GUNNAR. You surrender your love, Gunlöd.
GUNLÖD. Love!—I remember—there was a maiden—she had a friend who went away—after, she was never again glad—she only sat sewing silk and gold—what she was making no one knew—and when they asked her she would only weep. And when they asked her why she wept, she never answered—only wept. She grew pale of cheek and her mother made ready her shroud.—Then there came an old woman and she said it was love. Gunnar,—I never wept when you went away as father says it is weak to shed tears; I never sewed silk and gold for that my mother has never taught me to do—then had I not love?
GUNNAR. You have often thought of me during these years?
GUNLÖD. I have dreamed so often of you, and this morning when I stood by the window where I linger so willingly and, gazing over the sea, I saw your ship come up out of the east, I became unquiet although I did not know it was your ship.
GUNNAR. Why do you gaze so willingly over the sea?
GUNLÖD. You ask many questions!
GUNNAR. Why did you want to close the door against me?
GUNLÖD. [Silent].
GUNNAR. Why didn't you close it?
GUNLÖD. [Silent].