Nils Lykke.
[Smiling.] Ah, I see the thought of my letter still affrights you. Fear nought on that score. I would from my heart it were unwritten, for—I know 'twill concern you little enough, so I may even say it right out—for I love you not, and shall never come to love you. Fear nothing, therefore, as I said before; I shall in nowise seek to
But what ails you?
Elina.
Me? Nothing, nothing.—Tell me but one thing: why do you still wear those flowers? What would you with them?
Nils Lykke.
These? Are they not a gage of battle you have thrown down to the wicked Nils Lykke, on behalf of all womankind? What could I do but take it up?
You asked what I would with them? [Softly.] When I stand again amid the fair ladies of Denmark—when the music of the strings is hushed and there is silence in the hall—then will I bring forth these flowers and tell a tale of a young maiden sitting alone in a gloomy black-beamed hall, far to the north in Norway
[Breaks off and bows respectfully.
But I fear I detain the noble daughter of the house too long. We shall meet no more; for before daybreak I shall be gone. So now I bid you farewell.
