ere daybreak shall the King-child be in our hands.
Paul Flida.
To be slain, most like. See you not that it is a sin
Peter.
Nay, it cannot be a sin; for my father doomed the child in Oslo. Sooner or later it must die, for it blocks my father's path;—my father has a great king's-thought to carry through; it matters not who or how many fall for its sake.
Paul Flida.
Hapless for you was the day you came to know that you were King Skule's son. [Listening.] Hist!—cast you flat to the ground; there come people this way.
[All throw themselves down behind stones
and stumps; a troop of people, some
riding, some on foot, can be seen indistinctly
through the mist and between the
trees; they come from the left, and pass
on to the right.
Peter.
'Tis the Queen!
Paul Flida.
Ay; she is talking with Dagfinn the Peasant. Hush!
Peter.
They are making for Elgesæter. The King-child is with them!
Paul Flida.
And the Queen's ladies.
