SIGNE.
I? No, no. I only meant—
[She again becomes absorbed in dreams.
MARGIT. [Half aloud; looking straight before her.]
It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
'Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs and by tears.
SIGNE.
[Returning to herself.] You said that—?
MARGIT.
[Drawing her hand over her brow.] Nay, 'twas nothing. Come, we
must go meet our guests.
[BENGT enters with many GUESTS, both men and women,
through the passageway.