I vow 'tis in nowise so bad after all,
and the heat, to my thinking, is never past bearing.
King Skule.
And it seems you have learnt skald-craft, old Bagler-chieftain!
The Monk.
Not only skald-craft, but store of Latinity!
Once my Latin was not over strong, you know;
now few can beat it for ease and flow.
To take any station in yonder vicinity,
ay, even to pass at the gate, for credential
a knowledge of Latin is well-nigh essential.
You can't but make progress with so many able
and learned companions each day at the table,—
full fifty ex-popes by my side carouse, and
five hundred cardinals, skalds seven thousand.
King Skule.
Greet your Master and give him my thanks for his friendship. Tell him he is the only king who sends help to Skule the First of Norway.
The Monk.
Hear now, King Skule, what brings me to you—
my Master's henchmen down there are legion,
and each up here is allotted a region;
they gave Norway to me, as the place I best knew.
Håkon Håkonsson serves not my Master's will;
we hate him, for he is our foeman still—
so he must fall, leaving you at the helm,
the sole possessor of crown and realm.
