Ha, ha, ha!
MARGIT.
[To herself, quivering.] To have to suffer all this shame and
scorn! No, no; now to essay the last remedy.
BENGT.
What ails you? Meseems you look so pale.
MARGIT.
'Twill soon pass over. [Turns to the GUESTS.] Did I say e'en
now that I had forgotten all my tales? I bethink me now that I
remember one.
BENGT.
Good, good, my wife! Come, let us hear it.
YOUNG GIRLS.
[Urgently.] Yes, tell it us, tell it us, Dame Margit!
MARGIT.
I almost fear that 'twill little please you; but that must be as
it may.
GUDMUND.
[To himself.] Saints in heaven, surely she would not--!
MARGIT.
It was a fair and noble maid,
She dwelt in her father's hall;
Both linen and silk did she broider and braid,
Yet found in it solace small.
For she sat there alone in cheerless state,
Empty were hall and bower;
In the pride of her heart, she was fain to mate
With a chieftain of pelf and power.
But now 'twas the Hill King, he rode from the north,
With his henchmen and his gold;
On the third day at night he in triumph fared forth,
Bearing her to his mountain hold.
Full many a summer she dwelt in the hill;
Out of beakers of gold she could drink at her will.
Oh, fair are the flowers of the valley, I trow,
But only in dreams can she gather them now!
'Twas a youth, right gentle and bold to boot,
Struck his harp with such magic might
That it rang to the mountain's inmost root,
Where she languished in the night.
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