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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 50 pages of information about The Feast at Solhoug.
She had wakened to life as his harp-strings thrilled;
And her eyes were opened to all the store
Of treasure wherewith the good earth is filled. 
For mark this well:  it hath ever been found
That those who in caverns deep lie bound
Are lightly freed by the harp’s glad sound. 
He saw her prisoned, he heard her wail—­
But he cast unheeding his harp aside,
Hoisted straightway his silken sail,
And sped away o’er the waters wide
To stranger strands with his new-found bride.
     [With ever-increasing passion.

So fair was thy touch on the golden strings
That my breast heaves high and my spirit sings! 
I must out, I must out to the sweet green leas! 
I die in the Hill-King’s fastnesses! 
He mocks at my woe as he clasps his bride
And sails away o’er the waters wide.

With me all is over; my hill-prison barred;
Unsunned is the day, and the night all unstarred.

     [She totters and, fainting, seeks to support herself against
       the trunk of a tree.


[Weeping, has rushed up to her, and takes her in her arms.] Margit!  My sister!


  [At the same time, supporting her.] Help! help! she is dying!

     [BENGT and the GUESTS flock round them with cries of alarm.


The hall at Solhoug as before, but now in disorder after the feast. 
    It is night still, but with a glimmer of approaching dawn in
    the room and over the landscape without.

BENGT stands outside in the passage-way, with a beaker of ale in
    his hand.  A party of GUESTS are in the act of leaving the
    house.  In the room a MAID-SERVANT is restoring order.


[Calls to the departing GUESTS.] God speed you, then, and bring you back ere long to Solhoug.  Methinks you, like the rest, might have stayed and slept till morning.  Well, well!  Yet hold—­I’ll e’en go with you to the gate.  I must drink your healths once more.

     [He goes out.

GUESTS. [Sing in the distance.]

Farewell, and God’s blessing on one and all
  Beneath this roof abiding! 
The road must be faced.  To the fiddler we call: 
  Tune up!  Our cares deriding,
    With dance and with song
We’ll shorten the way so weary and long. 
    Right merrily off we go.

     [The song dies away in the distance.
     [MARGIT enters the hall by the door on the right.


God save us, my lady, have you left your bed?


I am well.  Go you and sleep.  Stay—­tell me, are the guests all gone?

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