Mother. It is the God of retribution!—It is you who have provoked His ire—and it is you who now cast me into the flames of His wrath!—Cursed be the hour when I bore you! (She dies.)
Olof. Mother! Mother! (He takes her hand.) She's dead! And she has not forgiven me!—Oh, if your soul be still within this room, behold your son: I will do your will, and what was sacred to you shall be sacred to me! (He lights the tall wax candles left behind by the friars and places them around the bed.) You shall have the consecrated candles that are to light your road. (He puts a palm leaf in her hand.) And with this palm of peace shall come forgetfulness of that last struggle with what was earthly. Oh, mother, if you see me now, then you must forgive me! (In the meantime the sun has risen, and the red glow of its first rays lights up the curtains; at the sight of it, Olof leaps to his feet.) You make my candles fade, O morning sun! You have more love than I! (He goes to the window and opens it.)
Lars (entering softly and looking around surprised). Olof!
Olof (putting his arms around him). Brother, all is over! Lars (goes to the bed and kneels for a moment; then he rises again). She is dead! (He prays silently.) You were here alone?
Olof. It was you who let in the monks.
Lars. And you who drove them out.
Olof. That should have been your task.
Lars. She forgave you?
Olof. She died with a curse on her lips. (Pause.)
Lars (pointing to the candles). Who arranged these ceremonies? (Pause.)