OLAF. I know one who had to stand outside.
THORGJERD. Yes, yes, outside,—that is the poor man's place.
OLAF. I know one who had to stand outside and who nevertheless was both worse off and better off than those within.
THORGJERD. I must go down,—I see that clearly; I shall play for the guests. Now I shall fetch my harp, and then—
OLAF. You are a minstrel?
THORGJERD. And not among the worst. Now shall I fetch my harp from where it lies hidden near the waterfall; those strings you should hear. With them I sat once on the edge of the bed and played the bride out of the festive hall over ridge and field.—Have you never heard little Ingrid's lay? He who could play the bride out of the bridegroom's arms can surely play his child home to her father again. Farewell! If you linger here we may meet again when I get down there.
[He goes out to the right by the tarn.]