Nils Lykke.
Good.
[Points to the entrance-door. Finn goes out.
Jens Bielke.
Now, by my soul, dear friend and brother—this campaign is like to end but scurvily for both of us.
Nils Lykke.
[With a smile.] Oh—not for me, I hope.
Jens Bielke.
Say you so? First of all, there is little honour to be won in hunting an overgrown whelp like this Nils Sture. Are we to think him mad or in his sober senses after the pranks he has played? First he breeds bad blood among the peasants; promises them help and all their hearts can desire;—and then, when it comes to the pinch, off he runs to hide behind a petticoat!
Moreover, to say truth, I repent that I followed your counsel and went not my own way.
Nils Lykke.
[To himself.] Your repentance comes somewhat late, my brother!
Jens Bielke.
For, let me tell you, I have never loved digging at a badger's earth. I looked for quite other sport. Here have I ridden all the way from Jæmteland with my horsemen, and have
