INGEBORG (heftigt, idet hun stedse kæmper med et frembrydende smil). Hjælpe mig Gud! hvordan er det fat med dig? Hvad er det, du tænker på? Vil du røve din herres datter? Du må være syg eller gal, siden du kan falde på sligt! Dog, det skal være glemt – for denne gang. Gå nu! og tak himlen, at du slap så let; thi vel har du fortjent et rap –
(løfter kvistene, men lader dem synke og siger med forandret stemme:) – og min røde guldring – se der, tag den!
(tilkaster ham en ring, som hun har trukket af armen og iler hurtigt ud til venstre.)
INGEBORG. [Vehemently, as she constantly struggles to suppress a smile.] Help me, God! what is amiss with you? What is it you are thinking of? Will you steal your master’s daughter? You must be sick or mad to conceive such a thing! Yet, it shall be forgotten--for this once. Go, now! and thank heaven you escape so lightly; for you have certainly earned a blow--
INGEBORG. [Raises the twigs, but lets them fall, and says in a changed tone.] --and my red golden ring--see there, take it!
[Throws him a ring, which she has removed from her arm, and rushes out quickly to the left.]
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