—as in my breast.
[Looking at him.
Is't not so—when you wander on such a night
You hear, though but half to yourself confessed,
A stirring of secret life through the hush,
In tree and in leaf, in flower and in rush?
[With a sudden change of tone.
Can you guess what I wish?
GUDMUND.
Well?
MARGIT.
That I could be
The nixie that haunts yonder upland lea.
How cunningly I should weave my spell!
Trust me—!
GUDMUND.
Margit, what ails you? Tell!
MARGIT. [Paying no heed to him.]