My soul is not base as a thrall's.
Now life to me seems a thing of nought;
Truly I hold it scarce worth a thought.
You have killed all that I hold most dear;
Of my fairest hopes I follow the bier.
Farewell, then, Dame Margit!
MARGIT.
Nay, Gudmund, hear!
By all that is holy—!
GUDMUND.
Live on as before
Live on in honour and joyance—
Never shall Gudmund darken your door,
Never shall cause you 'noyance.
MARGIT.
Enough, enough. Your bitterness
You presently shall rue.
Had I known you outlawed, shelterless,
Hunted the country through—
Trust me, the day that brought you here
Would have seemed the fairest of many a year;
And a feast I had counted it indeed
When you turned to Solhoug for refuge in need.
GUDMUND.
What say you—? How shall I read your mind?
MARGIT. [Holding out her hand to him.]