u look; I tell you in the housefolk's room
there is talk of many things. (Lower.) They say that night by
night a tall figure, clad in black, walks the Banquet Hall.

BIORN. Old wives' tales!

FINN. Ah, but they all swear 'tis true.

BIORN. That I well believe.

FINN. The strangest of all is that Lady Inger thinks the same----

BIORN (starting). Lady Inger? What does she think?

FINN. What Lady Inger thinks no one can tell. But sure it is
that she has no rest in her. See you not how day by day she grows
thinner and paler? (Looks keenly at him.) They say she never
sleeps--and that it is because of the dark figure----

(While he is speaking, ELINA GYLDENLOVE has appeared in the
half-open door on the left. She stops and listens, unobserved.)

BIORN. And you believe such follies?

FINN. Well, half and half. There be folk, too, that read things
another way. But that is pure malice, for sure.--Hearken, Biorn--
know you the song that is going round the country?

BIORN. A song?

FINN. Ay, 'tis on all folks' lips. 'Tis a shameful scurril
thing, for sure; yet it goes prettily. Just listen (sings in a
low voice):

_Dame Inger sitteth in Ostrat fair,
She wraps her in costly furs--
She decks her in velvet and ermine and vair,
Red gold are the beads that she twines in her hair--
But small peace in that soul of hers.

Dame Inger hath sold her to Denmark's lord.
She bringeth her folk 'neath the stranger's yoke--
In guerdon whereof---- ----_

(BIORN enraged, seizes him by the throat. ELINA GYLDENLOVE
withdraws without having been seen.)

BIORN. And I will send you guerdonless to the foul fiend, if
you prate of Lady Inger but one unseemly word more.

FINN (breaking from his grasp). Why--did _I_ make the song?

(The blast of a horn is heard from the right.)

BIORN. Hush--what is that?

FINN. A horn. So we are to have guests to-night.

BIORN (at the window). They are opening the gate. I hear the
clatter of hoofs in the courtyard. It must be a knight.

FINN. A knight? A knight can it scarce be.

BIORN. Why not?

FINN. You said it yourself: the last of our knighthood is dead
and gone. (Goes out to the right.)

BIORN. The accursed knave, with his prying and peering! What
avails all my striving to hide and hush things? They whisper of
her even now----; ere long will all men be clamo