[Thoughtfully at first, afterwards in increasing excitement.] Is Håkon made of other clay than mine? The fortunate man?—Ay, does not everything thrive with him? Does not everything shape itself for the best, when he is concerned? Even the peasants note it; they say the trees bear fruit twice, and the fowls hatch out two broods every summer, whilst Håkon is king. Vermeland, where he burned and harried, stands smiling with its houses built afresh, and its cornlands bending heavy-eared before the breeze. ’Tis as though blood and ashes fertilised the land where Håkon’s armies pass; ’tis as though the Lord clothed with double verdure what Håkon has trampled down; ’tis as though the holy powers made haste to blot out all evil in his track. And how easy has been his path to the throne! He needed that Inge should die early, and Inge died: his youth needed to be watched and warded, and his men kept watch and ward around him; he needed the ordeal, and his mother arose and bore the iron for him.
Bishop Nicholas.
[With an involuntary outburst.] But we—we two——!
Earl Skule.
We?
Bishop Nicholas.
You, I would say—what of you?
Earl Skule.
The right is Håkon’s, Bishop.
Bishop Nicholas.