Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/275

 Hither came many a knight and dame, Came many a skald to sing my fame. But never a one who could fathom aright My spirit and all its yearning— I shivered, as though in the Hill-King's might; Yet my head throbbed, my blood was burning.

But your husband—?

He never to me was dear. 'Twas his gold was my undoing. When he spoke to me, aye, or e'en drew near, My spirit writhed with ruing.

And thus have I lived for three long years— A life of sorrow, of unstanched tears! Your coming was rumoured. You know full well What pride deep down in my heart doth dwell. I hid my anguish, I veiled my woe, For you were the last that the truth must know.

'Twas therefore, then, that you turned away—

I thought you came at my woe to jeer.

Margit, how could you think—?