An Olaf’s cross upon a mailed breast,—
To look afar across the fields of flight,
Tho’ pent within the mazes of its might,—
Beyond the mirk descry one glimmer still
Of glory—that’s the Call we must fulfil.
Svanhild.
And you’ll fulfil it when you break from men,
Stand free, alone,—
Falk.
Did I frequent them then?