’s-work
    in Norway!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Enters from the back._] My lord and King!

                                   HÅKON.

    Gregorius Jonsson! Come _you_ hither?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    I offer myself for your service. Thus far have I followed the Duke;
    but now I dare follow him no further.

                                   HÅKON.

    What has befallen?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    That which no man will believe, when ’tis rumoured through the land.

                                   HÅKON.

    Speak, speak!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    I tremble to hear the sound of my own words; know then——

                             [_He seizes the_ KING’S _arm and whispers._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Starts backwards with a cry._] Ha, are you distraught?

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Would to God I were.

                                   HÅKON.

    Unheard of! No, it cannot be true!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    By Christ’s dear blood, so is it!

                                   HÅKON.

    Go, go; sound the trumpet-call for my guard; get all my men under
    arms.

                                              [GREGORIUS JONSSON _goes._

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Paces the room once or twice, then goes quickly up to the door of_
    MARGRETE’S _chamber, knocks at it, takes one or two more turns
    through the room, then goes again to the door, knocks, and calls._]
    Margrete!

                                          [_Goes on pacing up and down._

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_In the doorway, attired for the night, with her hair down; she has
    a red cloak round her shoulders, holding it close together over her
    breast._] Håkon! Is it you?

                                   HÅKON.

    Yes, yes; come hither.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh, but you must not look at me; I was in bed already.

                                   HÅKON.

    I have other things to think of.

                                 MARGRETE.

    What has befallen.

                                   HÅKON.

    Give me a good counsel! I have even now received the worst tidings.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Alarmed._] What tidings, Håkon?

                                   HÅKON.

    That there are now two kings in Norway.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Two kings in Norway!—Håkon, where is my father?

                                   HÅKON.

    He has proclaimed himself king on board his ship; now he is sailing
    to Nidaros to be crowned.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh God, thou almighty——!

            [_Sinks down on the bench, covers her face with her hands
                and weeps._]

                                   HÅKON.

    Two kings in the land!

                                 MARGRETE.

    My husband the one—my father the other!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Pacing restlessly up and down._] Give me a good counsel, Margrete!
    Should I cross the country by way of the Uplands, come first to
    Nidaros, and prevent the crowning? No, it may not be done; My men
    are too few; there in the north he is more powerful than I.—Give me
    counsel; how can I have the Duke slain, ere he come to Nidaros?

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Imploringly, with folded hands._] Håkon, Håkon!

                                   HÅKON.

    Can you not hit upon a good device, I say, to have the Duke slain?

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Sinks down from the bench in agony and remains kneeling._] Oh, can
    you so utterly forget that he is my father?

                                   HÅKON.

    Your father——; ay, ay, it is true; I had forgotten.

    [_Raises her up._] Sit, sit, Margrete; comfort you; do not weep; you
    have no fault in this. [_Goes over to the window._] Duke Skule will
    be worse for me than all other foemen! God, God,—why hast thou
    stricken me so sorely, when I have in nowise sinned! [_A knock at
    the door in the back; he starts, listens, and cries:_] Who knocks so
    late?

                               INGA’S VOICE.

    [_Without._] One who is a-cold, Håkon!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_With a cry._] My mother!

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Springs up._] Inga!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Rushes to the door and opens it; Inga is sitting on the
    doorstep._] My mother! Sitting like a dog outside her son’s door!
    And I ask why God has stricken me!

                                   INGA.

    [_Stretches out her arms towards him._] Håkon, my child! Blessings
    upon you!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Raising her up._] Come—come in; here are light and warmth!

                                   INGA.

    _May_ I come in to you?

                                   HÅKON.

    Never shall we part again.

                                   INGA.

    My son—my King—oh, but you are good and loving! I stood in a corner
    and saw you, as you came from the Bishop’s Palace; you looked so
    sorrowful; I _could_ not part from you thus.

                                   HÅKON.

    God be thanked for that! No one, truly, could have come to me more
    welcome than you. Margrete—my mother—I have sorely sinned; I have
    barred my heart against you two, who are so rich in love.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Falls on his neck._] Oh, Håkon, my beloved husband; do I stand
    near you now?

                                   HÅKON.

    Ay, near me, near me; not to give me cunning counsels, but to shed
    light over my path. Come what will, I feel the Lord’s strength
    within me!

                            DAGFINN THE PEASANT.

    [_Enters hastily from the back._] My lord, my lord! The worst has
    befallen!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Smiles confidently while he holds_ MARGRETE _and_ INGA _closely to
    him._] I know it; but there is nought to fear, good Dagfinn! If
    there be two kings in Norway, there is but one in Heaven—and He will
    set all straight!




                              ACT FOURTH.


    _The great hall in Oslo Palace._ KING SKULE _is feasting with the
          Guard and his Chiefs. In front, on the left, stands the
          throne, where_ SKULE _sits, richly attired, with a purple
          mantle and the royal circlet on his head. The supper-table, by
          which the guests are seated, stretches from the throne towards
          the background. Opposite to_ SKULE _sit_ PAUL FLIDA _and_ BÅRD
          BRATTE. _Some of the humbler guests are standing, to the
          right. It is late evening; the hall is brightly lighted. The
          banquet is drawing to a close; the men are very merry, and
          some of them drunk; they drink to each other, laugh, and all
          talk together._

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Rises and strikes the table._] Silence in the hall; Jatgeir Skald
    will say forth his song in honour of King Skule.

                                  JATGEIR.

                           [_Stands out in the middle of the floor._[36]

        Duke Skule he summoned the Örething;[37]
        when ’twas mass-time in Nidaros town;
        and the bells rang and swords upon bucklers clashed bravely
        when Duke Skule he donned the crown.

        King Skule marched over the Dovrefjeld,
        his host upon snow-shoes sped;
        the Gudbranddalesman he grovelled for grace,
        but his hoard must e’en ransom his head.

        King Skule south over Miösen fared,—
        the Uplander cursed at his banner;
        King Skule hasted through Raumarike to Låka in Nannestad manor.

        ’Twas all in the holy Shrove-tide week
        we met with the Birchleg horde;
        Earl Knut was their captain—the swords with loud tongue
        in the suit for the throne made award.

        They say of a truth that since Sverre’s days
        was never so hot a fight;
        red-sprent, like warriors’ winding-sheets,
        grew the upland that erst lay white.

        They took to their heels did the Birchenlegs,
        flinging from them both buckler and bill there;
        many hundreds, though, took to their heels nevermore,
        for they lay and were icily chill there.

        No man knows where King Håkon hideth;—
        King Skule stands safe at the helm.
        All hail and long life to thee, lord, in thy state
        as King of all Norway’s realm!

                                SKULE’S MEN.

            [_Spring up with loud jubilation, hold goblets and beakers
                aloft, clash their weapons, and repeat:_

    All hail and long life to thee, lord, in thy state as King of all
    Norway’s realm!

                                KING SKULE.

    Thanks for the song, Jatgeir Skald! ’Tis as I best like it; for it
    gives my men no less praise than myself.

                                  JATGEIR.

    The King is honoured when his men are praised.

                                KING SKULE.

    Take as guerdon this arm-ring, stay with me, and be of my household;
    I will have many skalds about me.

                                  JATGEIR.

    ’Twill need many, my lord, if all your great deeds are to be sung.

                                KING SKULE.

    I will be threefold more bountiful than Håkon; the skald’s song
    shall be honoured and rewarded like all other noble deeds, so long
    as I am king. Be seated; now you belong to my household; all you
    have need of shall be freely given you.

                                  JATGEIR.

    [_Seats himself._] Ere long there will be a dearth of what I most
    need, my lord.

                                KING SKULE.

    What mean you?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Foes to King Skule, whose flight and fall I can sing.

                              MANY OF THE MEN.

    [_Amid laughter and applause._] Well said, Icelander!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_To_ JATGEIR.] The song was good; but ’tis known there goes a spice
    of lying to every skald-work, and yours was not without it.

                                  JATGEIR.

    Lying, Sir Marshal?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Ay; you say no man knows where King Håkon is hiding; that is not
    true; we have certain tidings that Håkon is at Nidaros.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Smiling._] He has claimed homage for the King-child, and given it
    the kingly title.

                                  JATGEIR.

    That have I heard; but I knew not that any man could give away that
    which he himself does not possess.

                                KING SKULE.

    ’Tis easiest to give what you yourself do not possess.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    But it can scarce be easy to beg your way in midwinter from Bergen
    to Nidaros.

                                  JATGEIR.

    The fortunes of the Birchlegs move in a ring; they began hungry and
    frozen, and now they end in like case.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    ’Tis rumoured in Bergen that Håkon has forsworn the Church and all
    that is holy; he heard not mass on New Year’s day.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    He could plead lawful hindrance, Paul; he stood all day cutting his
    silver goblets and dishes to pieces—he had naught else wherewith to
    pay his household.

                             [_Laughter and loud talk among the guests._

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Raises his goblet._] I drink to you, Bård Bratte, and thank you
    and all my new men. You fought manfully for me at Låka, and bore a
    great part in the victory.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    It was the first time I fought under you, my lord; but I soon felt
    that ’tis easy to conquer when such a chieftain as you rides at the
    head of the host. But I would we had not slain so many and chased
    them so far; for now I fear ’twill be long ere they dare face us
    again.

                                KING SKULE.

    Wait till the spring: we shall meet them again, never fear. Earl
    Knut lies with the remnant at Tunsberg rock, and Arnbiörn Jonsson is
    gathering a force eastward in Viken; when they deem themselves
    strong enough, they will soon let us hear from them.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    They will never dare to, after the great slaughter at Låka.

                                KING SKULE.

    Then will we lure them forth with cunning.

                                MANY VOICES.

    Ay, ay—do so, lord King!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    You have good store of cunning, King Skule. Your foemen have never
    warning ere you fall upon them, and you are ever there where they
    least await you.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    ’Tis therefore that the Birchlegs call us Vårbælgs.[38]

                                KING SKULE.

    Others say Vargbælgs; but this I swear, that when next we meet, the
    Birchlegs shall learn how hard it is to turn such Wolf-skins inside
    out.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    With their good will shall we never meet-’twill be a chase the whole
    country round.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, that it shall be. First we must purge Viken, and make sure of
    all these eastward parts; then will we get our ships together, and
    sail round the Naze and up the coast to Nidaros.

                                BÅRD BRATTE

    And when you come in such wise to Nidaros, I scare think the monks
    will deny to move St. Olaf’s shrine out to the mote-stead, as they
    did in the autumn, when we swore allegiance.

                                KING SKULE.

    The shrine _shall_ out; I will bear my kingship in all ways
    lawfully.

                                  JATGEIR.

    And I promise you to sing a great death-song, when you have slain
    the Sleeper.

                               [_An outburst of laughter among the men._

                                KING SKULE.

    The Sleeper?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Know you not, my lord, that King Håkon is called “Håkon the
    Sleeper,” because he sits as though benumbed ever since you came to
    the throne?

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    They say he lies ever with his eyes closed. Doubtless he dreams that
    he is still king.

                                KING SKULE.

    Let him dream; he shall never dream himself back into the kingship.

                                  JATGEIR.

    Let his sleep be long and dreamless, then shall I have stuff for
    songs.

                                  THE MEN.

    Ay, ay, do as the skald says!

                                KING SKULE.

    When so many good men counsel as one, the counsel must be good; yet
    will we not talk now of that matter. But one promise I will make:
    each of my men shall inherit the weapons and harness, and gold and
    silver, of whichever one of the enemy he slays; and each man shall
    succeed to the dignities of him he lays low. He who slays a baron
    shall himself be a baron; he who slays a thane, shall receive his
    thaneship; and all they who already hold such dignities and offices,
    shall be rewarded after other kingly sort.

                                  THE MEN.

    [_Spring up in wild delight._] Hail, hail, King Skule! Lead us
    against the Birchlegs!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Now are you sure to conquer in all battles.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    I claim Dagfinn the Peasant for myself; he owns a good sword that I
    have long hankered after.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    I will have Bård Torsteinsson’s hauberk; it saved his life at Låka,
    for it withstands both cut and thrust.

                                  JATGEIR.

    Nay, but let me have it; ’twill fit me better; you shall have five
    golden marks in exchange.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Where will you find five golden marks, Skald?

                                  JATGEIR.

    I will take them from Gregorius Jonsson when we come northward.

                                  THE MEN.

    [_All talking together._] And I will have—I will have——[_The rest
    becomes indistinct in the hubbub._

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Away! Every man to his quarters; bethink you that you are in the
    King’s hall.

                                  THE MEN.

    Ay, ay—hail to the King, hail to King Skule!

                                KING SKULE.

    To bed now, good fellows! We have sat long over the drinking-table
    to-night.

                               A MAN-AT-ARMS.

    [_As the crowd is trooping out._] To-morrow we will cast lots for
    the Birchlegs’ goods.

                                  ANOTHER.

    Rather leave it to luck!

                                  SEVERAL.

    Nay, nay!

                                  OTHERS.

    Ay, ay!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Now the Wolf-skins are fighting for the bear-fell.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    And they have yet to fell the bear.

                                              [_All go out by the back._

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Waits till the men are gone; the tension of his features relaxes;
    he sinks upon a bench._] How weary I am, weary to death. To live in
    the midst of that swarm day out and day in, to look smilingly ahead
    as though I were so immovably assured of right and victory and
    fortune. To have no creature with whom I may speak of all that gnaws
    me so sorely. [_Rises with a look of terror._] And the battle at
    Låka! That I should have conquered there! Håkon sent his host
    against me; God was to judge and award between the two kings—and I
    conquered, conquered, as never any before has conquered the
    Birchlegs! Their shields stood upright in the snow, but there was
    none behind them—the Birchlegs took to the woods, and fled over
    upland and moor and lea as far as their legs would carry them. The
    unbelievable came to pass; Håkon lost and I won. There is a secret
    horror in that victory. Thou great God of Heaven! there rules, then,
    no certain law on high, that all things must obey? The right carries
    with it no conquering might? [_With a change of tone, wildly._] I am
    sick, I am sick!—Wherefore should not the right be on my side? May I
    not deem that God himself would assure me of it, since he let me
    conquer? [_Brooding._] The possibilities are even;—not a
    feather-weight more on the one side than on the other; and
    yet—[_shakes his head_]—yet the balance dips on Håkon’s part. I have
    hatred and hot desire to cast into my scale, yet the balance dips on
    Håkon’s part. When the thought of the kingly right comes over me
    unawares, ’tis ever he, not I, that is the true king. When I would
    see myself as the true king, I must do it with forethought, I must
    build up a whole fabric of subtleties, a work of cunning; I must
    hold memories aloof, and take faith by storm. It was not so before.
    What has befallen to fill me so full of doubt? The burning of the
    letter? No—that made the uncertainty eternal, but did not add to it.
    Has Håkon done any great and kingly deed in these later days? No,
    his greatest deeds were done while I least believed in him. [_Seats
    himself on the right._] What is it? Ha, strange! It comes and goes
    like a marsh-fire; it dances at the tip of my tongue, as when one
    has lost a word and cannot find it. [_Springs up._] Ha! Now I have
    it! No——! Yes, yes! Now I have it!—“Norway has been a _kingdom_, it
    shall become a _people_; all shall be one, and all shall feel and
    know that they are one!” Since Håkon spoke those madman’s words, he
    stands ever before me as the rightful king. [_Whispers with fixed
    and apprehensive gaze._] What if God’s calling glimmered through
    these strange words? If God had garnered up the thought till now,
    and would now strew it forth—and had chosen Håkon for his sower?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Enters from the back._] My lord King, I have tidings for you.

                                KING SKULE.

    Tidings?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    A man who comes from down the fiord brings news that the Birchlegs
    in Tunsberg have launched their ships, and that many men have
    gathered in the town in these last days.

                                KING SKULE.

    Good, we will go forth to meet them—to-morrow or the day after.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    It might chance, my lord King, that the Birchlegs had a mind to meet
    us first.

                                KING SKULE.

    They have not ships enough for that, nor men.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    But Arnbiörn Jonsson is gathering both men and ships, all round in
    Viken.

                                KING SKULE.

    The better for us; we will crush them at one blow, as we did at
    Låka.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    My lord, ’tis not so easy to crush the Birchlegs twice following.

                                KING SKULE.

    And wherefore not?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Because Norway’s saga tells not that the like has ever befallen.
    Shall I send forth scouts to Hoved-isle?

                                KING SKULE.

    ’Tis needless; the night is dark, and there is a sea-fog to boot.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Well well, the King knows best; but bethink you, my lord, that all
    men are against you here in Viken. The townsfolk of Oslo hate you,
    and should the Birchlegs come, they will make common cause with
    them.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_With animation._] Paul Flida, were it not possible that I could
    win over the men of Viken to my side?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Looks at him in astonishment, and shakes his head._] No, my lord,
    it is not possible.

                                KING SKULE.

    And wherefore not?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Why, for that you have the Trönders on your side.

                                KING SKULE.

    I will have both the Trönders and the men of Viken!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Nay, my lord, that cannot be!

                                KING SKULE.

    Not possible! cannot be! And wherefore—wherefore not?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Because the man of Viken is the man of Viken, the Trönder is the
    Trönder; because so it has always been, and no saga tells of a time
    when it was otherwise.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, ay—you are right. Go.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    And send forth no scouts?

                                KING SKULE.

    Wait till daybreak. [PAUL FLIDA _goes_.] Norway’s saga tells of no
    such thing; it has never been so yet; Paul Flida answers me as I
    answered Håkon. Are there, then, upward as well as downward steps?
    Stands Håkon as high over me as I over Paul Flida? Has Håkon an eye
    for unborn thoughts, that is lacking in me? Who stood so high as
    Harold Hårfager in the days when every headland had its king, and he
    said: Now they must fall—hereafter shall there be but one? He threw
    the old saga to the winds, and made a new saga. [_A pause; he paces
    up and down lost in thought; then he stops._] Can one man take God’s
    calling from another, as he takes weapons and gold from his fallen
    foe? Can a Pretender clothe himself in a king’s life-task, as he can
    put on the kingly mantle? The oak that is felled to be a ship’s
    timber, can it say: Nay, I will be the mast, I will take on me the
    task of the fir-tree, point upwards, tall and shining, bear the
    golden vane at my top, spread bellying white sails to the sunshine,
    and meet the eyes of all men, from afar!—No, no, thou heavy gnarled
    oak-trunk, thy place is down in the keel; _there_ shalt thou lie,
    and do thy work, unheard-of and unseen by those aloft in the
    daylight; it is thou that shalt hinder the ship from being whelmed
    in the storm; while the mast with the golden vane and the bellying
    sail shall bear it forward toward the new, toward the unknown,
    toward alien strands and the saga of the future! [_Vehemently._]
    Since Håkon uttered his great king-thought, I can see no other
    thought in the world but that only. If I cannot take it and act it
    out, I see no other thought to fight for. [_Brooding._] And can I
    not make it mine? If I cannot, whence comes my great love for
    Håkon’s thought?

                                  JATGEIR.

    [_Enters from the back._] Forgive my coming, lord King——

                                KING SKULE.

    You come to my wish, Skald!

                                  JATGEIR.

    I overheard some townsfolk at my lodging talking darkly of——

                                KING SKULE.

    Let that wait. Tell me, Skald: you who have fared far abroad in
    strange lands, have you ever seen a woman love another’s child? Not
    only have kindness for it—’tis not that I mean; but _love_ it, love
    it with the warmest passion of her soul.

                                  JATGEIR.

    That do only those women who have no child of their own to love.

                                KING SKULE.

    Only those women——?

                                  JATGEIR.

    And chiefly women who are barren.

                                KING SKULE.

    Chiefly the barren——? They love the children of others with all
    their warmest passions?

                                  JATGEIR.

    That will oftentimes befall.

                                KING SKULE.

    And does it not sometimes befall that such a barren woman will slay
    another’s child, because she herself has none?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Ay, ay; but in that she does unwisely.

                                KING SKULE.

    Unwisely?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Ay, for she gives the gift of sorrow to her whose child she slays.

                                KING SKULE.

    Think you the gift of sorrow is a great good?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Yes, lord.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Looks fixedly at him._] Methinks there are two men in you,
    Icelander. When you sit amid the household at the merry feast, you
    draw cloak and hood over all your thoughts; when one is alone with
    you, sometimes you seem to be of those among whom one were fain to
    choose his friend. How comes it?

                                  JATGEIR.

    When you go to swim in the river, my lord, you would scarce strip
    you where the people pass by to church; you seek a sheltered
    privacy.

                                KING SKULE.

    True, true.

                                  JATGEIR.

    My soul has the like shamefastness; therefore I do not strip me when
    there are many in the hall.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ha. [_A short pause._] Tell me, Jatgeir, how came you to be a skald?
    Who taught you skald-craft?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Skaldcraft cannot be taught, my lord.

                                KING SKULE.

    Cannot be taught? How came it then?

                                  JATGEIR.

    The gift of sorrow came to me, and I was a skald.

                                KING SKULE.

    Then ’tis the gift of sorrow the skald has need of?

                                  JATGEIR.

    _I_ needed sorrow; others there may be who need faith, or joy—or
    doubt——

                                KING SKULE.

    Doubt as well?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Ay; but then must the doubter be strong and sound.

                                KING SKULE.

    And whom call you the unsound doubter?

                                  JATGEIR.

    He who doubts of his own doubt.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Slowly._] That, methinks, were death.

                                  JATGEIR.

    ’Tis worse; ’tis neither day nor night.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Quickly, as if shaking off his thoughts._] Where are my weapons? I
    will fight and act—not think. What was it you would have told me
    when you came?

                                  JATGEIR.

    ’Twas what I noted in my lodging. The townsmen whisper together
    secretly, and laugh mockingly, and ask if we be well assured that
    King Håkon is in the westland; there is somewhat they are in glee
    over.

                                KING SKULE.

    They are men of Viken, and therefore against me.

                                  JATGEIR.

    They scoff because King Olaf’s shrine could not be brought out to
    the mote-stead when you were chosen king; they say it boded ill.

                                KING SKULE.

    When next I come to Nidaros, the shrine _shall_ out! It shall stand
    under the open sky, though I should have to tear down St. Olaf’s
    church and widen out the mote-stead over the spot where it stood.

                                  JATGEIR.

    That were a strong deed; but I shall make a song of it, as strong as
    the deed itself.

                                KING SKULE.

    Have you many unmade songs within you, Jatgeir?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Nay, but many unborn; they are conceived one after the other, come
    to life, and are brought forth.

                                KING SKULE.

    And if I, who am King and have the might, if I were to have you
    slain, would all the unborn skald-thoughts you bear within you die
    along with you?

                                  JATGEIR.

    My lord, it is a great sin to slay a fair thought.

                                KING SKULE.

    I ask not if it be a _sin_; I ask if it be _possible_!

                                  JATGEIR.

    I know not.

                                KING SKULE.

    Have you never had another skald for your friend, and has he never
    unfolded to you a great and noble song he thought to make?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Yes, lord.

                                KING SKULE.

    Did you not then wish that you could slay him, to take his thought
    and make the song yourself?

                                  JATGEIR.

    My lord, I am not barren; I have children of my own; I need not to
    love those of other men.

                                                                [_Goes._

                                KING SKULE.

    [_After a pause._] The Icelander is in very deed a skald. He speaks
    God’s deepest truth and knows it not——_I_ am as a barren woman.
    Therefore I love Håkon’s kingly thought-child, love it with the
    warmest passion of my soul. Oh, that I could but adopt[39] it! It
    would die in my hands. Which were best, that it should die in my
    hands, or wax great in his? Should I ever have peace of soul if that
    came to pass? Can I forgo all? Can I stand by and see Håkon make
    himself famous for all time! How dead and empty is all within me—and
    around me. No friend—; ah, the Icelander! [_Goes to the door and
    calls_:] Has the skald gone from the palace?

                                  A GUARD.

    [_Outside._] No, my lord; he stands in the outer hall talking with
    the watch.

                                KING SKULE.

    Bid him come hither. [_Goes forward to the table; presently_ JATGEIR
    _enters_.] I cannot sleep, Jatgeir; ’tis all my great kingly
    thoughts that keep me awake, you see.

                                  JATGEIR.

    ’Tis with the king’s thoughts as with the skald’s, I doubt not. They
    fly highest and grow quickest when there is night and stillness
    around.

                                KING SKULE.

    Is it so with the skald’s thoughts too?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Ay, lord; no song is born by daylight; it may be written down in the
    sunshine; but it makes itself in the silent night.

                                KING SKULE.

    Who gave you the gift of sorrow, Jatgeir?

                                  JATGEIR.

    She whom I loved.

                                KING SKULE.

    She died, then.

                                  JATGEIR.

    No, she deceived me.

                                KING SKULE.

    And then you became a skald?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Ay, then I became a skald.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Seizes him by the arm._] What gift do _I_ need to become a king?

                                  JATGEIR.

    Not the gift of doubt; else would you not question so.

                                KING SKULE.

    What gift do I need?

                                  JATGEIR.

    My lord, you are a king.

                                KING SKULE.

    Have you at all times full faith that you are a skald?

                                  JATGEIR.

    [_Looks silently at him for a while, and asks._] Have you never
    loved?

                                KING SKULE.

    Yes, once—burningly, blissfully, and in sin.

                                  JATGEIR.

    You have a wife.

                                KING SKULE.

    Her I took to bear me sons.

                                  JATGEIR.

    But you have a daughter, my lord—a gracious and noble daughter.

                                KING SKULE.

    Were my daughter a son, I would not ask you what gift I need.
    [_Vehemently._] I must have some one by me who sinks his own will
    utterly in mine—who believes in me unflinchingly, who will cling
    close to me in good hap and ill, who lives only to shed light and
    warmth over my life, and must die if I fall. Give me counsel,
    Jatgeir Skald!

                                  JATGEIR.

    Buy yourself a dog, my lord.

                                KING SKULE.

    Would no man suffice?

                                  JATGEIR.

    You would have to search long for such a man.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Suddenly._] Will _you_ be that man to me, Jatgeir? Will _you_ be a
    son to me? You shall have Norway’s crown to your heritage—the whole
    land shall be yours, if you will be a son to me, and live for my
    life-work, and believe in me.

                                  JATGEIR.

    And what should be my warranty that I did not feign——?

                                KING SKULE.

    Give up your calling in life; sing no more songs, and then will I
    believe you!

                                  JATGEIR.

    No, lord—that were to buy the crown too dear.

                                KING SKULE.

    Bethink you well—’tis greater to be a king than a skald.

                                  JATGEIR.

    Not always.

                                KING SKULE.

    ’Tis but your unsung songs you must sacrifice!

                                  JATGEIR.

    Songs unsung are ever the fairest.

                                KING SKULE.

    But I must—I must have one who can trust in me! Only one! I feel
    it—had I that one, I were saved!

                                  JATGEIR.

    Trust in yourself and you will be saved!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Enters hastily._] King Skule, look to yourself! Håkon Håkonsson
    lies off Elgjarness with all his fleet!

                                KING SKULE.

    Off Elgjarness——! Then he is close at hand.

                                  JATGEIR.

    Get we to arms then! If there be bloodshed to-night, I will gladly
    be the first to die for you!

                                KING SKULE.

    You, who would not live for me!

                                  JATGEIR.

    A man can die for another’s life-work; but if he go on living, he
    must live for his own.

                                                                [_Goes._

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Impatiently._] Your commands, my lord! The Birchlegs may be in
    Oslo this very hour.

                                KING SKULE.

    ’Twere best if we could fare to St. Thomas Beckett’s grave; he has
    helped so many a sorrowful and penitent soul.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_More forcibly._] My lord, speak not so wildly now; I tell you, the
    Birchlegs are upon us!

                                KING SKULE.

    Let all the churches be opened, that we may betake us thither and
    find grace.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    You can crush all your foemen at one stroke, and yet would betake
    you to the churches!

                                KING SKULE.

    Yes, yes, keep all the churches open!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Be sure Håkon will break sanctuary, when ’tis Vårbælgs he pursues.

                                KING SKULE.

    That will he not; God will shield him from such a sin;—God always
    shields Håkon.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_In deep and sorrowful wrath._] To hear you speak thus, a man could
    not but ask: Who is king in this land?

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Smiling mournfully._] Ay, Paul Flida, that is the great question:
    _Who_ is king in this land?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Imploringly._] You are soul-sick to-night, my lord; let me act for
    you.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, ay, do so.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Going._] First will I break down all the bridges.

                                KING SKULE.

    Madman! Stay!—Break down all the bridges! Know you what that means?
    _I_ have assayed it;—beware of that!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    What would you then, my lord?

                                KING SKULE.

    I will talk with Håkon.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    He will answer you with a tongue of steel.

                                KING SKULE.

    Go, go;—you shall learn my will anon.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Every moment is precious! [_Seizes his hand._] King Skule, let us
    break down all the bridges, fight like Wolves,[40] and trust in
    Heaven!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Softly._] Heaven trusts not in me; I dare not trust in Heaven.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Short has been the saga of the Vargbælgs.

                                                [_Goes out by the back._

                                KING SKULE.

    A hundred cunning heads, a thousand mighty arms, are at my beck; but
    not a single loving, trusting heart. That is kingly beggary; no
    more, no less.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    [_From the back._] Two wayfarers from afar stand without, praying to
    have speech with you my lord.

                                KING SKULE.

    Who are they?

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    A woman and a priest.

                                KING SKULE.

    Let the woman and the priest approach.

            [BÅRD _goes_; KING SKULE _seats himself, musing, on the
                right; presently there enters a black-robed woman; she
                wears a long cloak, a hood, and a thick veil, which
                conceals her face; a priest follows her, and remains
                standing by the door_.

                                KING SKULE.

    Who are you?

                                 THE WOMAN.

    One you have loved.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Shaking his head._] There lives no one who remembers that I have
    loved. Who are you, I ask?

                                 THE WOMAN.

    One who loves you.

                                KING SKULE.

    Then are you surely one of the dead.

                                 THE WOMAN.

    [_Comes close to him and says softly and passionately._] Skule
    Bårdsson!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Rises with a cry._] Ingeborg!

                                 INGEBORG.

    Do you know me now, Skule?

                                KING SKULE.

    Ingeborg,—Ingeborg!

                                 INGEBORG.

    Oh, let me look at you—look long at you, so long! [_Seizes his
    hands; a pause._] You fair, you deeply loved, you faithless man!

                                KING SKULE.

    Take off that veil; look at me with the eyes that once were as clear
    and blue as the sky.

                                 INGEBORG.

    These eyes have been but a rain-clouded sky for twenty years; you
    would not know them again, and you shall never see them more.

                                KING SKULE.

    But your voice is fresh and soft and young as ever!

                                 INGEBORG.

    I have used it only to whisper _your_ name, to imprint your
    greatness in a young heart, and to pray to the sinners’ God for
    grace toward us twain, who have loved in sin.

                                KING SKULE.

    You have done that?

                                 INGEBORG.

    I have been silent save to speak loving words of you;—therefore has
    my voice remained fresh and soft and young.

                                KING SKULE.

    There lies a life-time between. Every fair memory from those days
    have I wasted and let slip——

                                 INGEBORG.

    It was your right.

                                KING SKULE.

    And meantime you, Ingeborg, loving, faithful woman, have dwelt there
    in the north, guarding and treasuring your memories, in ice-cold
    loneliness!

                                 INGEBORG.

    It was my happiness.

                                KING SKULE.

    And I could give you up to win might and riches! With you at my
    side, as my wife, I had found it easier to be a king.

                                 INGEBORG.

    God has been good to me in willing it otherwise. A soul like mine
    had need of a great sin, to arouse it to remorse and expiation.

                                KING SKULE.

    And now you come——?

                                 INGEBORG.

    As Andres Skialdarband’s widow.

                                KING SKULE.

    Your husband is dead!

                                 INGEBORG.

    On the way from Jerusalem.

                                KING SKULE.

    Then has he atoned for the slaying of Vegard.

                                 INGEBORG.

    ’Twas not therefore that my noble husband took the Cross.

                                KING SKULE.

    Not therefore?

                                 INGEBORG.

    No; it was _my_ sin he took upon his strong, loving shoulders; ’twas
    _that_ he went to wash away in Jordan stream; ’twas for _that_ he
    bled.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Softly._] Then he knew all.

                                 INGEBORG.

    From the first. And Bishop Nicholas knew it, for to him I confessed.
    And there was one other man that came to know it, though how I
    cannot guess.

                                KING SKULE.

    Who?

                                 INGEBORG.

    Vegard Væradal.

                                KING SKULE.

    Vegard!

                                 INGEBORG.

    He whispered a mocking word of me into my husband’s ear; and
    thereupon Andres Skialdarband drew his sword, and slew him on the
    spot.

                                KING SKULE.

    He kept ward over her whom _I_ betrayed and forgot.—And wherefore
    seek you me now?

                                 INGEBORG.

    To bring you the last sacrifice.

                                KING SKULE.

    What mean you?

                                 INGEBORG.

    [_Points to the Priest who stands by the door._] Look at him!—Peter,
    my son, come hither!

                                KING SKULE.

    Your son——!

                                 INGEBORG.

    And _yours_, King Skule!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Half bewildered._] Ingeborg!

            [PETER _approaches in silent emotion, and throws himself
                before_ KING SKULE.

                                 INGEBORG.

    Take him! For twenty years has he been the light and comfort of my
    life.—Now are you King of Norway; the King’s son must enter on his
    heritage; I have no longer any right to him.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Raises him up, in a storm of joy._] Here, to my heart, you whom I
    have yearned for so burningly! [_Presses him in his arms, lets him
    go, looks at him, and embraces him again._] My son! My son! I have a
    son! Ha-ha-ha! who can stand against me now? [_Goes over to_
    INGEBORG _and seizes her hand_.] And you, you give him to me,
    Ingeborg! You take not back your word? You give him to me indeed?

                                 INGEBORG.

    Heavy is the sacrifice, and scarce had I strength to make it, but
    that Bishop Nicholas sent him to me, bearing a letter with tidings
    of Andres Skialdarband’s death. ’Twas the Bishop that laid on me the
    heavy sacrifice, to atone for all my sin.

                                KING SKULE.

    Then is the sin blotted out, and henceforth he is mine alone; is it
    not so, mine alone?

                                 INGEBORG.

    Yes; but one promise I crave of you.

                                KING SKULE.

    Heaven and earth, crave all you will!

                                 INGEBORG.

    He is pure as a lamb of God, as I now give him into your hands. ’Tis
    a perilous path that leads up to the throne; let him not take hurt
    to his soul. Hear you, King Skule: let not my child take hurt to his
    soul!

                                KING SKULE.

    That I promise and swear to you!

                                 INGEBORG.

    [_Seizes his arm._] From the moment you mark that his soul suffers
    harm, let him rather die!

                                KING SKULE.

    Rather die! I promise and swear it!

                                 INGEBORG.

    Then shall I be of good cheer as I go back to Halogaland.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, you may be of good cheer.

                                 INGEBORG.

    There will I repent and pray, till the Lord calls me. And when we
    meet before God, he shall come back to me pure and blameless.

                                KING SKULE.

    Pure and blameless! [_Turning to_ PETER.] Let me look at you! Ay,
    your mother’s features and mine; you are he for whom I have longed
    so sorely.

                                   PETER.

    My father, my great, noble father! Let me live and fight for you!
    Let your cause be mine; and be your cause what it may—I know that I
    am fighting for the right!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_With a cry of joy._] You trust in me! You trust in me!

                                   PETER.

    Immovably!

                                KING SKULE.

    Then all is well; then am I surely saved! Listen: you shall cast off
    the cowl; the Archbishop shall loose you from your vows; the King’s
    son shall wield the sword, shall go forward unwavering to might and
    honour.

                                   PETER.

    Together with you, my noble father! We will go together!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Drawing the youth close up to himself._] Ay, together, we two
    alone!

                                 INGEBORG.

    [_To herself._] To love, to sacrifice all and be forgotten, that is
    my saga.[41]

                                        [_Goes quietly out by the back._

                                KING SKULE.

    Now shall a great king’s-work be done in Norway! Listen, Peter, my
    son! We will awaken the whole people, and gather it into one; the
    man of Viken and the Trönder, the Halogalander and the Agdeman, the
    Uplander and the Sogndaleman, all shall be _one_ great family! Then
    shall you see how the land will come to flourish!

                                   PETER.

    What a great and dizzy thought——

                                KING SKULE.

    Do you grasp it?

                                   PETER.

    Yes—yes!—Clearly——!

                                KING SKULE.

    And have you faith in it?

                                   PETER.

    Yes, yes; for I have faith in you!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Wildly._] Håkon Håkonsson must die.

                                   PETER.

    If you will it, then it is right that he die.

                                KING SKULE.

    ’Twill cost blood; but that we cannot heed!

                                   PETER.

    The blood is not wasted that flows in your cause.

                                KING SKULE.

    All the might shall be yours when I have built up the kingdom. You
    shall sit on the throne with the circlet on your brow, with the
    purple mantle flowing wide over your shoulders; all men in the land
    shall bow before you——[_The sounds of distant horns[42] are heard._]
    Ha! what was that? [_With a cry._] The Birchleg host! What was it
    Paul Flida said——?

                                             [_Rushes towards the back._

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Enters and cries_:] The hour is upon us, King Skule!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Bewildered._] The Birchlegs! King Håkon’s host! Where are they?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    They are swarming in thousands down over the Ekeberg.

                                KING SKULE.

    Sound the call to arms! Sound, sound! Give counsel; where shall we
    meet them?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    All the churches stand open for us.

                                KING SKULE.

    ’Tis of the Birchlegs I ask——?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    For them all the bridges stand open.

                                KING SKULE.

    Unhappy man, what have you done?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Obeyed my King!

                                KING SKULE.

    My son! My son! Woe is me; I have lost your kingdom!

                                   PETER.

    No, you will conquer! So great a king’s-thought cannot die!

                                KING SKULE.

    Peace, peace! [_Horns and shouts are heard, nearer at hand._] To
    horse! To arms! More is here at stake than the life and death of
    men!

            [_Rushes out by the back; the others follow him._

    _A street in Oslo. On each side, low wooden houses, with porches. At
          the back, St. Hallvard’s churchyard, enclosed by a high wall
          with a gate. On the left, at the end of the wall, is seen the
          church, the chief portal of which stands open. It is still
          night; after a little, the day begins to dawn. The alarm-bell
          is ringing: far away on the right are heard battle-shouts and
          confused noises._

                          KING SKULE’S HORNBLOWER.

    [_Enters from the right, blows his horn, and shouts._] To arms! To
    arms, all King Skule’s men!

            [_Blows his horn again, and proceeds on his way; presently
                he is heard blowing and shouting in the next street._

                                  A WOMAN.

    [_Appears at a house door on the right._] Great God of mercy, what
    is astir?

                                A TOWNSMAN.

    [_Who has come out, half dressed, from a house on the other side of
    the street._] The Birchlegs are in the town! Now will Skule have his
    reward for all his misdeeds.

                            ONE OF SKULE’S MEN.

    [_Enters with some others, bearing their cloaks and weapons on their
    arms, from a side street on the left._] Where are the Birchlegs?

                          ANOTHER OF SKULE’S MEN.

    [_Coming from a house on the right._] I know not!

                                 THE FIRST.

    Hist! Listen!—They must be down at the Geite-bridge!

                                THE SECOND.

    Off to the Geite-bridge then!

            [_They all rush out to the right; a townsman comes running
                in from the same side._

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    Hey, neighbour, whence come you?

                            THE SECOND TOWNSMAN.

    From down at the Lo-river; there’s ugly work there.

                                 THE WOMAN.

    St. Olaf and St. Hallvard! Is it the Birchlegs, or who is it?

                            THE SECOND TOWNSMAN.

    Who else but the Birchlegs! King Håkon is with them; the whole fleet
    is laying in to the wharves; but he himself landed with his best men
    out at Ekeberg.

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    Then will he take revenge for the slaughter at Låka!

                            THE SECOND TOWNSMAN.

    Ay, be sure of that.

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    See, see! The Vårbælgs are flying already!

      _A troop of_ SKULE’S _men enter in full flight, from the right_.

                                ONE OF THEM.

    Into the church! None can stand against the Birchlegs as they lay
    about them to-night.

            [_The troop rushes into the church and bars the door on the
                inside._

                            THE SECOND TOWNSMAN.

    [_Looking out to the right._] I see a standard far down the street;
    it must be King Håkon’s.

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    See, see, how the Vårbælgs are running!

                  _A second troop enters from the right._

                           ONE OF THE FUGITIVES.

    Let us take to the church and pray for grace.

                                               [_They rush at the door._

                             SEVERAL VÅRBÆLGS.

    ’Tis barred! ’tis barred!

                                 THE FIRST.

    Up over Martestokke then!

                                  ANOTHER.

    Where is King Skule?

                                 THE FIRST.

    I know not. Away! yonder I see the Birchlegs standard!

                          [_They flee past the church, out to the left._

    HÅKON _enters from the right with his Standard-bearer_, GREGORIUS
          JONSSON, DAGFINN THE PEASANT, _and several other men_.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Hark to the war-cry! Skule is gathering his men behind the
    churchyard.

                              AN OLD TOWNSMAN.

    [_Calls from his porch, to_ HÅKON.] Take heed for yourself, dear my
    lord; the Vargbælgs are fierce, now they are fighting for life.

                                   HÅKON.

    Is it you, old Guthorm Erlendsson? You have fought both for my
    father and for my grandfather.

                               THE TOWNSMAN.

    Would to God I could fight for you as well.

                                   HÅKON.

    For that you are too old, and there is no need; men pour in upon me
    from all sides.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Pointing off over the wall to the right._] There comes the Duke’s
    standard!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    The Duke himself! He rides his white war-horse.

                                  DAGFINN.

    We must hinder his passage through the gate here!

                                   HÅKON.

    Wind the horn, wind the horn! [_The Hornblower does so._] You blew
    better, you whelp, when you blew for money on Bergen wharf.

            [_The Hornblower winds another blast, louder than the first;
                many men come rushing in._

                                 A VÅRBÆLG.

    [_From the right, fleeing towards the church, pursued by a
    Birchleg._] Spare my life! Spare my life!

                               THE BIRCHLEG.

    Not though you sat on the altar! [_Cuts him down._] ’Tis a costly
    cloak you wear, methinks ’twill fit me well. [_Is about to take the
    cloak, but utters a cry and casts away his sword._] My lord King!
    Not another stroke will I strike for you!

                                  DAGFINN.

    You say that in such an hour as this?

                               THE BIRCHLEG.

    Not another stroke!

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Cuts him down._] Well, you may e’en let it alone.

                               THE BIRCHLEG.

    [_Pointing to the dead Vårbælg._] Methought I had done enough when I
    slew my own brother.

                                                                [_Dies._

                                   HÅKON.

    His brother!

                                  DAGFINN.

    What!    [_Goes up to the Vårbælg’s body._

                                   HÅKON.

    Is it true?

                                  DAGFINN.

    I fear me it is.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Shaken._] Here see we what a war we are waging. Brother against
    brother, father against son;—by God Almighty, this must have an end!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    There comes the Duke, in full fight with Earl Knut’s troop!

                                  DAGFINN.

    Bar the gate against him, king’s men!

    _On the other side of the wall, the combatants come in sight. The
          Vårbælgs are forcing their way towards the left, driving the
          Birchlegs back, foot by foot._ KING SKULE _rides his white
          war-horse, with his sword drawn_. PETER _walks at his side,
          holding the horse’s bridle, and with his left hand uplifting a
          crucifix_. PAUL FLIDA _bears_ SKULE’S _standard, which is
          blue, with a golden lion rampant, without the axe_.[43]

                                KING SKULE.

    Cut them down! Spare no man! There is come a new heir[44] to the
    throne of Norway!

                               THE BIRCHLEGS.

    A new heir, said he?

                                   HÅKON.

    Skule Bårdsson, let us share the kingdom!

                                KING SKULE.

    All or nought!

                                   HÅKON.

    Think of the Queen, your daughter!

                                KING SKULE.

    I have a son, I have a son! I think of none but him!

                                   HÅKON.

    I too have a son;—if I fall the kingdom will be his!

                                KING SKULE.

    Slay the King-child, wherever you find it! Slay it on the throne;
    slay it at the altar; slay it—slay it in the Queen’s arms!

                                   HÅKON.

    There did you utter your own doom!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Slashing about him._] Slay, slay without mercy! King Skule has a
    son! Slay, slay!

                      [_The fighting gradually passes away to the left._

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    The Vargbælgs are hewing their way through!

                                  DAGFINN.

    Ay, but only to flee.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    Yes, by Heaven,—the other gate stands open; they are fleeing
    already!

                                  DAGFINN.

    Up towards Martestokke. [_Calls out._] After them, after them, Earl
    Knut! Take vengeance for the slaughter at Låka!

                                   HÅKON.

    You heard it: he proclaimed my child an outlaw—my innocent child,
    Norway’s chosen king after me!

                              THE KING’S MEN.

    Ay, ay, we heard it!

                                   HÅKON.

    And what is the punishment for such a crime?

                                  THE MEN.

    Death!

                                   HÅKON.

    Then must he die! [_Raises his hand to make oath._] Here I swear it:
    Skule Bårdsson shall die, wherever he be met on unconsecrated
    ground!

                                  DAGFINN.

    ’Tis every true man’s duty to slay him.

                                A BIRCHLEG.

    [_From the left._] Duke Skule has taken to flight!

                               THE TOWNSFOLK.

    The Birchlegs have conquered!

                                   HÅKON.

    What way?

                               THE BIRCHLEG.

    Past Martestokke, up towards Eidsvold; most of them had horses
    waiting up in the streets, else had not one escaped with his life.

                                   HÅKON.

    Thanks be to God that has helped us yet again! Now may the Queen
    safely come ashore from the fleet.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Points off to the right._] She has already landed, my lord; there
    she comes!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_To those nearest him._] The heaviest task is yet before me; she is
    a loving daughter;—listen—no word to her of the danger that
    threatens her child. Swear to me, one and all, to keep ward over
    your King’s son; but let her know nothing.

                                  THE MEN.

    [_Softly._] We swear it.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Enters, with ladies and attendants, from the right._] Håkon, my
    husband! Heaven has shielded you; you have conquered and are unhurt!

                                   HÅKON.

    Yes, I have conquered. Where is the child?

                                 MARGRETE.

    On board the King’s ship, in the hands of trusty men.

                                   HÅKON.

    Go more of you thither.

                                                  [_Some of the men go._

                                 MARGRETE.

    Håkon, where is—Duke Skule?

                                   HÅKON.

    He has made for the Uplands.

                                 MARGRETE.

    He lives, then!—My husband, may I thank God that he lives?

                                   HÅKON.

    [_In painful agitation._] Hear me, Margrete: you have been a
    faithful wife to me, you have followed me through good hap and ill,
    you have been unspeakably rich in love;—now must I cause you a heavy
    sorrow; I am loath to do it; but I am King, therefore must I——

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_In suspense._] Has it to do with—the Duke?

                                   HÅKON.

    Yes. No bitterer lot could befall me than to live my life far from
    you; but if you think it must be so after what I now tell you—if you
    feel that you can no longer sit by my side, no longer look at me
    without turning pale—well, we must even part—live each alone—and I
    shall not blame you for it.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Part from you! How can you think such a thought? Give me your
    hand——!

                                   HÅKON.

    Touch it not!—It has even now been lifted in oath——

                                 MARGRETE.

    In oath?

                                   HÅKON.

    An oath that set its sacred seal upon a death-warrant.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_With a shriek._] My father! Oh, my father!

                      [_Totters; two women rush forward to support her._

                                   HÅKON.

    Yes, Margrete—his King has doomed your father to death.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Then well I know he has committed a greater crime than when he took
    the kingly title.

                                   HÅKON.

    That has he;—and now, if you feel that we must part, so let it be.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Coming close to him, firmly._] We can never part! I am your wife,
    nought else in the world but your wife!

                                   HÅKON.

    Are you strong enough? Did you hear and understand all? I have
    doomed your father.

                                 MARGRETE.

    I heard and understood. You have doomed my father.

                                   HÅKON.

    And you ask not to know what was his crime?

                                 MARGRETE.

    ’Tis enough that you know it.

                                   HÅKON.

    But it was to death that I doomed him!

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Kneels before the_ KING, _and kisses his hand_.] My husband and
    noble lord, your doom is just!




                               ACT FIFTH.


    _A room in the palace at Nidaros. The entrance door is on the right;
          in front, on the same side, a window; to the left a smaller
          door. It is after night-fall._ PAUL FLIDA, BÅRD BRATTE, _and
          several of_ KING SKULE’S _principal followers are standing at
          the window and looking upward_.

                               A MAN-AT-ARMS.

    How red it glows!

                                 A SECOND.

    It stretches over half the sky, like a flaming sword.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Holy King Olaf, what bodes such a sign of dread?

                              AN OLD VÅRBÆLG.

    Assuredly it bodes a great chief’s death.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Håkon’s death, my good Vårbælgs. He is lying out in the fiord with
    his fleet; we may look for him in the town to-night. This time, ’tis
    our turn to conquer!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Trust not to that; there is little heart in the host now.

                              THE OLD VÅRBÆLG.

    And reason enough, in sooth; ever since the flight from Oslo has
    King Skule shut himself in, and will neither see nor speak with his
    men.

                           THE FIRST MAN-AT-ARMS.

    There are those in the town who know not whether to believe him
    alive or dead.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    The King must out, however sick he may be. Speak to him, Bård
    Bratte—the safety of all is at stake.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    It avails not; I have spoken to him already.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Then must I try what I can do. [_Goes to the door on the left, and
    knocks._] My lord King, you must take the helm in your own hands;
    things can no longer go on in this fashion.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Within._] I am sick, Paul Flida.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    What else can you look for? You have eaten nought these two days;
    you must nourish and strengthen you——

                                KING SKULE.

    I am sick.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    By the Almighty, ’tis no time for sickness. King Håkon lies out in
    the fiord, and may at any time be upon us here in Nidaros.

                                KING SKULE.

    Strike him down for me! Slay him and the King-child.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    You must be with us, my lord!

                                KING SKULE.

    No, no, no,—you are surest of fortune and victory when I am not
    there.

                                   PETER.

    [_Enters from the right; he is in armour._] The townsfolk are ill at
    ease; they flock together in great masses before the palace.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Unless the King speak to them, they will desert him in the hour of
    need.

                                   PETER.

    Then must he speak to them. [_At the door on the left._] Father! The
    Trönders, your trustiest subjects, will fall away from you if you
    give them not courage.

                                KING SKULE.

    What said the skald?

                                   PETER.

    The skald?

                                KING SKULE.

    The skald who died for my sake at Oslo. A man cannot give what he
    himself does not possess, he said.

                                   PETER.

    Then neither can you give away the kingdom; for it is mine after
    you!

                                KING SKULE.

    Now I will come!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    God be praised!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Comes forward in the doorway; he is pale and haggard; his hair has
    grown very grey._] You shall not look at me! I will not have you
    look at me now that I am sick! [_Goes up to_ PETER.] Take from you
    the kingdom, you say? Great God in heaven, what was I about to do!

                                   PETER.

    Oh, forgive me;—I know that what you do is ever the right.

                                KING SKULE.

    No, no, not hitherto; but now I will be strong and sound—I will act!

                                LOUD SHOUTS.

    [_Without, on the right._] King Skule! King Skule!

                                KING SKULE.

    What is that?

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    [_At the window._] The townsmen are flocking together; the whole
    courtyard is full of people;—you must speak to them.

                                KING SKULE.

    Do I look like a king? Can I speak now?

                                   PETER.

    You must, my noble father!

                                KING SKULE.

    Well, be it so. [_Goes to the window and draws the curtain aside,
    but lets it go quickly and starts back in terror._] There hangs the
    flaming sword over me again!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    It bodes that the sword of victory is drawn for you.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ah, were it but so! [_Goes to the window and speaks out._] Trönders,
    what would you? Here stands your King.

                                A TOWNSMAN.

    [_Without._] Leave the town! The Birchlegs will burn and slay if
    they find you here.

                                KING SKULE.

    We must all hold together. I have been a gracious King to you; I
    have craved but small war-tax——

                               A MAN’S VOICE.

    [_Down in the crowd._] What call you all the blood, then, that
    flowed at Låka and Oslo?

                                  A WOMAN.

    Give me my betrothed again!

                                   A BOY.

    Give me my father and my brother!

                               ANOTHER WOMAN.

    Give me my three sons, King Skule!

                                   A MAN.

    He is no King; homage has not been done him on St. Olaf’s shrine!

                                MANY VOICES.

    No, no—no homage has been done him on St. Olaf’s shrine! He is no
    king!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Shrinks behind the curtain._] No homage——! No king!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    ’Twas a dire mischance that the shrine was not brought forth when
    you were chosen.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Should the townsfolk desert us, we cannot hold Nidaros if the
    Birchlegs come.

                                KING SKULE.

    And they will desert us, so long as homage has not been done to me
    on the Saint’s shrine.

                                   PETER.

    Then let the shrine be brought forth, and take our homage now!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Shaking his head._] How should that be possible?

                                   PETER.

    Is aught impossible, where _he_ is concerned? Sound the call for the
    folkmote, and bring forth the shrine!

                            SEVERAL OF THE MEN.

    [_Shrinking back._] Sacrilege!

                                   PETER.

    No sacrilege!—Come, come! The monks are well disposed towards King
    Skule; they will agree——

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    That will they not; they dare not, for the Archbishop.

                                   PETER.

    Are you King’s men, and will not lend your aid when so great a cause
    is at stake! Good, there are others below of better will. My father
    and King, the monks _shall_ give way; I will pray, I will beseech;
    sound the summons for the folkmote; you shall bear your kingship
    rightfully.

                                             [_Rushes out to the right._

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Beaming with joy._] Saw you him! Saw you my gallant son! How his
    eyes shone! Yes, we will all fight and conquer. How strong are the
    Birchlegs?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Not stronger than that we may master them, if but the townsfolk hold
    to us.

                                KING SKULE.

    They _shall_ hold to us. We must all be at one now and put an end to
    this time of dread. See you not that ’tis Heaven’s command that we
    should end it? Heaven is wroth with all Norway for the deeds that
    have so long been doing. A flaming sword glows night by night in the
    sky; women swoon and bear children in the churches; a frenzy creeps
    abroad among priests and monks, causing them to run through the
    streets and proclaim that the last day is come. Ay, by the Almighty,
    this shall be ended at one stroke!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    What are your commands?

                                KING SKULE.

    All the bridges shall be broken down!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Go, and let all the bridges be broken.

                        [_One of the Men-at-arms goes out to the right._

                                KING SKULE.

    Gather all our men upon the foreshore; not one Birchleg shall set
    foot in Nidaros.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Well spoken, King.

                                KING SKULE.

    When the shrine is borne forth, let the horn sound to the folkmote.
    The host and the townsfolk shall be called together.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_To one of the men._] Go forth and bid the hornblower wind his horn
    in all the streets.

                                                        [_The man goes._

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Addresses the people from the window._] Hold fast to me, all my
    sorrowing people. There shall come peace and light over the land
    once more, as in Håkon’s first glad days, when the fields yielded
    two harvests every summer. Hold fast to me; believe in me and trust
    to me; ’tis that I need so unspeakably. I will watch over you and
    fight for you; I will bleed and die for you, if need be; but fail me
    not, and doubt not——! [_Loud cries, as though of terror, are heard
    among the people._] What is that?

                               A WILD VOICE.

    Atone! Atone!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    [_Looks out._] ’Tis a priest possessed of the devil!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    He is tearing his cowl to shreds and scourging himself with a whip.

                                 THE VOICE.

    Atone, atone! The last day is come.

                                MANY VOICES.

    Flee, flee! Woe upon Nidaros. A deed of sin!

                                KING SKULE.

    What has befallen?

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    All flee, all shrink away as though a wild beast were in their
    midst.

                                KING SKULE.

    Yes, all flee. [_With a cry of joy._] Ha! it matters not. We are
    saved! See, see—King Olaf’s shrine stands in the middle of the
    courtyard.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    King Olaf’s shrine!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Ay, by Heaven—there it stands!

                                KING SKULE.

    The monks are true to me; so good a deed have they never done
    before!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Hark! the call to the folkmote!

                                KING SKULE.

    Now shall lawful homage be done to me.

                                   PETER.

    [_Enters from the right._] Take on you the kingly mantle; now stands
    the shrine out yonder.

                                KING SKULE.

    Then have you saved the kingdom for me and for yourself; and tenfold
    will we thank the pious monks for yielding.

                                   PETER.

    The monks, father—you have nought to thank them for.

                                 KING SKULE

    ’Twas not they that helped you?

                                   PETER.

    They laid the ban of the Church on whoever should dare to touch the
    holy thing.

                                KING SKULE.

    The Archbishop then! At last he gives way.

                                   PETER.

    The Archbishop hurled forth direr curses than the monks.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ah, then I see that I still have trusty men. You here, who should
    have been the first to serve me, stood terrified and shrank back—but
    down in the crowd have I friends who for my sake fear not to take so
    great a sin upon their souls.

                                   PETER.

    You have not one trusty man who dared to take the sin upon him.

                                KING SKULE.

    Almighty God! has then a miracle come to pass? Who bore out the holy
    thing?

                                   PETER.

    I, my father!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_With a shriek._] You!

                                  THE MEN.

    [_Shrink back appalled._] Church-robber!

               [PAUL FLIDA, BÅRD BRATTE, _and one or two others go out_.

                                   PETER.

    The deed had to be done. No man’s faith is sure ere homage be
    lawfully done to you. I begged, I besought the monks; it availed
    not. Then I broke open the church door; none dared to follow me. I
    sprang up to the high altar, gripped the handle, and pressed hard
    with my knees; ’twas as though an unseen power gave me more than
    human strength. The shrine came loose, I dragged it after me down
    the nave, while the ban moaned like a storm high up under the
    vaultings. I dragged it out of the church; all fled and shrank from
    me. When I came to the middle of the courtyard the handle broke;
    here it is!

                                                      [_Holds it aloft._

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Quietly, appalled._] Church-robber.

                                   PETER.

    For your sake; for the sake of your great king’s-thought! You will
    wipe out the sin; all that is evil you will wipe away. Light and
    peace will follow you; a glorious day will dawn over the land—what
    matter, then, if there went a storm-night before it?

                                KING SKULE.

    There was as ’twere a halo round your head when your mother brought
    you to me; now I see in its stead the lightnings of the ban.

                                   PETER.

    Father, father, think not of me; be not afraid for my woe or weal.
    Is it not your will I have fulfilled?—how can it be accounted to me
    for a crime?

                                KING SKULE.

    I hungered for your faith in me, and your faith has turned to sin.

                                   PETER.

    [_Wildly._] For your sake, for your sake! Therefore God dare not
    deny to blot it out!

                                KING SKULE.

    “Pure and blameless,” I swore to Ingeborg—and he scoffs at heaven!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    [_Entering._] All is in uproar! The impious deed has struck terror
    to your men; they flee into the churches.

                                KING SKULE.

    They shall out; they must out!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    [_Entering._] The townsfolk have risen against you; they are slaying
    the Vårbælgs wherever they find them, on the streets or in the
    houses!

                               A MAN-AT-ARMS.

    [_Entering._] The Birchlegs are sailing up the river!

                                KING SKULE.

    Summon all my men together! None must fail me here!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    They will not come; they are benumbed with dread.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Despairingly._] But I _cannot_ fall now! My son must not die with
    a deadly sin upon his soul!

                                   PETER.

    Think not of me; ’tis you alone that are to be thought of. Let us
    make for Indherred; there all men are true to you!

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, to flight! Follow me, whoso would save his life!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    What way?

                                KING SKULE.

    Over the bridge!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    All bridges are broken down, my lord.

                                KING SKULE.

    Broken down——! All the bridges broken, say you?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Had you broken them down at Oslo, you might have let them stand at
    Nidaros.

                                KING SKULE.

    We must over the river none the less;—we have our lives and our
    souls to save! To flight! To flight!

                                 [_He and_ PETER _rush out to the left_.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Ay, better so than to fall at the hands of the townfolk and the
    Birchlegs.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    In God’s name, then, to flight!

                                                    [_All follow_ SKULE.

    _The room stands empty for a short time; a distant and confused
          noise is heard from the streets; then a troop of armed
          townsmen rushes in by the door on the right._

                                A TOWNSMAN.

    Here! He must be here!

                                  ANOTHER.

    Slay him!

                                   MANY.

    Slay the church-robber too!

                               A SINGLE ONE.

    Go carefully! They may yet bite!

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    No need; the Birchlegs are already coming up the street.

                                A TOWNSMAN.

    [_Entering._] Too late—King Skule has fled!

                                   MANY.

    Whither? Whither?

                               THE NEW-COMER.

    Into one of the churches, methinks; they are full of the Vargbælgs.

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    Then let us seek for him; great thanks and reward will King Håkon
    give to the man who slays Skule.

                                  ANOTHER.

    Here come the Birchlegs.

                                  A THIRD.

    King Håkon himself!

                             MANY OF THE CROWD.

    [_Shout._] Hail to King Håkon Håkonsson!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Enters from the right, followed by_ GREGORIUS JONSSON, DAGFINN THE
    PEASANT, _and many others_.] Ay, now are you humble, you Trönders;
    you have stood against me long enough.

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    [_Kneeling._] Mercy, my lord! Skule Bårdsson bore so hardly on us!

                                  ANOTHER.

    [_Also kneeling._] He compelled us, else had we never followed him.

                                 THE FIRST.

    He seized our goods and forced us to fight for his unrighteous
    cause.

                                THE SECOND.

    Alas, noble lord, he has been a scourge to his friends no less than
    to his foes.

                                MANY VOICES.

    Ay, ay,—Skule Bårdsson has been a scourge to the whole land.

                                  DAGFINN.

    That, at least, is true enough.

                                   HÅKON.

    Good; with you townsfolk I will speak later; ’tis my purpose to
    punish sternly all transgressions; but first there are other things
    to be thought of. Knows any man where Skule Bårdsson is?

                                   MANY.

    In one of the churches, lord!

                                   HÅKON.

    Know you that for certain?

                               THE TOWNSMEN.

    Ay, there are all the Vargbælgs.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Softly to_ DAGFINN.] He must be found; set a watch on all the
    churches in the town.

                                  DAGFINN.

    And when he is found, he must straightway be slain.

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Softly._] Slain? Dagfinn, Dagfinn, how heavy a deed it seems!

                                  DAGFINN.

    My lord, you swore it solemnly at Oslo.

                                   HÅKON.

    And all men in the land will call for his death. [_Turns to_
    GREGORIUS JONSSON _and says, unheard by the others_.] Go; you were
    once his friend; seek him out and prevail on him to fly the land.

                                 GREGORIUS.

    [_Joyfully._] You will suffer it, my lord!

                                   HÅKON.

    For the sake of my gentle, well-beloved wife.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    But if he should _not_ flee? If he will not or cannot?

                                   HÅKON.

    Then, in God’s name, I may not spare him; then must my kingly word
    be fulfilled. Go!

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON

    I go, and shall do my utmost. Heaven grant I may succeed.

                                               [_Goes out by the right._

                                   HÅKON.

    You, Dagfinn, go with trusty men down to the King’s ship; you shall
    conduct the Queen and her child up to Elgesæter[45] convent.

                                  DAGFINN.

    My lord, think you she will be safe there?

                                   HÅKON.

    Nowhere safer. The Vargbælgs have shut themselves up in the
    churches, and she has besought to be sent thither; her mother is at
    Elgesæter.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Ay, ay, that I know.

                                   HÅKON.

    Greet the Queen most lovingly from me; and greet Lady Ragnhild also.
    You may tell them that so soon as the Vargbælgs shall have made
    submission and been taken to grace, all the bells in Nidaros shall
    be rung, for a sign that there has come peace in the land once
    more.—You townsfolk shall reckon with me to-morrow, and punishment
    shall be meted to each according to his misdeeds.

                                                   [_Goes with his men._

                            THE FIRST TOWNSMAN.

    Woe upon us to-morrow!

                                THE SECOND.

    We have a long reckoning to pay.

                                 THE FIRST.

    We, who have stood against Håkon so long—who bore our part in
    acclaiming Skule when he took the kingly title.

                                THE SECOND.

    Who gave Skule both ships and war-tribute—who bought all the goods
    he seized from Håkon’s thanes.

                                 THE FIRST.

    Ay, woe upon us to-morrow!

                                A TOWNSMAN.

    [_Rushes in from the left._] Where is Håkon? Where is the King?

                                 THE FIRST.

    What would you with him?

                               THE NEW-COMER

    Bring him great and weighty tidings.

                                   MANY.

    What tidings?

                               THE NEW-COMER.

    I tell them to no other than the King himself.

                                   MANY.

    Ay, tell us, tell us!

                               THE NEW-COMER.

    Skule Bårdsson is fleeing up toward Elgesæter.

                                 THE FIRST.

    It cannot be! He is in one of the churches.

                               THE NEW-COMER.

    No, no; he and his son crossed over the river in a skiff.

                                 THE FIRST.

    Ha, then we can save us from Håkon’s wrath!

                                THE SECOND.

    Ay, let us forthwith give him to know where Skule is.

                                 THE FIRST.

    Nay, better than that; we will say nought, but ourselves go up to
    Elgesæter and slay Skule.

                                THE SECOND.

    Ay, ay—that will we!

                                  A THIRD.

    But did not many Vargbælgs go with him over the river?

                               THE NEW-COMER.

    No, there were but few men in the boat.

                                 THE FIRST.

    We will arm us as best we can. Oh, now are we townsfolk safe enough!
    Let no man know what we are about; we are enough for the task!—And
    now, away to Elgesæter.

                                    ALL.

    [_Softly._] Ay, away to Elgesæter!

                     [_They go out to the left, rapidly but cautiously._

                             --------------

    _A fir-wood on the hills above Nidaros. It is moonlight, but the
          night is misty, so that the background is seen indistinctly,
          and sometimes scarcely at all. Tree-stumps and great boulders
          lie round about._ KING SKULE, PETER, PAUL FLIDA, BÅRD BRATTE,
          _and other_ VÅRBÆLGS _come through the wood from the left_.

                                   PETER.

    Come hither and rest you, my father.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, let me rest, rest.

                                           [_Sinks down beside a stone._

                                   PETER.

    How goes it with you?

                                KING SKULE.

    I am hungry! I am sick, sick! I see dead men’s shadows!

                                   PETER.

    [_Springing up._] Help here—bread for the King!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Here is every man king; for life is at stake. Stand up, Skule
    Bårdsson, if you be king! Lie not there to rule the land.

                                   PETER.

    If you scoff at my father, I will kill you.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    I shall be killed whatever betides; for me King Håkon will have no
    grace; for I was his thane, and deserted him for Skule’s sake. Think
    of somewhat that may save us. No deed so desperate but I will risk
    it now.

                                 A VÅRBÆLG.

    Could we but get over to the convent at Holm?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Better to Elgesæter.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    [_With a sudden outburst._] Best of all to go down to Håkon’s ship
    and bear away the King-child.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Are you distraught?

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    No, no; ’tis our one hope, and easy enough to do. The Birchlegs are
    ransacking every house, and keeping watch on all the churches; they
    think none of us can have taken flight, since all the bridges are
    broken. There can be but few men on board the ships; when once we
    have his heir in our power, Håkon must grant us peace, else will his
    child die with us. Who will go with me to save our lives?

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Not I, if they are to be saved in such wise.

                                  SEVERAL.

    Not I! Not I!

                                   PETER.

    Ha, but if it were to save my father——!

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    If you will go with me, come. First I go down to Hladehammer; there
    lies the troop we met at the bottom of the hill; they are the
    wildest dare-devils of all the Vargbælgs; they had swum the river,
    knowing that they would find no grace in the churches. They are the
    lads for a raid on the King’s ship! Which of you will follow me?

                                   SOME.

    I! I!

                                   PETER.

    Mayhap I too; but first must I see my father into safe shelter.

                                BÅRD BRATTE.

    Ere daybreak will we make speed up the river. Come, here goes a
    short way downwards towards Hlade.

                              [_He and some others go out to the right._

                                   PETER.

    [_To_ PAUL FLIDA.] Let not my father know aught of this; he is
    soul-sick to-night, we must act for him. There is safety in Bård
    Bratte’s deed; ere daybreak shall the King-child be in our hands.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    To be slain, most like. See you not that it is a sin——

                                   PETER.

    Nay, it cannot be a sin; for my father doomed the child in Oslo.
    Sooner or later it must die, for it blocks my father’s path;—my
    father has a great king’s-thought to carry through; it matters not
    who or how many fall for its sake.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Hapless for you was the day you came to know that you were King
    Skule’s son. [_Listening._] Hist!—cast you flat to the ground; there
    come people this way.

            [_All throw themselves down behind stones and stumps; a
                troop of people, some riding, some on foot, can be seen
                indistinctly through the mist and between the trees;
                they come from the left, and pass on to the right._

                                   PETER.

    ’Tis the Queen!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Ay; she is talking with Dagfinn the Peasant. Hush!

                                   PETER.

    They are making for Elgesæter. The King-child is with them!

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    And the Queen’s ladies.

                                   PETER.

    But only four men! Up, up, King Skule—now is your kingdom saved!

                                KING SKULE.

    My kingdom? ’Tis dark, my kingdom—like the angel’s that rose against
    God.

                 _A party of_ MONKS _comes from the right_.

                                  A MONK.

    Who speaks there? Is it King Skule’s men.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    King Skule himself.

                                 THE MONK.

    [_To_ SKULE.] God be praised that we met you, dear lord! Some
    townsmen gave us to know that you had taken the upward path, and we
    are no less unsafe than you in Nidaros.

                                   PETER.

    You have deserved death, you who denied to give forth St. Olaf’s
    shrine.

                                 THE MONK.

    The Archbishop forbade it; but none the less we would fain serve
    King Skule; we have ever held to him. See, we have brought with us
    robes of our Order for you and your men; put them on, and then can
    you easily make your way into one convent or another, and can seek
    to gain grace of Håkon.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, let me put on the robe; my son and I must stand on consecrated
    ground. I will to Elgesæter.

                                   PETER.

    [_Softly, to_ PAUL FLIDA.] See that my father comes safely thither.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Bethink you that there are Birchlegs at Elgesæter.

                                   PETER.

    But four men; you may easily deal with them, and once inside the
    convent walls they will not dare to touch you. I will seek Bård
    Bratte.

                                PAUL FLIDA.

    Nay, do not so!

                                   PETER.

    Not on the King’s ship, but at Elgesæter, must the outlaws save the
    kingdom for my father.

                                       [_Goes quickly out to the right._

                                 A VÅRBÆLG.

    [_Whispering to another._] Go you to Elgesæter with Skule?

                                 THE OTHER.

    Hist; no; the Birchlegs are there!

                                 THE FIRST.

    Neither will I go; but say nought to the rest.

                                 THE MONK.

    And now away, two and two,—one spearman and one monk.

                               ANOTHER MONK.

    [_Sitting on a stump behind the rest._] I will guide King Skule.

                                KING SKULE.

    Know you the way?

                                 THE MONK.

    The broad way.

                              THE FIRST MONK.

    Haste you; let us take different paths, and meet outside the convent
    gate.

            [_They go out among the trees, to the right; the fog lifts
                and the comet shows itself red and glowing, through the
                hazy air._

                                KING SKULE.

    Peter, my son——! [_Starts backwards._] Ha, there is the flaming
    sword in heaven!

                                 THE MONK.

    [_Sitting behind him on the stump._] And here am I!

                                KING SKULE.

    Who are you?

                                 THE MONK.

    An old acquaintance.

                                KING SKULE.

    Paler man have I never seen.

                                 THE MONK.

    But you know me not?

                                 KING SKULE

    ’Tis you that are to lead me to Elgesæter.

                                 THE MONK.

    ’Tis I that will lead you to the throne.

                                KING SKULE.

    Can you do that?

                                 THE MONK.

    I can, if you but will it.

                                KING SKULE.

    And by what means?

                                 THE MONK.

    By the means I have used before;—I will take you up into a high
    mountain and show you all the glory of the world.

                                KING SKULE.

    All the glory of the world have I seen ere now, in dreams of
    temptation.

                                 THE MONK.

    ’Twas I that gave you those dreams.

                                KING SKULE.

    Who are you?

                                 THE MONK.

    An envoy from the oldest Pretender in the world.

                                KING SKULE.

    From the oldest Pretender in the world?

                                 THE MONK.

    From the first Earl, who rose against the greatest kingdom, and
    himself founded a kingdom that shall endure beyond doomsday.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Shrieks._] Bishop Nicholas!

                                 THE MONK.

        [_Rising._] Do you know me now? We were friends of yore,
        and ’tis you that have brought me back;
        once the self-same galley our fortunes bore,
        and we sailed on the self-same tack.
        At our parting I quailed, in the gloom and the blast;
        for a hawk in his talons had gripped my soul fast;
        I besought them to chant and to ply the bell,
        and I bought me masses and prayers as well,—
        they read fourteen, though I’d paid but for seven;
        yet they brought me no nearer the gates of heaven.

                                KING SKULE.

    And you come from down yonder——?

                                 THE MONK.

        Yes, from the kingdom down yonder I’m faring;
        the kingdom men always so much miscall.
        I vow ’tis in nowise so bad after all,
        and the heat, to my thinking, is never past bearing.

                                KING SKULE.

    And it seems you have learnt skald-craft, old Bagler-chieftain!

                                 THE MONK.

        Not only skald-craft, but store of Latinity!
        Once my Latin was not over strong, you know;
        now few can beat it for ease and flow.
        To take any station in yonder vicinity,
        ay, even to pass at the gate, for credential
        a knowledge of Latin is well-nigh essential.
        You can’t but make progress with so many able
        and learned companions each day at the table,—
        full fifty ex-popes by my side carouse, and
        five hundred cardinals, skalds seven thousand.

                                KING SKULE.

    Greet your Master and give him my thanks for his friendship. Tell
    him he is the only king who sends help to Skule the First of Norway.

                                 THE MONK.

        Hear now, King Skule, what brings me to you—
        my Master’s henchmen down there are legion,
        and each up here is allotted a region;
        they gave Norway to me, as the place I best knew.
        Håkon Håkonsson serves not my Master’s will;
        we hate him, for he is our foeman still—
        so he must fall, leaving you at the helm,
        the sole possessor of crown and realm.

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, give me the crown! When once I have that, I will rule so as to
    buy myself free again.

                                 THE MONK.

        Ay, that we can always talk of later——
        we must seize the time if we’d win the fight.
        King Håkon’s child sleeps at Elgesæter;
        could you once wrap him in the web of night,
        then like storm-swept motes will your foes fly routed,
        then your victory’s sure and your kingship undoubted!

                                KING SKULE.

    Think you so surely that the victory were mine?

                                 THE MONK.

        All men in Norway are sighing for rest;
        the king with an heir[46] is the king they love best—
        a son to succeed to the throne without wrangling;
        for the people are tired of this hundred-years’ jangling.
        Rouse you, King Skule! one great endeavour!
        the foe must perish to-night or never!
        See, to the northward how light it has grown,
        see how the fog lifts o’er fiord and o’er valley—
        there gather noiselessly galley on galley—
        hark! men are marching with rumble and drone!
        One word of promise, and all is your own—
        hundreds of glittering sails on the water,
        thousands of warriors hurtling to slaughter.

                                KING SKULE.

    What word would you have?

                                 THE MONK.

        For raising you highest, my one condition
        is just that you follow your heart’s ambition;
        all Norway is yours, to the kingship I’ll speed you,
        if only you vow that your son shall succeed you!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Raising his hand as if for an oath._] My son shall—-[_Stops
    suddenly, and breaks forth in terror._] The church-robber! All the
    might to him! Ha! now I understand;—you seek for his soul’s
    perdition! Get thee behind me, get thee behind me! [_Stretches out
    his arms to heaven._] Oh have mercy on me, thou to whom I now call
    for help in my sorest need!

                                         [_He falls prone to the earth._

                                 THE MONK.

        Accursëd! He’s slipped through my fingers at last—
        and I thought of a surety I held him so fast!
        But the Light, it seems, had a trick in store
        that I knew not of—and the game is o’er.
        Well, well; what matters a little delay?
        _Perpetuum mobile_’s well under way;
        my might is assured through the years and the ages,
        the haters of light shall be still in my wages;
        in Norway my empire for ever is founded,
        though it be to my subjects a riddle unsounded.

                                                      [_Coming forward._

        While to their life-work Norsemen set out
        will-lessly wavering, daunted with doubt,
        while hearts are shrunken, minds helplessly shivering,
        weak as a willow-wand wind-swept and quivering,—
        while about one thing alone they’re united,
        namely, that greatness be stoned and despited,—
        when they seek honour in fleeing and falling
        under the banner of baseness unfurled,—
        then Bishop Nicholas ’tends to his calling,
        the Bagler-Bishop’s at work in the world!

                            [_He disappears in the fog among the trees._

                                KING SKULE.

    [_After a short pause, half rises and looks around._] Where is he,
    my black comrade? [_Springs up._] My guide, my guide, where are you?
    Gone!— No matter; now I myself know the way, both to Elgesæter and
    beyond.

                                               [_Goes out to the right._

                             --------------

    _The courtyard of Elgesæter Convent. To the left lies the chapel,
          with an entrance from the courtyard; the windows are lighted
          up. Along the opposite side of the space stretch some lower
          buildings; in the back, the convent wall with a strong gate,
          which is locked. It is a clear moonlight night. Three Birchleg
          Chiefs stand by the gate_; MARGRETE, LADY RAGNHILD, _and_
          DAGFINN THE PEASANT _come out from the chapel_.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Half to herself._] King Skule had to flee into the church, you
    say! He, he, a fugitive! begging at the altar for peace—begging for
    his life mayhap—oh no, no, that could never be; but God will punish
    you who dared to let it come to this!

                                 MARGRETE.

    My dear, dear mother, curb yourself; you know not what you say; ’tis
    your grief that speaks.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Hear me, ye Birchlegs! ’Tis Håkon Håkonsson that should lie before
    the altar, and beseech King Skule for life and peace.

                                A BIRCHLEG.

    It ill beseems loyal men to listen to such words.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Bow your heads before a wife’s sorrow!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    King Skule doomed! Look to yourselves, look to yourselves all of
    you, when he regains his power!

                                  DAGFINN.

    That will never be, Lady Ragnhild.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Hush, hush!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Think you Håkon Håkonsson dare let his doom be fulfilled if the King
    should fall into his hands?

                                  DAGFINN.

    King Håkon himself best knows whether a king’s oath can be broken.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_To_ MARGRETE.] And this man of blood have you followed in faith
    and love! Are you your father’s child? May the wrath of heaven——! Go
    from me, go from me!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Blessed be your lips, although now they curse me.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    I must down to Nidaros and into the church to find King Skule. He
    sent me from him when he sat victorious on the throne; then, truly,
    he had no need of me—now will he not be wroth if I come to him. Open
    the gate for me; let me go to Nidaros!

                                 MARGRETE.

    My mother, for God’s pity’s sake——!

                                 [_A loud knocking at the convent gate._

                                  DAGFINN.

    Who knocks?

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Without._] A king.

                                  DAGFINN.

    Skule Bårdsson.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    King Skule.

                                 MARGRETE.

    My father!

                                KING SKULE.

    Open, open!

                                  DAGFINN.

    We open not here to outlaws.

                                KING SKULE.

    ’Tis a king who knocks, I tell you; a king who has no roof over his
    head; a king whose life is forfeit if he reach not consecrated
    ground.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Dagfinn, Dagfinn, ’tis my father!

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_Goes to the gate and opens a small shutter._] Come you with many
    men to the convent?

                                KING SKULE.

    With all the men that were true to me in my need.

                                  DAGFINN.

    And how many be they?

                                KING SKULE.

    Fewer than one.

                                 MARGRETE.

    He is alone, Dagfinn.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Heaven’s wrath fall upon you if you deny him sanctuary!

                                  DAGFINN.

    In God’s name, then!

            [_He opens the gate; the Birchlegs respectfully uncover
                their heads._ KING SKULE _enters the courtyard_.

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Throwing herself on his neck._] My father! My dear, unhappy
    father!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Interposing wildly between him and the Birchlegs._] Ye who feign
    reverence for him, ye will betray him, like Judas. Dare not to come
    near him! Ye shall not lay a finger on him while I live!

                                  DAGFINN.

    Here he is safe, for he is on holy ground.

                                 MARGRETE.

    And not one of all your men had the heart to follow you this night!

                                KING SKULE.

    Both monks and spearmen brought me on the way; but they slipped from
    me one by one, for they knew there were Birchlegs at Elgesæter. Paul
    Flida was the last to leave me; he came with me to the convent gate;
    there he gave me his last hand-grip, in memory of the time when
    there were Vargbælgs in Norway.

                                  DAGFINN.

    [_To the Birchlegs._] Get you in, chieftains, and set you as guards
    about the King-child; I must to Nidaros to acquaint the King that
    Skule Bårdsson is at Elgesæter; in so weighty a matter ’tis for him
    to act.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh, Dagfinn, Dagfinn, have you the heart for that?

                                  DAGFINN.

    Else should I ill serve King and land. [_To the men._] Lock the
    gates after me, watch over the child, and open to none until the
    King be come. [_Softly_ to SKULE.] Farewell, Skule Bårdsson—and God
    grant you a blessed end.

            [_Goes out by the gate; the Birchlegs close it after him,
                and go into the chapel._

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Ay, let Håkon come; I will not loose you; I will hold you straitly
    and tenderly in my arms, as I never held you before.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh, how pale you are—and aged; you are cold.

                                KING SKULE.

    I am not cold—but I am weary, weary.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Come in then, and rest you——

                                KING SKULE.

    Yes, yes; ’twill soon be time to rest.

                                  SIGRID.

    [_From the chapel._] You come at last, my brother!

                                KING SKULE.

    Sigrid! you here?

                                  SIGRID.

    I promised that we should meet when you were fain of me in your
    sorest need.

                                KING SKULE.

    Where is your child, Margrete?

                                 MARGRETE.

    He sleeps, in the sacristy.

                                KING SKULE.

    Then is our whole house gathered at Elgesæter to-night.

                                  SIGRID.

    Ay, gathered after straying long and far.

                                KING SKULE.

    Håkon Håkonsson alone is wanting.

                        MARGRETE AND LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Cling about him, in an outburst of sorrow._] My father!—My
    husband!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Looking at them, much moved._] Have you loved me so deeply, you
    two? I sought after happiness abroad, and heeded not the home
    wherein I might have found it. I pursued after love through sin and
    guilt, little dreaming that ’twas mine already, in right of God’s
    law and man’s.—And you, Ragnhild, my wife, you, against whom I have
    sinned so deeply, you take me to your warm, soft heart in the hour
    of my sorest need; you can tremble and be afraid for the life of the
    man who has never cast a ray of sunshine upon your path.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Have you sinned? Oh, Skule, speak not so; think you I should ever
    dare accuse you! From the first I was too mean a mate for you, my
    noble husband; there can rest no guilt on any deed of yours.

                                KING SKULE.

    Have you believed in me so surely, Ragnhild?

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    From the first day I saw you.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_With animation._] When Håkon comes, I will beg grace of him! You
    gentle, loving women,—oh, but it is fair to live!

                                  SIGRID.

    [_With an expression of terror._] Skule, my brother! Woe to you if
    you stray from the path this night.

            [_A loud noise without; immediately afterwards, a knocking
                at the gate._

                                 MARGRETE.

    Hark, hark! Who comes in such haste?

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Who knocks at the gate?

                                  VOICES.

    [_Without._] Townsfolk from Nidaros! Open! We know that Skule
    Bårdsson is within!

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, he is within; what would ye with him?

                               NOISY VOICES.

    [_Without._] Come out, come out! Death to the evil man!

                                 MARGRETE.

    You townsfolk dare to threaten that?

                              A SINGLE VOICE.

    King Håkon doomed him at Oslo.

                                  ANOTHER.

    ’Tis every man’s duty to slay him.

                                 MARGRETE.

    I am the Queen; I command you to depart!

                                  A VOICE.

    ’Tis Skule Bårdsson’s daughter, and not the Queen, that speaks thus.

                                  ANOTHER.

    You have no power over life and death; the King has doomed him!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Into the church, Skule! For God’s mercy’s sake, let not the
    bloodthirsty caitiffs approach you!

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, into the church; I would not fall at the hands of such as these.
    My wife, my daughter; meseems I have found peace and light; oh, I
    cannot lose them again so soon!

                                            [_Moves towards the chapel._

                                   PETER.

    [_Without, on the right._] My father, my king. Now will you soon
    have the victory!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_With a shriek._] He! He!

                                    [_Sinks down upon the church steps._

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Who is it?

                                A TOWNSMAN.

    [_Without._] See, see! the church-robber climbs over the convent
    roof!

                                  OTHERS.

    Stone him! Stone him!

                                   PETER.

    [_Appears on a roof to the right, and jumps down into the yard._]
    Well met again, my father!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Looks at him aghast._] You—I had forgotten you——! Whence come you?

                                   PETER.

    [_Wildly._] Where is the King-child?

                                 MARGRETE.

    The King-child!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Starts up._] Whence come you, I ask?

                                   PETER.

    From Hladehammer; I have given Bård Bratte and the Vargbælgs to know
    that the King-child lies at Elgesæter to-night.

                                 MARGRETE.

    O God!

                                KING SKULE.

    You have done that! And now——?

                                   PETER.

    He is gathering together his men, and they are hasting up to the
    convent.—Where is the King-child, woman?

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Who has placed herself before the church door._] He sleeps in the
    sacristy!

                                   PETER.

    ’Twere the same if he slept on the altar! I have dragged out St.
    Olaf’s shrine—I fear not to drag out the King-child as well.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Calls to_ SKULE.] And he it is you have loved so deeply!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Father, father! How could you forget us all for his sake?

                                KING SKULE.

    He was pure as a lamb of God when the penitent woman gave him to
    me;—’tis his faith in me has made him what he now is.

                                   PETER.

    [_Without heeding him._] The child must out! Slay it, slay it in the
    Queen’s arms,—that was King Skule’s word in Oslo!

                                 MARGRETE.

    Oh shame, oh shame!

                                   PETER.

    A saint might do it unsinning, at my father’s command! My father is
    King; for the great king’s-thought is his!

                                 TOWNSMEN.

    [_Knocking at the gate._] Open! Come out, you and the church-robber,
    else will we burn the convent down!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_As if seized by a strong resolution._] The great king’s-thought!
    ’Tis _that_ has poisoned your young loving soul! Pure and blameless
    I was to give you back; ’tis faith in me that drives you thus wildly
    from crime to crime, from deadly sin to deadly sin! Oh, but I can
    save you yet: I can save us all! [_Calls toward the background._]
    Wait, wait, ye townsmen without there: I come!

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Seizing his hand in terror._] My father! what would you do?

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    [_Clinging to him with a shriek._] Skule!

                                  SIGRID.

    [_Tears them away from him, and calls with wild, radiant joy._]
    Loose him, loose him, women;—now his thought puts forth wings!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Firmly and forcibly, to_ PETER.] You saw in me the heaven-chosen
    one,—him who should do the great king’s-work in the land. Look at me
    better, misguided boy! The rags of kingship I have decked myself
    withal, they were borrowed and stolen—now I put them off me, one by
    one.

                                   PETER.

    [_In dread._] My great, my noble father, speak not thus!

                                KING SKULE.

    The king’s-thought is Håkon’s, not mine; to him alone has the Lord
    granted the power that can act it out. You have believed in a lie;
    turn from me, and save your soul.

                                   PETER.

    [_In a broken voice._] The king’s-thought is Håkon’s!

                                KING SKULE.

    I yearned to be the greatest in the land. My God! my God! behold, I
    abase myself before thee, and stand as the least of all men.

                                   PETER.

    Take me from the earth, O Lord! Punish me for all my sin; but take
    me from the earth; for here am I homeless now!

                                    [_Sinks down upon the church steps._

                                KING SKULE.

    I had a friend who bled for me at Oslo. He said: A man can die for
    another’s life-work; but if he is to go on living, he must live for
    his own.—I have no life-work to live for, neither can I live for
    Håkon’s,—but I can die for it.

                                 MARGRETE.

    Nay, nay, that shall you never do!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Takes her hand, and looks at her tenderly._] Do you love your
    husband, Margrete?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Better than the whole world.

                                KING SKULE.

    You could endure that he should doom me; but could you also endure
    that he should let the doom be fulfilled?

                                 MARGRETE.

    Lord of heaven, give me strength!

                                KING SKULE.

    Could you, Margrete?

                                 MARGRETE.

    [_Softly and shuddering._] No, no—we should have to part,—I could
    never see him more!

                                KING SKULE.

    You would darken the fairest light of his life and of yours;—be at
    peace, Margrete,—it shall not be needful.

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Flee from the land, Skule; I will follow you whithersoever you will.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Shaking his head._] With a mocking shade between us?—To-night have
    I found you for the first time; there must fall no shade between me
    and you, my silent, faithful wife;—therefore must we not seek to
    unite our lives on this earth.

                                  SIGRID.

    My kingly brother! I see you need me not;—I see you know what path
    to take.

                                KING SKULE.

    There are men born to live, and men born to die. My desire was ever
    thitherward where God’s finger pointed not the way for me; therefore
    I never saw my path clear, till now. My peaceful home-life have I
    wrecked; I can never win it back again. My sins against Håkon I can
    atone by freeing him from a kingly duty which must have parted him
    from his dearest treasure. The townsfolk stand without; I will not
    wait for King Håkon! The Vargbælgs are near; so long as I live they
    will not swerve from their purpose; if they find me here, I cannot
    save your child, Margrete.—See, look upwards! See how it wanes and
    pales, the flaming sword that has hung over my head! Yes, yes,—God
    has spoken and I have understood him, and his wrath is appeased. Not
    in the sanctuary of Elgesæter will I cast me down and beg for grace
    of an earthly king;—I must into the mighty church roofed with the
    vault of stars and ’tis the King of Kings I must implore for grace
    and mercy over all my life-work.

                                  SIGRID.

    Withstand him not! Withstand not the call of God! The day dawns; it
    dawns in Norway and it dawns in his restless soul! Have not we
    trembling women cowered long enough in our secret rooms,
    terror-stricken and hidden in the darkest corners, listening to all
    the horror that was doing without, listening to the bloody pageant
    that stalked over the land from end to end! Have we not lain pale
    and stone-like in the churches, not daring to look forth, even as
    Christ’s disciples lay in Jerusalem on the Great Good Friday when
    the Lord was led by to Golgotha! Use thy wings, and woe to them who
    would bind thee now!

                               LADY RAGNHILD.

    Fare forth in peace, my husband; fare thither, where no mocking
    shade shall stand between us, when we meet.

                                             [_Hastens into the chapel._

                                 MARGRETE.

    My father, farewell, farewell,—a thousand times farewell!

                                               [_Follows_ LADY RAGNHILD.

                                  SIGRID.

    [_Opens the church door and calls in._] To your knees, all ye women!
    Assemble yourselves in prayer; send up a message in song to the
    Lord, and tell him that now Skule Bårdsson comes penitent home from
    his rebellious race on earth.

                                KING SKULE.

    Sigrid, my faithful sister, greet King Håkon from me; tell him that
    even in my last hour I know not whether he be king-born; but this I
    know of a surety: he it is whom God has chosen.

                                  SIGRID.

    I will bear him your greeting.

                                KING SKULE.

    And yet another greeting must you bear. There dwells a penitent
    woman in the north, in Halogaland; tell her that her son has gone
    before; he went with me when there was great danger for his soul.

                                  SIGRID.

    That will I.

                                KING SKULE.

    Tell her, it was not with the heart he sinned; pure and blameless
    shall she surely meet him again.

                                  SIGRID.

    That will I. [_Points towards the background._] Hark! they are
    breaking the lock!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Points towards the chapel._] Hark! they are singing loud to God of
    salvation and peace!

                                  SIGRID.

    Hark again! All the bells in Nidaros are ringing——!

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Smiles mournfully._] They are ringing a king to his grave.

                                  SIGRID.

    Nay, nay, they ring for your true crowning! Farewell, my brother,
    let the purple robe of blood flow wide over your shoulders; under it
    may all sin be hidden! Go forth, go into the great church and take
    the crown of life.

                                             [_Hastens into the chapel._

            [_Chanting and bell-ringing continue during what follows._

                                  VOICES.

    [_Outside the gate._] The lock has burst! Force us not to break the
    peace of the church!

                                KING SKULE.

    I come.

                               THE TOWNSMEN.

    And the church-robber must come too!

                                KING SKULE.

    Ay, the church-robber shall come too. [_Goes over to_ PETER.] My
    son, are you ready?

                                   PETER.

    Ay, father, I am ready.

                                KING SKULE.

    [_Looks upwards._] O God, I am a poor man, I have but my life to
    give; but take that, and keep watch over Håkon’s great
    king’s-thought.—See now, give me your hand.

                                   PETER.

    Here is my hand, father.

                                KING SKULE.

    And fear not for that which is now to come.

                                   PETER.

    Nay, father, I fear not, when I go with you.

                                KING SKULE.

    A safer way have we two never trodden together. [_He opens the gate;
    the_ TOWNSMEN _stand without with upraised weapons_.] Here are we;
    we come of our own free will;—but strike him not in the face.

                     [_They pass out, hand in hand; the gate glides to._

                                  A VOICE.

    Aim not, spare not;—strike them where ye can.

                            KING SKULE’S VOICE.

    ’Tis base to deal thus with chieftains.

            [_A short noise of weapons; then a heavy fall is heard; all
                is still for a moment._

                                  A VOICE.

    They are dead, both of them!

                                            [_The_ KING’S _horn sounds_.

                               ANOTHER VOICE.

    There comes King Håkon with all his guard!

                                 THE CROWD.

    Hail Håkon Håkonsson; now have you no longer any foemen.

                             GREGORIUS JONSSON.

    [_Stops a little before the corpses._] So I have come too late!

                                             [_Enters the convent yard._

                                  DAGFINN.

    It had been ill for Norway had you come sooner. [_Calls out._] In
    here, King Håkon!

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Stopping._] The body lies in my way!

                                  DAGFINN.

    If Håkon Håkonsson would go forward, he must pass over Skule
    Bårdsson’s body!

                                   HÅKON.

    In God’s name then!

                                  [_Steps over the corpse and comes in._

                                  DAGFINN.

    At last you can set about your king’s-work with free hands. In there
    are those you _love_; in Nidaros they are ringing in peace in the
    _land_; and yonder he lies who was your direst foe.

                                   HÅKON.

    All men misjudged him, reading not his secret.

                                  DAGFINN.

    His secret?

                                   HÅKON.

    [_Seizes him by the arm, and says softly._] Skule Bårdsson was God’s
    step-child on earth; that was the secret.

            [_The song of the women is heard more loudly from the
                chapel; all the bells are still ringing in Nidaros._

                                  THE END.

-----

Footnote 21:

      Pronounce _Sverrë_.

Footnote 22:

      Pronounce Inghë.

Footnote 23:

      The old name for Trondheim.

Footnote 24:

      The “Birkebeiner” or Birchlegs were at this period a political
      faction. They were so called because, at the time of their first
      appearance, when they seem to have been little more than bandits,
      they eked out their scanty attire by making themselves leggings of
      birch-bark. Norway at this time swarmed with factions, such as the
      “Bagler” or Croziers (Latin, baculus), so called because Bishop
      Nicholas was their chief, the Ribbungs, the Slittungs, etc.,
      devoted, for the most part, to one or other of the many Pretenders
      to the crown.

Footnote 25:

      A “thing,” or assembly, held from time to time on the “öre” or
      foreshore at the mouth of the river Nid, at Trondhiem.

Footnote 26:

      The word _hird_ is very difficult to render. It meant something
      between “court,” “household,” and “guard.” I have never translated
      it “court,” as that word seemed to convey an idea of peaceful
      civilisation foreign to the country and period; but I have used
      either “guard” or “household” as the context seemed to demand.
      _Hirdmand_ I have generally rendered “man-at-arms.” _Lendermand_ I
      have represented by “baron”; _lagmand_ and _sysselmand_ by
      “thane”; and _stallare_ by “marshal”—all mere rough
      approximations.

Footnote 27:

      See note, p. 125.

Footnote 28:

      Pronounce _Shaldarband_.

Footnote 29:

      Bishop Nicholas’s speech, “Nu slår jeg bonden, herre jarl,” means
      literally, “Now I strike (or slay) the peasant”; the pawn being
      called in Norwegian “bonde,” peasant, as in German “Bauer.” Thus
      in this speech and the next the Bishop and the Earl are girding at
      Dagfinn the Peasant. [Our own word “pawn” comes from the Spanish
      peon = a foot-soldier or day-labourer.]

Footnote 30:

      Pronounce _Yostein_.

Footnote 31:

      _Den lykkeligste mand._ The word _lykke_ means not only luck or
      fortune, but happiness. To render _lykkeligste_ completely, we
      should require a word in which the ideas “fortunate” and “happy”
      should be blent.

Footnote 32:

      See note, p. 125.

Footnote 33:

      An ancient city close to the present Christiania.

Footnote 34:

      Men of the Trondheim district.

Footnote 35:

      _Skibreder_, districts each of which furnished a ship to the
      fleet.

Footnote 36:

      The metre of this song is very rugged in the original, and the
      wording purposely uncouth.

Footnote 37:

      See note, p. 127.

Footnote 38:

      The derivation of this word is doubtful. In the form _Vargbælg_ it
      means Wolf-skin, from Icelandic _Vargr_ = a wolf, and _Belgr_—the
      skin of an animal taken off whole. The more common form, however,
      is _Varbelg,_ which, as P. A. Munch suggests (“Det Norske Folks
      Historie,” iii. 219), may possibly come from _var_ (our word
      “ware”), a covering, and may be an allusion to the falsity and
      cunning of the faction. What Ibsen understands by the form
      _Vårbælg_ I cannot discover. _Vår_ (Icelandic _Vâr_) means the
      springtide. The nick-name had been applied to a political faction
      as early as 1190, and was merely revived as a designation for
      Skule’s adherents.

Footnote 39:

      _Knœsœtte_, see note, p. 19.

Footnote 40:

      _Varger_, the first part of the word _Vargbælg_.

Footnote 41:

      As to the earlier text of this scene, see Brandes’ _Ibsen and
      Björnson_ (Heinemann, 1899), p. 29.

Footnote 42:

      _Lur_, the long wooden horn still used among the mountains in
      Norway.

Footnote 43:

      The arms of Norway consist of a lion rampant, holding an axe.

Footnote 44:

      _Et nyt kongs-emne._

Footnote 45:

      _Elgesæter_—Elk-châlet.

Footnote 46:

      _Et kongs-emne._

-----

                    Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
                  Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                             Transcriber’s Note

    There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The
    conventional period following the character’s name is sometimes
    missing and has been added for consistency’s sake without further
    comment. Those missing from setting and stage direction are also
    added without comment, since there is no obvious purpose to be
    served by the omission. However, the restoration of punctuation
    missing from dialogue is noted below, since the punctuation is
    frequently expressive.

    Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume.
    Some, but not all of the corrections indicated there had been made
    before this printing. Those that remained unchanged have been
    corrected here, and noted as such.

    Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been
    corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and
    line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along
    with the resolutions.

  63.16    If Thorol[d/f] is slain                        Replaced,
                                                          per Errata.

  63.18    If Thorol[d/f] is slain                        Replaced,
                                                          per Errata.

  82.29    Whither wilt thou[?]                           Added.

  118.12   _H[a/å]kon’s marshal._                         Replaced.

  123.32   The old name for Trondh[ie/ei]m.               Transposed.

  161.27   the full strength of my youth[;/.]             Replaced.

  279.13   what have you done[?]                          Added.

  329.1    [_Softly_ [to] SKULE.] Farewell, Skule         Added.
           Bårdsson

  341.4    And the church-robber must come too[!]         Added.