YORUL Bleeding—his brow, you said?
FRIDA Yes; come away!
YORUL So be it.
FRIDA Gracious Odin! he will come.
YORUL Since that wild day he bit your mistress’ hand It hath misgiven me the gods torment him. Once, for seven days, ceaseless he paced this hall, Spoke not, nor ate, but ground and ground his teeth; And in the night, once, when I watched him sleeping, His eyelids lay rolled back and filled with fire.
FRIDA That day the storm burst over Odin’s stone And I beheld those mighty four in flame— Oh, since then, Yorul, they have changed, my mistress Even as your master, save that she has grown Lovelier than herself, and seems to bear About with her the loadstone of desire, For the poor hinds and churls that wait upon her Serve her with souls enamoured. If I thought You would believe my vision, I could tell— But come, Yorul. Yorul! you will not come?
YORUL Never! Stop, Frida; do not name the thing He is. It matters not to me; for me He is my lord, my master; that is all.
FRIDA But if—
YORUL If he were that eternal beast Whom Odin chains until the dawn of doom, Fenris, the wolf—
FRIDA No, say not that!