Ah—is not that some one riding through the gateway?
[Listens at the window.
No; not yet. Only the wind; it blows cold as the grave
Has God a right to do this?—To make me a woman—and then to lay on my shoulders a man's work?
For I have the welfare of the country in my hands. It is in my power to make them rise as one man. They look to me for the signal; and if I give it not now—it may never be given.
To delay? To sacrifice the many for the sake of one?—Were it not better if I could? No, no, no—I will not! I cannot!
[Steals a glance towards the Banquet Hall, but turns away again as if in dread, and whispers:
I can see them in there now. Pale spectres—dead ancestors—fallen kinsfolk.—Ah, those eyes that pierce me from every corner!
[Makes a gesture of repulsion, and cries:
Sten Sture! Knut Alfson! Olaf Skaktavl! Back—back!—I cannot do this!
[A Stranger, strongly built, and with grizzled hair and beard, has entered from the Banquet Hall. He is dressed in a torn lambskin tunic; his weapons are rusty.
The Stranger.
[Stops in the doorway, and says in a low voice.] Hail to you, Inger Gyldenlöve!
