Hush! here comes Dame Margit! Let her not see that I--
[MARGIT enters from the left, richly dressed.
GUDMUND.
[Going to meet her.] Margit--my dear Margit!
MARGIT.
[Stops, and looks at him without recognition.] Your pardon, Sir
Knight; but--? [As though she only now recognized him.] Surely,
if I mistake not, 'tis Gudmund Alfson.
[Holding out her hand to him.
GUDMUND.
[Without taking it.] And you did not at once know me again?
BENGT.
[Laughing.] Why, Margit, of what are you thinking? I told you
but a moment agone that your kinsman--
MARGIT.
[Crossing to the table on the right.] Twelve years is a long
time, Gudmund. The freshest plant may wither ten times over in
that space.
GUDMUND.
'Tis seven years since last we met.
MARGIT.
Surely it must be more than that.
GUDMUND.
[Looking at her.] I could almost think so. But 'tis as I say.
MARGIT.
How strange! I must have been but a child then; and it seems to
me a whole eternity since I was a child. [Throws herself down on
a chair.] Well, sit you down, my kinsman! Rest you, for to-night
you shall dance, and rejoice us with your singing. [With a forced
smile.] Doubtless you know we are merry here to-day--we are
holding a feast.
GUDMUND.
'Twas told me as I entered your homestead.
BENGT.
Aye, 'tis three years to-day since I became--
MARGIT.
[Interrupting.
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