It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
’Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs and by tears.
Signë.
[Returning to herself.] You said that—?
Margit.
[Drawing her hand over her brow.] Nay, ’twas nothing. Come, we must go meet our guests.
[Bengt enters with many Guests, both men and women, through the passageway.
Guests.
[Sing.]
With song and harping enter we