But forgive me, noble lady! Our speech of these past few moments has made me forget how we stand one to another. ’Twas as though a secret voice had told me from the first that to you I could speak openly, without flattery or dissimulation. ELINA. That can you. NILS LYKKE. ’Tis well;—and it may be that this openness has already in part reconciled us. Ay—my hope is yet bolder. The time may yet come when you will think of the stranger knight without hate or bitterness in your soul. Nay,—mistake me not! I mean not _now_—but some time, in the days to come. And that this may be the less hard for you—and as I have begun once for all to speak to you plainly and openly —let me tell you—— ELINA. Sir Knight——! NILS LYKKE. [_Smiling._] Ah, I see the thought of my letter still affrights you. Fear nought on that score. I would from my heart it were unwritten, for—I know ’twill concern you little enough, so I may even say it right out—for I love you not, and shall never come to love you. Fear nothing, therefore, as I said before; I shall in nowise seek to—— But what ails you——? ELINA. Me? Nothing, nothing.—Tell me but one thing: why do you still wear those flowers? What would you with them? NILS LYKKE. These? Are they not a gage of battle you have thrown down to the wicked Nils Lykke, on behalf of all womankind? What could I do but take it up? You asked what I would with them? [_Softly._] When I stand again amid the fair ladies of Denmark—when the music of the strings is hushed and there is silence in the hall—then will I bring forth these flowers and tell a tale of a young maiden sitting alone in a gloomy black-beamed hall, far to the north in Norway—— [_Breaks off and bows respectfully._ But I fear I detain the noble daughter of the house too long. We shall meet no more; for before daybreak I shall be gone. So now I bid you farewell. ELINA. Fare you well, Sir Knight! [_A short silence._ NILS LYKKE. Again you are deep in thought, Elina Gyldenlöve! Is it the fate of your fatherland that weighs upon you still? ELINA. [_Shakes her head, absently gazing straight in front of her._] My fatherland?—I think not of my fatherland. NILS LYKKE. Then ’tis the strife and misery of the time that disquiets you. ELINA.