King Skule.
What word would you have?
The Monk.
For raising you highest, my one condition
is just that you follow your heart's ambition;
all Norway is yours, to the kingship I'll speed you,
if only you vow that your son shall succeed you!
King Skule.
[Raising his hand as if for an oath.] My son shall—-[Stops suddenly, and breaks forth in terror.] The church-robber! All the might to him! Ha! now I understand;—you seek for his soul's perdition! Get thee behind me, get thee behind me! [Stretches out his arms to heaven.] Oh have mercy on me, thou to whom I now call for help in my sorest need!
[He falls prone to the earth.
The Monk.
Accursëd! He's slipped through my fingers at last—
and I thought of a surety I held him so fast!
But the Light, it seems, had a trick in store
that I knew not of—and the game is o'er.
Well, well; what matters a little delay?
Perpetuum mobile's well under way;
my might is assured through the years and the ages,
the haters of light shall be still in my wages;
in Norway my empire for ever is founded,
though it be to my subjects a riddle unsounded.
[Coming forward.
