hasting up to the convent.—Where is the King-child, woman?
Margrete.
[Who has placed herself before the church door.] He sleeps in the sacristy!
Peter.
'Twere the same if he slept on the altar! I have dragged out St. Olaf's shrine—I fear not to drag out the King-child as well.
Lady Ragnhild.
[Calls to Skule.] And he it is you have loved so deeply!
Margrete.
Father, father! How could you forget us all for his sake?
King Skule.
He was pure as a lamb of God when the penitent woman gave him to me;—'tis his faith in me has made him what he now is.
Peter.
[Without heeding him.] The child must out! Slay it, slay it in the Queen's arms,—that was King Skule's word in Oslo!
Margrete.
Oh shame, oh shame!
Peter.
A saint might do it unsinning, at my father's command! My father is King; for the great king's-thought is his!
