Peter.
No sacrilege!—Come, come! The monks are well disposed towards King Skule; they will agree
Paul Flida.
That will they not; they dare not, for the Archbishop.
Peter.
Are you King's men, and will not lend your aid when so great a cause is at stake! Good, there are others below of better will. My father and King, the monks <g>shall</g> give way; I will pray, I will beseech; sound the summons for the folkmote; you shall bear your kingship rightfully.
[Rushes out to the right.
King Skule.
[Beaming with joy.] Saw you him! Saw you my gallant son! How his eyes shone! Yes, we will all fight and conquer. How strong are the Birchlegs?
Paul Flida.
Not stronger than that we may master them, if but the townsfolk hold to us
King Skule.
They <g>shall</g> hold to us. We must all be at one now and put an end to this time of dread. See you not that 'tis Heaven's command that we should end it? Heaven is wroth with all Norway for the deeds that have so long been doing. A flaming sword glows night by night in the sky; women swoon and bear children in the churches; a frenzy creeps abroad among priests and monks, causing them to run through the streets and proclaim
