BIORN. A song?
FINN. Ay, 'tis on all folks' lips. 'Tis a shameful scurril thing, for sure; yet it goes prettily. Just listen (sings in a low voice):
_Dame Inger sitteth in Ostrat fair,
She wraps her in costly furs—
She decks her in velvet and ermine and vair,
Red gold are the beads that she twines in her hair—
But small peace in that soul of hers.
Dame Inger hath sold her to Denmark's lord.
She bringeth her folk 'neath the stranger's yoke—
In guerdon whereof—— ——_
(BIORN enraged, seizes him by the throat. ELINA GYLDENLOVE
withdraws without having been seen.)
BIORN. And I will send you guerdonless to the foul fiend, if
you prate of Lady Inger but one unseemly word more.
FINN (breaking from his grasp). Why—did I make the song?
(The blast of a horn is heard from the right.)
BIORN. Hush—what is that?
FINN. A horn. So we are to have guests to-night.