Chapter 2
And this I would have you mark, Dame Margit: it may be a week since, I was at a feast at Hegge, at Erik's bidding, whom here you see. I vowed a vow that Signe, your fair sister, should be my wife, and that before the year was out. Never shall it be said of Knut Gesling that he brake any vow. You can see, then, that you must e'en choose me for your sister's husband--be it with your will or against it.
MARGIT.
Ere that may be, I must tell you plain, You must rid yourself of your ravening train. You must scour no longer with yell and shout O'er the country-side in a galloping rout; You must still the shudder that spreads around When Knut Gesling is to a bride-ale bound. Courteous must your mien be when a-feasting you ride; Let your battle-axe hang at home at the chimney-side-- It ever sits loose in your hand, well you know, When the mead has gone round and your brain is aglow. From no man his rightful gear shall you wrest, You shall harm no harmless maiden; You shall send no man the shameless hest That when his path crosses yours, he were best Come with his grave-clothes laden. And if you will so bear you till the year be past, You may win my sister for your bride at last.
KNUT.
[With suppressed rage.] You know how to order your words cunningly, Dame Margit. Truly, you should have been a priest, and not your husbands wife.
BENGT.
Oh, for that matter, I too could--
KNUT.
[Paying no heed to him.] But I would have you take note that had a sword-bearing man spoken to me in such wise--
BENGT.
Nay, but listen, Knut Gesling--you must understand us!
KNUT.
[As before.] Well, briefly, he should have learnt that the axe sits loose in my hand, as you said but now.
BENGT.
[Softly.] There we have it! Margit, Margit, this will never end well.
MARGIT.
[To KNUT.] You asked for a forthright answer, and that I have given you.
KNUT.
Well, well; I will not reckon too closely with you, Dame Margit. You have more wit than all the rest of us together. Here is my hand;--it may be there was somewhat of reason in the keen-edged words you spoke to me.
MARGIT.
This I like well; now are you already on the right way to amendment. Yet one word more--to-day we hold a feast at Solhoug.
KNUT.
A feast?
BENGT.
Yes, Knut Gesling: you must know that it is our wedding day; this day three years ago made me Dame Margit's husband.
MARGIT.
[Impatiently, interrupting.] As I said, we hold a feast to-day. When Mass is over, and your other business done, I would have you ride hither again, and join in the banquet. Then you can learn to know my sister.
KNUT.
So be it, Dame Margit; I thank you. Yet 'twas not to go to Mass that I rode hither this morning. Your kinsman, Gudmund Alfson, was the cause of my coming.
MARGIT.
[Starts.] He! My kinsman? Where would you seek him?
KNUT.
His homestead lies behind the headland, on the other side of the fiord.
MARGIT.
But he himself is far away.
ERIK.
Be not so sure; he may be nearer than you think.
KNUT.
[Whispers.] Hold your peace!
MARGIT.
Nearer? What mean you?
KNUT.
Have you not heard, then, that Gudmund Alfson has come back to Norway? He came with the Chancellor Audun of Hegranes, who was sent to France to bring home our new Queen.
MARGIT.
True enough, but in these very days the King holds his wedding- feast in full state at Bergen, and there is Gudmund Alfson a guest.
BENGT.
And there could we too have been guests had my wife so willed it.
ERIK.
[Aside to KNUT.] Then Dame Margit knows not that--?
KNUT.
[Aside.] So it would seem; but keep your counsel. [Aloud.] Well, well, Dame Margit, I must go my way none the less, and see what may betide. At nightfall I will be here again.
MARGIT.
And then you must show whether you have power to bridle your unruly spirit.
BENGT.
Aye, mark you that.
MARGIT.
You must lay no hand on your axe--hear you, Knut Gesling?
BENGT.
Neither on your axe, nor on your knife, nor on any other weapon whatsoever.
MARGIT.
For then can you never hope to be one of our kindred.
BENGT.
Nay, that is our firm resolve.
KNUT.
[To MARGIT.] Have no fear.
BENGT.
And what we have firmly resolved stands fast.
KNUT.
That I like well, Sir Bengt Gauteson. I, too, say the same; and I have pledged myself at the feast-board to wed your kinswoman. You may be sure that my pledge, too, will stand fast.--God's peace till to-night!
[He and ERIK, with their men, go out at the back. [BENGT accompanies them to the door. The sound of the bells has in the meantime ceased.
BENGT.
[Returning.] Methought he seemed to threaten us as he departed.
MARGIT.
[Absently.] Aye, so it seemed.
BENGT.
Knut Gesling is an ill man to fall out with. And when I bethink me, we gave him over many hard words. But come, let us not brood over that. To-day we must be merry, Margit!--as I trow we have both good reason to be.
MARGIT.
[With a weary smile.] Aye, surely, surely.
BENGT.
Tis true I was no mere stripling when I courted you. But well I wot I was the richest man for many and many a mile. You were a fair maiden, and nobly born; but your dowry would have tempted no wooer.
MARGIT.
[To herself.] Yet was I then so rich.
BENGT.
What said you, my wife?
MARGIT.
Oh, nothing, nothing. [Crosses to the right.] I will deck me with pearls and rings. Is not to-night a time of rejoicing for me?
BENGT.
I am fain to hear you say it. Let me see that you deck you in your best attire, that our guests may say: Happy she who mated with Bengt Gauteson.--But now must I to the larder; there are many things to-day that must not be over-looked.
[He goes out to the left.
MARGIT. [Sinks down on a chair by the table on the right.]
'Twas well he departed. While here he remains Meseems the blood freezes within my veins; Meseems that a crushing mighty and cold My heart in its clutches doth still enfold. [With tears she cannot repress.
He is my husband! I am his wife! How long, how long lasts a woman's life? Sixty years, mayhap--God pity me Who am not yet full twenty-three! [More calmly after a short silence.
Hard, so long in a gilded cage to pine; Hard a hopeless prisoner's lot--and mine. [Absently fingering the ornaments on the table, and beginning to put them on.
With rings, and with jewels, and all of my best By his order myself I am decking-- But oh, if to-day were my burial-feast, 'Twere little that I'd be recking. [Breaking off.
But if thus I brood I must needs despair; I know a song that can lighten care. [She sings.
The Hill-King to the sea did ride; --Oh, sad are my days and dreary-- To woo a maiden to be his bride. --I am waiting for thee, I am weary.--
The Hill-King rode to Sir Hakon's hold; --Oh, sad are my days and dreary-- Little Kirsten sat combing her locks of gold. --I am waiting for thee, I am weary.--
The Hill-King wedded the maiden fair; --Oh, sad are my days and dreary-- A silvern girdle she ever must wear. --I am waiting for thee, I am weary.--
The Hill-King wedded the lily-wand, --Oh, sad are my days and dreary-- With fifteen gold rings on either hand. --I am waiting for thee, I am weary.--
Three summers passed, and there passed full five; --Oh, sad are my days and dreary-- In the hill little Kirsten was buried alive. --I am waiting for thee, I am weary.--
Five summers passed, and there passed full nine; --Oh, sad are my days and dreary-- Little Kirsten ne'er saw the glad sunshine. --I am waiting for thee, I am weary.--
In the dale there are flowers and the birds' blithe song; --Oh, sad are my days and dreary-- In the hill there is gold and the night is long. --I am waiting for thee, I am weary.-- [She rises and crosses the room.
How oft in the gloaming would Gudmund sing This song in may father's hall. There was somewhat in it--some strange, sad thing That took my heart in thrall; Though I scarce understood, I could ne'er forget-- And the words and the thoughts they haunt me yet. [Stops horror-struck.
Rings of red gold! And a belt beside--! 'Twas with gold the Hill-King wedded his bride! [In despair; sinks down on a bench beside the table on the left.
Woe! Woe! I myself am the Hill-King's wife! And there cometh none to free me from the prison of my life.
[SIGNE, radiant with gladness, comes running in from the back.
SIGNE.
[Calling.] Margit, Margit,--he is coming!
MARGIT.
[Starting up.] Coming? Who is coming?
SIGNE.
Gudmund, our kinsman!
MARGIT.
Gudmund Alfson! Here! How can you think--?
SIGNE.
Oh, I am sure of it.
MARGIT.
[Crosses to the right.] Gudmund Alfson is at the wedding-feast in the King's hall; you know that as well as I.
SIGNE.
Maybe; but none the less I am sure it was he.
MARGIT.
Have you seen him?
SIGNE.
Oh, no, no; but I must tell you--
MARGIT.
Yes, haste you--tell on!
SIGNE.
'Twas early morn, and the church bells rang, To Mass I was fain to ride; The birds in the willows twittered and sang, In the birch-groves far and wide. All earth was glad in the clear, sweet day; And from church it had well-nigh stayed me; For still, as I rode down the shady way, Each rosebud beguiled and delayed me. Silently into the church I stole; The priest at the altar was bending; He chanted and read, and with awe in their soul, The folk to God's word were attending. Then a voice rang out o'er the fiord so blue; And the carven angels, the whole church through, Turned round, methought, to listen thereto.
MARGIT.
O Signe, say on! Tell me all, tell me all!
SIGNE.
'Twas as though a strange, irresistible call Summoned me forth from the worshipping flock, Over hill and dale, over mead and rock. 'Mid the silver birches I listening trod, Moving as though in a dream; Behind me stood empty the house of God; Priest and people were lured by the magic 'twould seem, Of the tones that still through the air did stream. No sound they made; they were quiet as death; To hearken the song-birds held their breath, The lark dropped earthward, the cuckoo was still, As the voice re-echoed from hill to hill.
MARGIT.
Go on.
SIGNE.
They crossed themselves, women and men; [Pressing her hands to her breast.
But strange thoughts arose within me then; For the heavenly song familiar grew: Gudmund oft sang it to me and you-- Ofttimes has Gudmund carolled it, And all he e'er sang in my heart is writ.
MARGIT.
And you think that it may be--?
SIGNE.
I know it is he! I know it? I know it! You soon shall see! [Laughing.
From far-off lands, at the last, in the end, Each song-bird homeward his flight doth bend! I am so happy--though why I scarce know--! Margit, what say you? I'll quickly go And take down his harp, that has hung so long In there on the wall that 'tis rusted quite; Its golden strings I will polish bright, And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.
MARGIT. [Absently.]
Do as you will--
SIGNE. [Reproachfully.]
Nay, this in not right. [Embracing her.
But when Gudmund comes will your heart grow light-- Light, as when I was a child, again.
MARGIT.
So much has changed--ah, so much!--since then--
SIGNE.
Margit, you shall be happy and gay! Have you not serving-maids many, and thralls? Costly robes hang in rows on your chamber walls; How rich you are, none can say. By day you can ride in the forest deep, Chasing the hart and the hind; By night in a lordly bower you can sleep, On pillows of silk reclined.
MARGIT. [Looking toward the window.]
And he comes to Solhoug! He, as a guest!
SIGNE.
What say you?
MARGIT. [Turning.]
Naught.--Deck you out in your best. That fortune which seemeth to you so bright May await yourself.
SIGNE.
Margit, say what you mean!
MARGIT. [Stroking her hair.]
I mean--nay, no more! 'Twill shortly be seen--; I mean--should a wooer ride hither to-night--?
SIGNE.
A wooer? For whom?
MARGIT.
For you.
SIGNE. [Laughing.]
For me? That he'd ta'en the wrong road full soon he would see.
MARGIT.
What would you say if a valiant knight Begged for your hand?
SIGNE.
That my heart was too light To think upon suitors or choose a mate.
MARGIT.
But if he were mighty, and rich, and great?
SIGNE.
O, were he a king, did his palace hold Stores of rich garments and ruddy gold, 'Twould ne'er set my heart desiring. With you I am rich enough here, meseeems, With summer and sun and the murmuring streams, And the birds in the branches quiring. Dear sister mine--here shall my dwelling be; And to give any wooer my hand in fee, For that I am too busy, and my heart too full of glee!
[SIGNE runs out to the left, singing.
MARGIT.
[After a pause.] Gudmund Alfson coming hither! Hither--to Solhoug? No, no, it cannot be.--Signe heard him singing, she said! When I have heard the pine-trees moaning in the forest afar, when I have heard the waterfall thunder and the birds pipe their lure in the tree-tops, it has many a time seemed to me as though, through it all, the sound of Gudmund's songs came blended. And yet he was far from here.--Signe has deceived herself. Gudmund cannot be coming.
[BENGT enters hastily from the back.
BENGT.
[Entering, calls loudly.] An unlooked-for guest my wife!
MARGIT.
What guest?
BENGT.
Your kinsman, Gudmund Alfson! [Calls through the doorway on the right.] Let the best guest-room be prepared--and that forthwith!
MARGIT.
Is he, then, already here?
BENGT.
[Looking out through the passage-way.] Nay, not yet; but he cannot be far off. [Calls again to the right.] The carved oak bed, with the dragon-heads! [Advances to MARGIT.] His shield- bearer brings a message of greeting from him; and he himself is close behind.
MARGIT.
His shield-bearer! Comes he hither with a shield-bearer!
BENGT.
Aye, by my faith he does. He has a shield-bearer and six armed men in his train. What would you? Gudmund Alfson is a far other man than he was when he set forth to seek his fortune. But I must ride forth to seek him. [Calls out.] The gilded saddle on my horse! And forget not the bridle with the serpents' heads! [Looks out to the back.] Ha, there he is already at the gate! Well, then, my staff--my silver-headed staff! Such a lordly knight--Heaven save us!--we must receive him with honour, with all seemly honour!
[Goes hastily out to the back.
MARGIT. [Brooding]
Alone he departed, a penniless swain; With esquires and henchmen now comes he again. What would he? Comes he, forsooth, to see My bitter and gnawing misery? Would he try how long, in my lot accurst, I can writhe and moan, ere my heart-strings burst-- Thinks he that--? Ah, let him only try! Full little joy shall he reap thereby. [She beckons through the doorway on the right. Three handmaidens enter.
List, little maids, what I say to you: Find me my silken mantle blue. Go with me into my bower anon: My richest of velvets and furs do on. Two of you shall deck me in scarlet and vair, The third shall wind pearl-strings into my hair. All my jewels and gauds bear away with ye! [The handmaids go out to the left, taking the ornaments with them.
Since Margit the Hill-King's bride must be, Well! don we the queenly livery!
[She goes out to the left. [BENGT ushers in GUDMUND ALFSON, through the pent-house passage at the back.
BENGT.
And now once more--welcome under Solhoug's roof, my wife's kinsman.
GUDMUND.
I thank you. And how goes it with her? She thrives well in every way, I make no doubt?
BENGT.
Aye, you may be sure she does. There is nothing she lacks. She has five handmaidens, no less, at her beck and call; a courser stands ready saddled in the stall when she lists to ride abroad. In one word, she has all that a noble lady can desire to make her happy in her lot.
GUDMUND.
And Margit--is she then happy?
BENGT.
God and all men would think that she must be; but, strange to say--
GUDMUND.
What mean you?
BENGT.
Well, believe it or not as you list, but it seems to me that Margit was merrier of heart in the days of her poverty, than since she became the lady of Solhoug.
GUDMUND.
[To himself.] I knew it; so it must be.
BENGT.
What say you, kinsman?
GUDMUND.
I say that I wonder greatly at what you tell me of your wife.
BENGT.
Aye, you may be sure I wonder at it too. On the faith and troth of an honest gentleman, 'tis beyond me to guess what more she can desire. I am about her all day long; and no one can say of me that I rule her harshly. All the cares of household and husbandry I have taken on myself; yet notwithstanding-- Well, well, you were ever a merry heart; I doubt not you will bring sunshine with you. Hush! here comes Dame Margit! Let her not see that I--
[MARGIT enters from the left, richly dressed.
GUDMUND.
[Going to meet her.] Margit--my dear Margit!
MARGIT.
[Stops, and looks at him without recognition.] Your pardon, Sir Knight; but--? [As though she only now recognized him.] Surely, if I mistake not, 'tis Gudmund Alfson.
[Holding out her hand to him.
GUDMUND.
[Without taking it.] And you did not at once know me again?
BENGT.
[Laughing.] Why, Margit, of what are you thinking? I told you but a moment agone that your kinsman--
MARGIT.
[Crossing to the table on the right.] Twelve years is a long time, Gudmund. The freshest plant may wither ten times over in that space.
GUDMUND.
'Tis seven years since last we met.
MARGIT.
Surely it must be more than that.
GUDMUND.
[Looking at her.] I could almost think so. But 'tis as I say.
MARGIT.
How strange! I must have been but a child then; and it seems to me a whole eternity since I was a child. [Throws herself down on a chair.] Well, sit you down, my kinsman! Rest you, for to-night you shall dance, and rejoice us with your singing. [With a forced smile.] Doubtless you know we are merry here to-day--we are holding a feast.
GUDMUND.
'Twas told me as I entered your homestead.
BENGT.
Aye, 'tis three years to-day since I became--
MARGIT.
[Interrupting.] My kinsman has already heard it. [To GUDMUND.] Will you not lay aside your cloak?
GUDMUND.
I thank you, Dame Margit; but it seems to me cold here--colder than I had foreseen.
BENGT.
For my part, I am warm enough; but then I have a hundred things to do and to take order for. [To MARGIT.] Let not the time seem long to our guest while I am absent. You can talk together of the old days.
[Going.
MARGIT.
[Hesitating.] Are you going? Will you not rather--?
BENGT.
[Laughing, to GUDMUND, as he comes forward again.] See you well-- Sir Bengt of Solhoug is the man to make the women fain of him. How short so e'er the space, my wife cannot abide to be without me. [To MARGIT, caressing her.] Content you; I shall soon be with you again.
[He goes out to the back.
MARGIT.
[To herself.] Oh, torture, to have to endure it all.
[A short silence.
GUDMUND.
How goes it, I pray, with your sister dear?
MARGIT.
Right well, I thank you.
GUDMUND.
They said she was here With you.
MARGIT.
She has been here ever since we-- [Breaks off.
She came, now three years since, to Solhoug with me. [After a pause.
Ere long she'll be here, her friend to greet.
GUDMUND.
Well I mind me of Signe's nature sweet. No guile she dreamed of, no evil knew. When I call to remembrance her eyes so blue I must think of the angels in heaven. But of years there have passed no fewer than seven; In that time much may have altered. Oh, say If she, too, has changed so while I've been away?
MARGIT.
She too? Is it, pray, in the halls of kings That you learn such courtly ways, Sir Knight? To remind me thus of the change time brings--
GUDMUND.
Nay, Margit, my meaning you read aright! You were kind to me, both, in those far-away years-- Your eyes, when we parted were wet with tears. We swore like brother and sister still To hold together in good hap or ill. 'Mid the other maids like a sun you shone, Far, far and wide was your beauty known. You are no less fair than you were, I wot; But Solhoug's mistress, I see, has forgot The penniless kinsman. So hard is your mind That ever of old was gentle and kind.
MARGIT. [Choking back her tears.]
Aye, of old--!
GUDMUND. [Looks compassionately at her, is silent for a little, then says in a subdued voice.
Shall we do as your husband said? Pass the time with talk of the dear old days?
MARGIT. [Vehemently.]
No, no, not of them! Their memory's dead. My mind unwillingly backward strays. Tell rather of what your life has been, Of what in the wide world you've done and seen. Adventures you've lacked not, well I ween-- In all the warmth and the space out yonder, That heart and mind should be light, what wonder?
GUDMUND.
In the King's high hall I found not the joy That I knew by my own poor hearth as a boy.
MARGIT. [Without looking at him.]
While I, as at Solhoug each day flits past, Thank Heaven that here has my lot been cast.
GUDMUND.
'Tis well if for this you can thankful be--
MARGIT. [Vehemently.]
Why not? For am I not honoured and free? Must not all folk here obey my hest? Rule I not all things as seemeth me best? Here I am first, with no second beside me; And that, as you know, from of old satisfied me. Did you think you would find me weary and sad? Nay, my mind is at peace and my heart is glad. You might, then, have spared your journey here To Solhoug; 'twill profit you little, I fear.
GUDMUND.
What, mean you, Dame Margit?
MARGIT. [Rising.]
I understand all-- I know why you come to my lonely hall.
GUDMUND.
And you welcome me not, though you know why I came? [Bowing and about to go.
God's peace and farewell, then, my noble dame!
MARGIT.
To have stayed in the royal hall, indeed, Sir Knight, had better become your fame.
GUDMUND. [Stops.]
In the royal hall? Do you scoff at my need?
MARGIT.
Your need? You are ill to content, my friend; Where, I would know, do you think to end? You can dress you in velvet and cramoisie, You stand by the throne, and have lands in fee--
GUDMUND.
Do you deem, then, that fortune is kind to me? You said but now that full well you knew What brought me to Solhoug--
MARGIT.
I told you true!
GUDMUND.
Then you know what of late has befallen me;-- You have heard the tale of my outlawry?
MARGIT. [Terror-struck.]
An outlaw! You, Gudmund!
GUDMUND.
I am indeed. But I swear, by the Holy Christ I swear, Had I known the thoughts of your heart, I ne'er Had bent me to Solhoug in my need. I thought that you still were gentle-hearted, As you ever were wont to be ere we parted: But I truckle not to you; the wood is wide, My hand and my bow shall fend for me there; I will drink of the mountain brook, and hide My head in the beast's lair.
[On the point of going.
MARGIT. [Holding him back.]
Outlawed! Nay, stay! I swear to you That naught of your outlawry I knew.
GUDMUND.
It is as I tell you. My life's at stake; And to live are all men fain. Three nights like a dog 'neath the sky I've lain, My couch on the hillside forced to make, With for pillow the boulder grey. Though too proud to knock at the door of the stranger, And pray him for aid in the hour of danger, Yet strong was my hope as I held on my way: I thought: When to Solhoug you come at last Then all your pains will be done and past. You have sure friends there, whatever betide.-- But hope like a wayside flower shrivels up; Though your husband met me with flagon and cup, And his doors flung open wide, Within, your dwelling seems chill and bare; Dark is the hall; my friends are not there. 'Tis well; I will back to my hills from your halls.
MARGIT. [Beseechingly.]
Oh, hear me!
GUDMUND.
My soul is not base as a thrall's. Now life to me seems a thing of nought; Truly I hold it scarce worth a thought. You have killed all that I hold most dear; Of my fairest hopes I follow the bier. Farewell, then, Dame Margit!
MARGIT.
Nay, Gudmund, hear! By all that is holy--!
GUDMUND.