The days that passed were but few Ere with tears my folly I ’gan to rue. To think, my kinsman and friend, on thee Was all the comfort left to me. How empty now seemed Solhoug’s hall, How hateful and drear its great rooms all! Hither came many a knight and dame, Came many a skald to sing my fame. But never a one who could fathom aright My spirit and all its yearning— I shivered, as though in the Hill-King’s might; Yet my head throbbed, my blood was burning. GUDMUND. But your husband—? MARGIT. He never to me was dear. ’Twas his gold was my undoing. When he spoke to me, aye, or e’en drew near, My spirit writhed with ruing. [_Clasping her hands._ And thus have I lived for three long years— A life of sorrow, of unstanched tears! Your coming was rumoured. You know full well What pride deep down in my heart doth dwell. I hid my anguish, I veiled my woe, For you were the last that the truth must know. GUDMUND. [_Moved._] ’Twas therefore, then, that you turned away— MARGIT. [_Not looking at him._] I thought you came at my woe to jeer. GUDMUND. Margit, how could you think—? MARGIT. Nay, nay, There was reason enough for such a fear. But thanks be to Heaven, that fear is gone; And now no longer I stand alone; My spirit now is as light and free As a child’s at play ’neath the greenwood tree. [_With a sudden start of fear._ Ah, where are my wits fled! How could I forget—? Ye saints, I need sorely your succor yet! An outlaw, you said—? GUDMUND. [_Smiling._] Nay, now I’m at home; Hither the King’s men scarce dare come. MARGIT. Your fall has been sudden. I pray you, tell How you lost the King’s favour. GUDMUND.