King Skule.
Ay, give me the crown! When once I have that, I will rule so as to buy myself free again.
The Monk.
Ay, that we can always talk of later
we must seize the time if we'd win the fight.
King Håkon's child sleeps at Elgesæter;
could you once wrap him in the web of night,
then like storm-swept motes will your foes fly routed,
then your victory's sure and your kingship undoubted!
King Skule.
Think you so surely that the victory were mine?
The Monk.
All men in Norway are sighing for rest;
the king with an heir[1] is the king they love best—
a son to succeed to the throne without wrangling;
for the people are tired of this hundred-years' jangling.
Rouse you, King Skule! one great endeavour!
the foe must perish to-night or never!
See, to the northward how light it has grown,
see how the fog lifts o'er fiord and o'er valley—
there gather noiselessly galley on galley—
hark! men are marching with rumble and drone!
One word of promise, and all is your own—
hundreds of glittering sails on the water,
thousands of warriors hurtling to slaughter.
- ↑ Et kongs-emne.
