[With an expression of mingled horror and rapture, whispers.
With what a magic resistless might
Sin masters us in our own despite!
Doubly alluring methinks is the goal
I must reach through blood, with the wreck of my soul.
[Bengt, with the empty beaker in his hand, comes in from the passage-way; his face is red; he staggers slightly.
Bengt.
[Flinging the beaker upon the table on the left.] My faith, this has been a feast that will be the talk of the country. [Sees Margit.] Eh, are you there? You are well again. Good, good.
Margit.
[Who in the meantime has concealed the phial.] Is the door barred?