I thought: When to Solhoug you come at last
Then all your pains will be done and past.
You have sure friends there, whatever betide.—
But hope like a wayside flower shrivels up;
Though your husband met me with flagon and cup,
And his doors flung open wide,
Within, your dwelling seems chill and bare;
Dark is the hall; my friends are not there.
'Tis well; I will back to my hills from your halls.
Margit.
[Beseechingly.]
Oh, hear me!
Gudmund.
Now life to me seems a thing of nought;
Truly I hold it scarce worth a thought.
You have killed all that I hold most dear;
Of my fairest hopes I follow the bier.
Farewell, then, Dame Margit!
Margit.
By all that is holy—!
Gudmund.
Live on in honour and joyance—
Never shall Gudmund darken your door,
Never shall cause you 'noyance.
