me a pen and wax and silk—I have parchment here. [Advances exultantly to the table and spreads some rolls of parchment upon it.] Margrete, now am I King!
Margrete.
Hail to my lord and King!
Håkon.
I thank you. [Looks at her and takes her hand.] Forgive me; I forgot that it must wound you.
Margrete.
[Drawing her hand away.] It did not wound me;—of a surety you are born to be king.
Håkon.
[With animation.] Ay, must not all men own it, who remember how marvellously God and the saints have shielded me from all harm? I was but a year old when the Birchlegs bore me over the mountains, in frost and storm, and through the very midst of those who sought my life. At Nidaros I came scatheless from the Baglers[1] when they burnt the town with so great a slaughter, while King Ingë himself barely saved his life by climbing on shipboard up the anchor-cable.
Margrete.
Your youth has been a hard one.
Håkon.
[Looking steadily at her.] Methinks you might have made it easier.
Margrete.
I?
- ↑ See note, p. 125.
