In the dale there are flowers and the birds' blithe song;
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
In the hill there is gold and the night is long.
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—
[She rises and crosses the room.
How oft in the gloaming would Gudmund sing
This song in may father's hall.
There was somewhat in it—some strange, sad thing
That took my heart in thrall;
Though I scarce understood, I could ne'er forget—
And the words and the thoughts they haunt me yet.
[Stops horror-struck.
Rings of red gold! And a belt beside—!
'Twas with gold the Hill-King wedded his bride!
[In despair; sinks down on a bench beside the table on
the left.
Woe! Woe! I myself am the Hill-King's wife!
And there cometh none to free me from the prison of my life.
[SIGNE, radiant with gladness, comes running in from
the back.
SIGNE.
[Calling.] Margit, Margit,—he is coming!
MARGIT.
[Starting up.] Coming? Who is coming?