That heedless word that Nils Lykke threw forth at random—. How could he see my unborn thought? [_More softly._ A king’s mother? A king’s mother, he said—And why not? Have not my fathers before me ruled as kings, even though they bore not the kingly name? Has not _my_ son as good a title as the other to the rights of the house of Sture? In the sight of God he has—if so be there is justice in Heaven. And in an hour of terror I have signed away his rights. I have recklessly squandered them, as a ransom for his freedom. If they could be recovered?—Would Heaven be angered, if I—? Would it call down fresh troubles on my head if I were to—? Who knows;—who knows! It may be safest to refrain. [_Takes up the light again._] I shall have my child again. _That_ must content me. I will try to rest. All these desperate thoughts,—I will sleep them away. [_Goes towards the back, but stops in the middle of the hall, and says broodingly:_ A king’s mother! [_Goes slowly out at the back, to the left._ [_After a short pause, NILS LYKKE and ELINA GYLDENLÖVE enter noiselessly by the first door on the left. NILS LYKKE has a small lantern in his hand._ NILS LYKKE. [_Throws the light from his lantern around, so as to search the room._] All is still. I must begone. ELINA. Oh, let me look but once more into your eyes, before you leave me. NILS LYKKE. [_Embraces her._] Elina! ELINA. [_After a short pause._] Will you come nevermore to Östråt? NILS LYKKE. How can you doubt that I will come? Are you not henceforth my betrothed?—But will _you_ be true to _me_, Elina? Will you not forget me ere we meet again? ELINA. Do you ask if I _will_ be true? Have I any will left then? Have I power to be untrue to you, even if I would?—You came by night; you knocked upon my door;—and I opened to you. You spoke to me. What was it you said? You gazed in my eyes. What was the mystic might that turned my brain, and lured me as into a magic net? [_Hides her face on his shoulder._] Oh, look not on me, Nils Lykke! You must not look upon me after this—True, say you? Do you not own me? I am yours;—I _must_ be yours—to all eternity. NILS LYKKE. Now, by my knightly honour, ere the year be past, you shall sit as my wife in the hall of my fathers!