[Sits down by the table on the left.
I will write to all my friends throughout the land. They must rise as one man to support the great cause. A new king,—regent first, and then king——
Begins to write, but falls into thought, and says softly:
Who will be chosen in the dead man’s place?—A king’s mother—? ’Tis a fair word. It has but one blemish—the hateful likeness to another word.—King’s mother and—king’s murderer.[[21]]—King’s murderer—one that takes a king’s life. King’s mother—one that gives a king life.
[She rises.
Well, then; I will make good what I have taken.—My son shall be a king!
She sits down again and begins writing, but pushes the paper away again, and leans back in her chair.
There is ever an eerie feeling in a house where lies a corpse. ’Tis therefore my mood is so strange. [Turns her head to one side as if speaking to some one.] Not therefore? Why else should it be?
[Broodingly.
Is there such a great gulf, then, between openly striking down a foe and slaying one—thus? Knut Alfson had cleft many a brow with his sword; yet was his own as peaceful as a child’s. Why then do I ever see this—[makes a motion as though striking with a knife]—-this stab in the heart—and the gush of red blood after?