With rings, and with jewels, and all of my best
By his order myself I am decking—­
But oh, if to-day were my burial-feast,
’Twere little that I’d be recking.
     [Breaking off.

But if thus I brood I must needs despair;
I know a song that can lighten care.
     [She sings.

The Hill-King to the sea did ride;
   —­Oh, sad are my days and dreary—­
To woo a maiden to be his bride. 
   —­I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—­

The Hill-King rode to Sir Hakon’s hold;
   —­Oh, sad are my days and dreary—­
Little Kirsten sat combing her locks of gold. 
   —­I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—­

The Hill-King wedded the maiden fair;
   —­Oh, sad are my days and dreary—­
A silvern girdle she ever must wear. 
   —­I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—­

The Hill-King wedded the lily-wand,
   —­Oh, sad are my days and dreary—­
With fifteen gold rings on either hand. 
   —­I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—­

Three summers passed, and there passed full five;
   —­Oh, sad are my days and dreary—­
In the hill little Kirsten was buried alive. 
   —­I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—­

Five summers passed, and there passed full nine;
   —­Oh, sad are my days and dreary—­
Little Kirsten ne’er saw the glad sunshine. 
   —­I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—­

In the dale there are flowers and the birds’ blithe song;
   —­Oh, sad are my days and dreary—­
In the hill there is gold and the night is long. 
   —­I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—­
     [She rises and crosses the room.

How oft in the gloaming would Gudmund sing
This song in may father’s hall. 
There was somewhat in it—­some strange, sad thing
That took my heart in thrall;
Though I scarce understood, I could ne’er forget—­
And the words and the thoughts they haunt me yet.
     [Stops horror-struck.

Rings of red gold!  And a belt beside—! 
’Twas with gold the Hill-King wedded his bride!
     [In despair; sinks down on a bench beside the table on
       the left.

Woe!  Woe!  I myself am the Hill-King’s wife! 
And there cometh none to free me from the prison of my life.

     [SIGNE, radiant with gladness, comes running in from
       the back.

SIGNE.

  [Calling.] Margit, Margit,—­he is coming!

MARGIT.

  [Starting up.] Coming?  Who is coming?

SIGNE.

  Gudmund, our kinsman!

MARGIT.

  Gudmund Alfson!  Here!  How can you think—?

SIGNE.

  Oh, I am sure of it.

MARGIT.

[Crosses to the right.] Gudmund Alfson is at the wedding-feast in the King’s hall; you know that as well as I.