[Takes his hand and leads him to the cradle.
Duke Skule.
Your child!
Margrete.
Ay, that lovely babe is mine;—is it not marvellous? He is called Håkon, like the King! See, his eyes—nay, you cannot see them now he is sleeping—but he has great blue eyes; and he can laugh, and reach forth his hands to take hold of me.—and he knows me already.
[Smoothes out the bed-clothes tenderly.
Duke Skule.
Håkon will have sons, the Bishop foretold.
Margrete.
To me this little child is a thousand times dearer than all Norway’s land—and to Håkon too. Meseems I cannot rightly believe my happiness; I have the cradle standing by my bedside; every night, as often as I waken, I look to see if it be there—I am fearful lest it should prove to be all a dream——