tediously with us;
at least you will find me and my daughter heartily desirous to do
all we may to pleasure you.

NILS LYKKE. I doubt neither your goodwill toward me nor your
daughter's; of that I have had full proof. And you will doubtless
allow that the necessity which calls for my presence elsewhere must
be more vital, since, despite your kindness, I must declare my
longer stay at Ostrat impossible.

LADY INGER. Is it even so!--Know you, Sir Councillor, were I
evilly disposed, I might fancy you had come to Ostrat to try a
fall with me, and that, having lost, you like not to linger on
the battlefield among the witnesses of your defeat.

NILS LYKKE (smiling). There might be some show of reason for
such a reading of the case; but sure it is that as yet _I_ hold
not the battle lost.

LADY INGER. Be that as it may, it might at any rate be retrieved,
if you would tarry some days with us. You see yourself, I am still
doubting and wavering at the parting of the ways,--persuading my
redoubtable assailant not to quit the field.--Well, to speak
plainly, the thing is this: your alliance with the disaffected in
Sweden still seems to me somewhat--ay, what shall I call it?--
somewhat miraculous, Sir Councillor! I tell you this frankly,
dear Sir! The thought that has moved the King's Council to this
secret step is in truth most politic; but it is strangely at
variance with the deeds of certain of your countrymen in bygone
years. Be not offended, then, if my trust in your fair promises
needs to be somewhat strengthened ere I can place my whole welfare
in your hands.

NILS LYKKE. A longer stay at Ostrat would scarce help towards
that end; since I purpose not to make any further effort to shake
your resolution.

LADY INGER. Then must I pity you from my heart. Ay, Sir
Councillor--'tis true I stand here an unfriended widow; yet may
you trust my word when I prophesy that this visit to Ostrat will
strew your future path with thorns.

NILS LYKKE (with a smile). Is that your prophecy, Lady Inger?

LADY INGER. Truly it is! What can one say dear Sir? 'Tis a
calumnious age. Many a scurril knave will make scornful rhymes
concerning you. Ere half a year is out, you will be all men's
fable; people will stop and gaze after you on the high roads;
'twill be: "Look, look; there rides Sir Nils Lykke, that fared
north to Ostrat to trap Inger Gyldenlove, and was caught in his
own nets."--Nay nay, why so impa