YORUL Say how!
YORUL Speak but that word.
[They look long at each other.]
EGIL ’Tis spoken. Go!—Stay!
YORUL What more?
EGIL Thine oath!—for sometimes, Yorul, The resolute grow sick with afterthought, And hot will cool—thine oath, to shun my sight, To speak not nor be spoken with, until ’Tis done.
YORUL [Raising his right arm.] By Frida’s cold and virgin hand, To shun my master’s sight, to speak not, nor Be spoken with, until ’tis done.
EGIL ’Tis sworn; Go now. [Yorul covers his face, and exit.] To-morrow she shall wed—not him. O dupe of lovers! Bond-slave to a dwarf! O gods, your fool! your fool!
[Throwing himself down beside the temple of blocks, he destroys it, insensate, and crouches, laughing, amid the ruins.]