GUNLÖD. Still is he straight— — —See what terrible northern lights.
VALGERD. Have many fallen?
GUNLÖD. I cannot tell. They are drawing away from the threshing yard. Oh, the heavens are red as blood!
[Pause.]
VALGERD. Speak! What do you see?
GUNLÖD [With joy]. The silver falcon!
VALGERD. It's an ill-omen.
GUNLÖD. Father comes.
VALGERD. Is he wounded?
GUNLÖD. Oh, now he is falling!