Margrete.
[Sinks down from the bench in agony and remains kneeling.] Oh, can you so utterly forget that he is my father?
Håkon.
Your father——; ay, ay, it is true; I had forgotten.
[Raises her up.] Sit, sit, Margrete; comfort you; do not weep; you have no fault in this. [Goes over to the window.] Duke Skule will be worse for me than all other foemen! God, God,—why hast thou stricken me so sorely, when I have in nowise sinned! [A knock at the door in the back; he starts, listens, and cries:] Who knocks so late?
Inga’s Voice.
[Without.] One who is a-cold, Håkon!
Håkon.
[With a cry.] My mother!
Margrete.