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—
[Biörn enraged, seizes him by the throat. Elina Gyldenlöve withdraws without having been seen.
Biörn.
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?