OLAF SKAKTAVL.
Norges bedste hjerte brast, da Krummedikes lejesvende fældte ham. Endnu tykkes det mig, at jeg ser det lange tog, som skred ind i riddersalen, sorgtungt og par for par. Der lå han på båren, med øksehugget over panden, så hvid som en vårsky. Jeg tør vel sige, at Norges gæveste mænd var samlet der hin nat. Fru Margrete stod ved sin døde husbonds hoved, og alle, alle svor vi at vove velfærd og liv for at hævne både denne sidste ugerning og alt det øvrige. – Inger Gyldenløve, – hvem var det, som da brød sig vej gennem mændenes kreds? En ungmø, – fast endnu et barn, – med ild i øjet og med grådfyldt mæle. – Hvad svor hun? Skal jeg gentage eders ord.
OLAF SKAKTAVL.
The best heart in Norway burst, when Krummedike’s hirelings struck him down. Methinks I still can see the long procession that passed into the banquet-hall, heavily, two by two. There he lay on his bier, white as a spring cloud, with the axe- cleft in his brow. I may safely say that the boldest men in Norway were gathered there that night. Lady Margrete stood by her dead husband’s head, and we swore as one man to venture lands and life to avenge this last misdeed and all that had gone before.-- Inger Gyldenlöve,--who was it that burst through the circle of men? A maiden--then almost a child--with fire in her eyes and her voice half choked with tears.-- What was it she swore? Shall I repeat your words?