Ellida. Yes; out there at Bratthammeren. Most distinctly of all I see his breastpin, with a large bluish-white pearl in it. The pearl is like a dead fish's eye, and it seems to glare at me.
Wangel. Good God! You are more ill than I thought. More ill than you yourself know, Ellida.
Ellida. Yes, yes! Help me if you can, for I feel how it is drawing closer and more close.
Wangel. And you have gone about in this state three whole years, bearing for yourself this secret suffering, without confiding in me.
Ellida. But I could not; not till it became necessary for your own sake. If I had confided in you I should also have had to confide to you the unutterable.
Wangel. Unutterable?
Ellida. No, no, no! Do not ask. Only one thing, nothing more. Wangel, when shall we understand that mystery of the boy's eyes?
Wangel. My dear love, Ellida, I assure you it was only your own fancy. The child had exactly the same eyes as other normal children have.
Ellida. No, he had not. And you could not see it! The child's eyes changed colour with the sea. When the fjord lay bathed in sunshine, so were his eyes. And so in storm. Oh, I saw it, if you did not!
Wangel (humouring her). Maybe. But even if it were true, what then?