Bishop Nicholas.
[Hurriedly and eagerly.] Is that Duke Skule?
Peter.
Ay, the Duke—Skule Bårdsson. My mother knew him in younger days. The Duke must sure be the greatest man in the land!
Bishop Nicholas.
There is the letter; get you northward with it forthwith!—Are they not singing in there?
Peter.
They are, my lord!
Bishop Nicholas.
Eight lusty fellows with throats like trumpets, they must surely help somewhat, methinks.