What Lady Inger thinks? I warrant few can tell that. But sure it is that she has no rest in her. See you not how day by day she grows thinner and paler? [_Looks keenly at him._] They say she never sleeps—and that it is because of the black figure—— [_While he is speaking,_ ELINA GYLDENLÖVE _has appeared in the half-open door on the left. She stops and listens, unobserved._ BIÖRN. And you believe such follies? FINN. Well, half and half. There be folk, too, that read things another way. But that is pure malice, I’ll be bound.—Hearken, Biörn—know you the song that is going round the country? BIÖRN. A song? FINN. Ay, ’tis on all folks’ lips. ’Tis a shameful scurril thing, for sure; yet it goes prettily. Just listen: [_Sings in a low voice._ Dame Inger sitteth in Östråt fair, She wraps her in costly furs— She decks her in velvet and ermine and vair, Red gold are the beads that she twines in her hair— But small peace in that soul of hers. Dame Inger hath sold her to Denmark’s lord. She bringeth her folk ’neath the stranger’s yoke— In guerdon whereof— [BIÖRN _enraged, seizes him by the throat._ ELINA GYLDENLÖVE _withdraws without having been seen._ BIÖRN. I will send you guerdonless to the foul fiend, if you prate of Lady Inger but one unseemly word more. FINN. [_Breaking from his grasp._] Why—did _I_ make the song? [_The blast of a horn is heard from the right._ BIÖRN. Hark—what is that? FINN. A horn. Then there come guests to-night. BIÖRN. [_At the window._] They are opening the gate. I hear the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard. It must be a knight. FINN. A knight? Nay, that can scarce be. BIÖRN. Why not? FINN. Did you not say yourself: the last of our knighthood is dead and gone? [_Goes out to the right._ BIÖRN. The accursed knave, with his prying and peering! What avails all my striving to hide and hush things? They whisper of her even now—; soon all men will be shouting aloud that—— ELINA.