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 were gathered there that night. Lady Margrete stood by her dead husband's head, and we swore as one man to venture lands and life to avenge this last misdeed and all that had gone before.—Inger Gyldenlöve,—who was it that burst through the circle of men? A maiden—almost a child—with fire in her eyes and her voice half choked with tears.—What was it she swore? Shall I repeat your words?

I swore what the rest of you swore; neither more nor less.

You remember your oath—and yet you have forgotten it.

And how did the others keep their promise? I speak not of you, Olaf Skaktavl, but of your friends, all Norway's nobles? Not one of them, in all these years, has had the courage to be a man; yet they lay it to my charge that I am a woman.

I know what you would say. Why have they bent to the yoke, and not defied the tyrants to the last? 'Tis but too true; there is base metal enough in our noble houses nowadays. But had they held together—who knows what then might have been? And you could have held them together, for before you all had bowed.