While to their life-work Norsemen set out
will-lessly wavering, daunted with doubt,
while hearts are shrunken, minds helplessly shivering,
weak as a willow-wand wind-swept and quivering,—
while about one thing alone they're united,
namely, that greatness be stoned and despited,—
when they seek honour in fleeing and falling
under the banner of baseness unfurled,—
then Bishop Nicholas 'tends to his calling,
the Bagler-Bishop's at work in the world!
[He disappears in the fog among the trees.
King Skule.
[After a short pause, half rises and looks around.] Where is he, my black comrade? [Springs up.] My guide, my guide, where are you? Gone!— No matter; now I myself know the way, both to Elgesæter and beyond.
[Goes out to the right.
The courtyard of Elgesæter Convent. To the left lies the chapel, with an entrance from the courtyard; the windows are lighted up. Along the opposite side of the space stretch some lower buildings; in the back, the convent wall with a strong gate, which is locked. It is a clear moonlight night. Three Birchleg Chiefs stand by the gate; Margrete, Lady Ragnhild, and Dagfinn the Peasant come out from the chapel.
Lady Ragnhild.
[Half to herself.] King Skule had to flee into the church, you say! He, he, a fugitive! begging
