Then came the quiet years. No one raised his head any more. Our masters might grind us down even as heavily as they listed. There were times when I loathed myself; for what had I to do? Nought but to endure terror and scorn and bring forth daughters into the world. My daughters! God must forgive me if I have had no mother’s heart towards them. My wifely duties were as serfdom to me; how then could I love my daughters? Oh, how different with my son! He was the child of my very soul. He was the one thing that brought to mind the time when I was a woman and nought but a woman.—And him they had taken from me! He was growing up among strangers, who might, mayhap, be sowing in him the seed of corruption! Olaf Skaktavl—had I wandered, like you, on the lonely hills, hunted and forsaken, in winter and storm—if I had but held my child in my arms,—trust me, I had not sorrowed and wept so sore as I have sorrowed and wept for him from his birth even to this hour!
Olaf Skaktavl.
There is my hand. I have judged you too hardly, Lady Inger! Command me even as before; I will obey.—Ay, by all the saints, I know what it is to sorrow for a child.
Lady Inger.
Yours was slain by men of blood. But what is death to the restless terror of all these long years?
Nils Lykke.
Mark, then—’tis in your power to end this terror. You have but to make peace between the jarring factions, and neither will think of seizing on your child as a pledge of your faith.
Lady Inger.
[To herself.] This is the vengeance of Heaven. [Looks at him.] In one word, what do you demand?
Nils Lykke.