Nay, Margit, my meaning you read aright! You were kind to me, both, in those far-away years— Your eyes, when we parted were wet with tears. We swore like brother and sister still To hold together in good hap or ill. ’Mid the other maids like a sun you shone, Far, far and wide was your beauty known. You are no less fair than you were, I wot; But Solhoug’s mistress, I see, has forgot The penniless kinsman. So hard is your mind That ever of old was gentle and kind. MARGIT. [_Choking back her tears._] Aye, of old—! GUDMUND. [_Looks compassionately at her, is silent for a little, then says in a subdued voice._ Shall we do as your husband said? Pass the time with talk of the dear old days? MARGIT. [_Vehemently._] No, no, not of them! [_More calmly._ Their memory’s dead. My mind unwillingly backward strays. Tell rather of what your life has been, Of what in the wide world you’ve done and seen. Adventures you’ve lacked not, well I ween— In all the warmth and the space out yonder, That heart and mind should be light, what wonder? GUDMUND. In the King’s high hall I found not the joy That I knew by my own poor hearth as a boy. MARGIT. [WITHOUT LOOKING AT HIM.] While I, as at Solhoug each day flits past, Thank Heaven that here has my lot been cast. GUDMUND. ’Tis well if for this you can thankful be— MARGIT. [_Vehemently._] Why not? For am I not honoured and free? Must not all folk here obey my hest? Rule I not all things as seemeth me best? Here I am first, with no second beside me; And that, as you know, from of old satisfied me. Did you think you would find me weary and sad? Nay, my mind is at peace and my heart is glad. You might, then, have spared your journey here To Solhoug; ’twill profit you little, I fear. GUDMUND. What, mean you, Dame Margit? MARGIT. [_Rising._] I understand all— I know why you come to my lonely hall. GUDMUND. And you welcome me not, though you know why I came? [_Bowing, and about to go._ God’s peace and farewell, then, my noble dame!