There is a strange might in all thy speech.
[Approaches her.
Hiördis.
[Looks coldly at him.] Wouldst sit beside me?
Sigurd.
Thou deemest my heart is bitter toward thee. ’Tis the last time, Hiördis, that we shall have speech together; there is something that gnaws me like a sore sickness, and in this wise I cannot part from thee; thou must know me better.
Hiördis.
What wouldst thou?
Sigurd.
Tell thee a saga.