He is now riding down the Ryen hills, with the Queen and the King-child and a great following.
Inga.
[Rushes up to Dagfinn.] The King,—the King! Comes he hither?
Dagfinn.
Inga! You here, much-suffering woman!
Inga.
She is not much-suffering who has so great a son.
Dagfinn.
Now will his hard heart be melted.
Inga.