Håkon.
Go more of you thither.
[Some of the men go.
Margrete.
Håkon, where is—Duke Skule?
Håkon.
He has made for the Uplands.
Margrete.
He lives, then!—My husband, may I thank God that he lives?
Håkon.
[In painful agitation.] Hear me, Margrete: you have been a faithful wife to me, you have followed me through good hap and ill, you have been unspeakably rich in love;—now must I cause you a heavy sorrow; I am loath to do it; but I am King, therefore must I
Margrete.
[In suspense.] Has it to do with—the Duke?
Håkon.
Yes. No bitterer lot could befall me than to live my life far from you; but if you think it must be so after what I now tell you—if you feel that you can no longer sit by my side, no longer look at me without turning pale—well, we must even part—live each alone—and I shall not blame you for it.
Margrete.
Part from you! How can you think such a thought? Give me your hand!
