Ingrid! And the three, they that danced on the heights!
Will they too want to join us? With vixenish spite
Will they claim to be folded, like her, to my breast,
To be tenderly lifted on outstretched arms?
Roundabout, lad; though my arms were as long
As the root of the fir, or the pine-tree's stem,—
I think even then I should hold her too near
To set her down pure and untarnished again.—
I must roundabout here, then, as best I may,
And see that it bring me nor gain nor loss.
One must put such things from one, and try to forget.—
[Goes a few steps towards the hut, but stops again.
Go in after this? So befouled and disgraced?
Go in with that troll-rabble after me still?
Speak, yet be silent; confess, yet conceal?
[Throws away his axe.
It's a holy-day evening. For me to keep tryst,
Such as now I am, would be sacrilege.
Solveig.
[In the doorway.]
Are you coming?
Peer.
[Half aloud.]
Roundabout!
Solveig.
What?
Peer.
You must wait.
It is dark, and I've got something heavy to fetch.
