HERBORIST [taking a plant from the bag]. Now you have granted the yarrow its life.—Tell me of your joy, young woman. What made your hand so pretty?
HADDA PADDA. Happiness made my hand so pretty. It has smoothed back the hair from the most beautiful forehead.
HERBORIST [taking out another plant]. Now you have granted the catch-fly its life.—What cast the shade of sorrow in your eyes?
HADDA PADDA. Now you are not asking me of joy. Now I will not answer.
HERBORIST [shows her a new plant, fondling the flower]. Why shall the violet die?
HADDA PADDA. Do not ask me why the violet shall die.... I want to be alone.
HERBORIST [gets up, puts the bag on her shoulder, takes the knife and flowers]. God bless thee, young woman! The Lord be with thee, Hadda Padda. [Disappears to the left.]
[The sun sets behind the mountains and twilight gradually descends. Hadda Padda sits gazing into space. Suddenly she is startled by voices, and she disappears into the bushes. Native and foreign tourists come from behind the rock, two by two, crossing the stage, conversing. German and French are heard. Behind them all, comes]
A YOUNG WOMAN [waiting till the others are gone, she calls]. Hadda Padda!... Hadda!... Hrafnhild! [She shades her eyes with her hand.] There they are! [Goes out to the right.]
[Ingolf and Kristrun enter from behind the rock.]