[ACT II.
THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG.
243
Margit.
That I could be
The nixie that haunts yonder upland lea.
How cunningly I should weave my spell!
Trust me—!
Gudmund.
Margit, what ails you? Tell!
Margit.
[Paying no heed to him.]
How I should quaver my magic lay!
Quaver and croon it both night and day!
[With growing vehemence.
How I would lure the knight so bold
Through the greenwood glades to my mountain hold.
There were the world and its woes forgot
In the burning joys of our blissful lot.
Gudmund.
Margit! Margit!
Margit.
[Ever more wildly.]
At midnight's hour
Sweet were our sleep in my lonely bower;—
And if death should come with the dawn, I trow
'Twere sweet to die so;—what thinkest thou?
Gudmund.
You are sick!
