’Twas well he departed. While here he remains Meseems the blood freezes within my veins; Meseems that a crushing might and cold My heart in its clutches doth still enfold. [_With tears she cannot repress._ _He_ is my husband! I am _his_ wife! How long, how long lasts a woman’s life? Sixty years, mayhap—God pity me Who am not yet full twenty-three! [_More calmly, after a short silence._ Hard, so long in a gilded cage to pine; Hard a hopeless prisoner’s lot—and mine. [_Absently fingering the ornaments on the table, and beginning to put them on._ With rings, and with jewels, and all of my best By his order myself I am decking— But oh, if to-day were my burial-feast, ’Twere little that I’d be recking. [_Breaking off._ But if thus I brood I must needs despair; I know a song that can lighten care. [_She sings._ The Hill-King to the sea did ride; —Oh, sad are my days and dreary— To woo a maiden to be his bride. —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.— The Hill-King rode to Sir Håkon’s hold; —Oh, sad are my days and dreary— Little Kirsten sat combing her locks of gold. —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.— The Hill-King wedded the maiden fair; —Oh, sad are my days and dreary— A silvern girdle she ever must wear. —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.— The Hill-King wedded the lily-wand, —Oh, sad are my days and dreary— With fifteen gold rings on either hand. —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.— Three summers passed, and there passed full five; —Oh, sad are my days and dreary— In the hill little Kirsten was buried alive. —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.— Five summers passed, and there passed full nine; —Oh, sad are my days and dreary— Little Kirsten ne’er saw the glad sunshine. —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.— In the dale there are flowers and the birds’ blithe song; —Oh, sad are my days and dreary— In the hill there is gold and the night is long —I am waiting for thee, I am weary.— [_She rises and crosses the room._ How oft in the gloaming would Gudmund sing This song in my father’s hall. There was somewhat in it—some strange, sad thing That took my heart in thrall; Though I scarce understood, I could ne’er forget— And the words and the thoughts they haunt me yet. [_Stops horror-struck._