Margrete.
My husband the one—my father the other!
Håkon.
[Pacing restlessly up and down.] Give me a good counsel, Margrete! Should I cross the country by way of the Uplands, come first to Nidaros, and prevent the crowning? No, it may not be done; My men are too few; there in the north he is more powerful than I.—Give me counsel; how can I have the Duke slain, ere he come to Nidaros?
Margrete.
[Imploringly, with folded hands.] Håkon, Håkon!
Håkon.
Can you not hit upon a good device, I say, to have the Duke slain?
Margrete.
[Sinks down from the bench in agony and remains kneeling.] Oh, can you so utterly forget that he is my father?
Håkon.
Your father; ay, ay, it is true; I had forgotten,
[Raises her up.] Sit, sit, Margrete; comfort you; do not weep; you have no fault in this. [Goes over to the window.] Duke Skule will be worse for me than all other foemen! God, God,—why hast thou stricken me so sorely, when I have in nowise sinned! [A knock at the door in the back; he starts, listens, and cries:] Who knocks so late?
Inga's Voice.
[Without.] One who is a-cold, Håkon!
