when she sailed from Östråt to be Merete's guest. A year passed, and she stood in this room once more; but her cheeks were white, and death had gnawed deep into her breast. Ah, I startle you, my mother! You thought the ugly secret was buried with her;—but she told me all. A courtly knight had won her heart. He would have wedded her. You knew that her honour was at stake; yet your will never bent—and your child had to die. You see, I know all!
Lady Inger.
All? Then she told you his name?
Elina.
His name? No; his name she did not tell me. She shrank from his name as though it stung her;—she never uttered it.
Lady Inger.
[Relieved, to herself.] Ah, then you do not know all
Elina—'tis true that the whole of this matter was well known to me. But there is one thing it seems you have overlooked. The lord whom Lucia met in Bergen was a Dane
Elina.
That, too, I know.
Lady Inger.
And his love was a lie. With guile and soft speeches he had ensnared her.
