Nils Lykke.
Fortune has never failed me in a war with women. Haste you now!
[Jens Bielke goes out to the right.
Nils Lykke.
[Stands still for a while; then walks about the room, looking round him; then he says softly:] At last, then, I am at Östråt—the ancient hall whereof a child, two years ago, told me so much.
Lucia. Ay, two years ago she was still a child. And now—now she is dead. [Hums with a half-smile.] “Blossoms plucked are blossoms withered——”
[Looks round him again.
Östråt. ’Tis as though I had seen it all before; as though I were at home here.—In there is the Banquet Hall. And underneath is—the grave-vault. It must be there that Lucia lies.
[In a lower voice, half seriously, half with forced gaiety.
Were I timorous, I might well find myself fancying that when I set foot within Östråt gate she turned about in her coffin; as I crossed the courtyard she lifted the lid; and when I named her name but now, ’twas as though a voice summoned her forth from the grave-vault.—Maybe she is even now groping her way up the stairs. The face-cloth blinds her, but she gropes on and on in spite of it.