LYNGSTRAND.
Oh, I thought of something out of my own experience.
Arnholm.
Yes yes,—by all means stick to that.
Ellida.
But what is it to be?
LYNGSTRAND.
Well, I had thought of a young woman, a sailor's wife, lying and sleeping in a strange unrest, and dreaming as she sleeps. I think I can make it so that any one can see she is dreaming.
Arnholm.
And is that all?
Lyngstrand.
No. There is to be one other figure—a kind of shape you might call it. It is the husband she has been unfaithful to while he was away. And now he is drowned.
Arnholm.
Why, what do you mean?
Ellida.
Drowned you say?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, he is drowned at sea. But the strange thing is that he has come home nevertheless. It's in the night-time; and there he stands by her bedside and looks at her. He must be dripping wet, just as when they haul you up out of the sea.
