’Twas a sinful thought, Olaf Skaktavl. ’Twas my proud heart, and not the Lord’s call, that spoke in me.
Olaf Skaktavl.
You could have been the chosen one had you but willed it. You came of the noblest blood in Norway; power and riches were soon to be yours; and you had an ear for the cries of anguish—then!
Do you remember that afternoon when Henrik Krummedike and the Danish fleet anchored off Akershus? The captains of the fleet offered terms of peace, and, trusting to the safe-conduct, Knut Alfson rowed on board. Three hours later, we bore him through the castle gate——
Lady Inger.
A corpse; a corpse!
Olaf Skaktavl.
The best heart in Norway burst, when Krummedike’s hirelings struck him down. Methinks I still can see the long procession that passed into the banquet-hall, heavily, two by two. There he lay on his bier, white as a spring cloud, with the axe-cleft in his brow. I may safely say that the boldest men in Norway were gathered there that night. Lady Margrete stood by her dead husband’s head, and we swore as one man to venture lands and life to avenge this last misdeed and all that had gone before.—Inger Gyldenlöve,—who was it that burst through the circle of men? A maiden—almost a child—with fire in her eyes and her voice half choked with tears.—What was it she swore? Shall I repeat your words?
Lady Inger.
I swore what the rest of you swore; neither more nor less.