Margit.
[Stops, and looks at him without recognition.] Your pardon, Sir Knight; but—? [As though she only now recognised him.] Surely, if I mistake not, ’tis Gudmund Alfson.
[Holding out her hand to him.
Gudmund.
[Without taking it.] And you did not at once know me again?
Bengt.
[Laughing.] Why, Margit, of what are you thinking? I told you but a moment agone that your kinsman—
Margit.
[Crossing to the table on the right.] Twelve years is a long time, Gudmund. The freshest plant may wither ten times over in that space.
Gudmund.