What dost thou there?
Hiördis.
[Without looking up.] I am twisting a bow-string; canst thou not see?
Gunnar.
A bow-string—of thine own hair?
Hiördis.
[Smiling.] Great deeds are born with every hour in these times; yesterday thou didst slay my foster-brother, and I have woven this since daybreak.
Gunnar.
Hiördis, Hiördis!
Hiördis.