Peter.
You must, my noble father!
King Skule.
Well, be it so. [Goes to the window and draws the curtain aside, but lets it go quickly and starts back in terror.] There hangs the flaming sword over me again!
Paul Flida.
It bodes that the sword of victory is drawn for you.
King Skule.
Ah, were it but so! [Goes to the window and speaks out.] Trönders, what would you? Here stands your King.
A Townsman.
[Without.] Leave the town! The Birchlegs will burn and slay if they find you here.
King Skule.
We must all hold together. I have been a gracious King to you; I have craved but small war-tax
A Man's Voice.
[Down in the crowd.] What call you all the blood, then, that flowed at Låka and Oslo?
A Woman.
Give me my betrothed again!
A Boy.
Give me my father and my brother!
Another Woman.
Give me my three sons, King Skule!
