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s-- I have heard it before--they are not weak as we are; they do not fear to pass from thought to deed. [Takes up a goblet which stands on the table.] 'Twas in this beaker that Gudmund and I, when he went away, drank to his happy return. 'Tis well-nigh the only heirloom I brought with me to Solhoug. [Putting the goblet away in a cupboard.] How soft is this summer day; and how light it is in here! So sweetly has the sun not shone for three long years. [SIGNE, and after her GUDMUND, enters from the left. SIGNE. [Runs laughing up to MARGIT.] Ha, ha, ha! He will not believe that 'tis I! MARGIT. [Smiling to GUDMUND.] You see: while in far-off lands you strayed, She, too, has altered, the little maid. GUDMUND. Aye truly! But that she should be-- Why, 'Tis a marvel in very deed. [Takes both SIGNE's hands and looks at her. Yet, when I look in these eyes so blue, The innocent child-mind I still can read-- Yes, Signe, I know that 'tis you! I needs must laugh when I think how oft I have thought of you perched on my shoulder aloft As you used to ride. You were then a child; Now you are a nixie, spell-weaving, wild. SIGNE. [Threatening with her finger.] Beware! If the nixie's ire you awaken, Soon in her nets you will find yourself taken. GUDMUND. [To himself.] I am snared already, it seems to me. SIGNE. But, Gudmund, wait--you have still to see How I've shielded your harp from the dust and the rust. [As she goes out to the left. You shall teach me all of your songs! You must! GUDMUND. [Softly, as he follows her with his eyes.] She has flushed to the loveliest rose of May, That was yet but a bud in the morning's ray. SIGNE. [Returning with the harp.] Behold! GUDMUND. [Taking it.] My harp! As bright as of yore! [Striking one or two chords. Still the old chords ring sweet and clear-- On the wall, untouched, thou shalt hang no more. MARGIT. [Looking out at the back.] Our guests are coming. SIGNE. [While GUDMUND preludes his song.] Hush--hush! Oh, hear! GUDMUND. [Sings.] I roamed through the uplands so heavy of cheer; The little birds quavered in bush and in brere; The little birds quavered, around and above: Wouldst know of the sowing and growing of love? It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years; 'Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs, and by tears; But swiftly 'tis s
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