ORNULF. True, true; there is somewhat that crushes my breast; I
cannot draw breath.
(He hides his face in his hands. A pause. DAGNY seats herself
beside him.)
DAGNY. To-morrow wilt thou make ready thy ship and set forth for
Iceland?
ORNULF (without looking up). What should I do there? Nay, I will
to my sons.
DAGNY (with pain). Father!
ORNULF (raises his head). Go in and let me sit here; when the storm
has played with me for a night or two, the game will be over, I ween.
SIGURD. Thou canst not think to deal thus with thyself.
ORNULF. Dost marvel that I fain would rest? My day's work is done;
I have laid my sons in their grave. (Vehemently.) Go from me!--Go, go!
(He hides his face.)
SIGURD (softly, to DAGNY, who rises). Let him sit yet a while.
DAGNY. Nay, I have one rede yet untried;--I know him. (To Ornulf.)
Thy day's work done, say'st thou? Nay, that it is not. Thou hast laid
thy sons in the grave;--but art thou not a skald? It is meet that thou
should'st sing their memory.
ORNULF (shaking his head). Sing? Nay, nay; yesterday I could sing;
I am too old to-day.
DAGNY. But needs must thou; honourable men were thy sons, one and
all; a song must be made of them, and that can none of our kin but
thou.
ORNULF (looks inquiringly at SIGURD). To sing? What thinkest
_thou_, Sigurd?
SIGURD.
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