Ivar Bodde.
And she may well be weary after the ordeal.
Håkon.
True, true;—my good, kind mother—— [Collects himself.] Well, if she be too weary, let her wait until to-morrow.
Ivar Bodde.
It shall be as you will. [Puts another parchment forward.] But this other, my lord.
Håkon.
That other?—Ivar Bodde, I cannot.
Dagfinn.
[Points to the letter for Inga.] Yet you could do that.