then your victory’s sure and your kingship undoubted!
King Skule.
Think you so surely that the victory were mine?
The Monk.
All men in Norway are sighing for rest;
the king with an heir[[46]] is the king they love best—
a son to succeed to the throne without wrangling;
for the people are tired of this hundred-years’ jangling.
Rouse you, King Skule! one great endeavour!
the foe must perish to-night or never!