NILS LYKKE. First your oath! The holiest, the most inviolable you can swear. NILS STENSSON. That you shall have. Yonder on the wall hangs the picture of the Holy Virgin—— NILS LYKKE. The Holy Virgin has grown infirm of late. Know you not what the monk of Wittenberg maintains? NILS STENSSON. Fie! how can you heed the monk of Wittenberg? Peter Kanzler says he is a heretic. NILS LYKKE. Well, let us not dispute the matter. Here can I show you a saint will serve full well to make oath by. [_Points to a picture hanging on one of the panels._ Come hither,—swear that you will be silent till I myself release your tongue—silent, as you hope for Heaven’s salvation for yourself and for the man whose picture hangs there. NILS STENSSON. [_Approaching the picture._] I swear it—so help me God’s holy word! [_Falls back a step in amazement._ But—Christ save me——! NILS LYKKE. What now? NILS STENSSON. The picture—! Sure ’tis I myself! NILS LYKKE. ’Tis old Sten Sture, even as he lived and moved in his youthful years. NILS STENSSON. Sten Sture!—And the likeness—? And—said you not I spoke the truth, when I called myself a Count’s son? Was’t not so? NILS LYKKE. So it was. NILS STENSSON. Ah, I have it, I have it! I am—— NILS LYKKE. You are Sten Sture’s son, good Sir! NILS STENSSON. [_With the quiet of amazement._] _I_ Sten Sture’s son! NILS LYKKE. On the mother’s side too your blood is noble. Peter Kanzler spoke not the truth, if he said that a poor peasant woman was your mother. NILS STENSSON. Oh strange! oh marvellous!—But can I believe——? NILS LYKKE. You may believe all that I tell you. But remember, all this will be merely your ruin, if you should forget what you swore to me by your father’s salvation. NILS STENSSON. Forget it? Nay, _that_ you may be sure I never shall.—But you, to whom I have given my word,—tell me—who are you? NILS LYKKE. My name is Nils Lykke. NILS STENSSON. [_Surprised._] Nils Lykke? Surely not the Danish Councillor?