Gunnar—­The birds each morn seek the forest glade,

Ragnhild—­ The forest glade;

Gunnar—­So flock my thoughts to that lily maid,

Ragnhild—­ That lily maid;

Both—­ So flock my thoughts to that lily maid.

Ragnhild—­The moss it clingeth so fast to the stone, Gunnar—­ So fast to the stone;

Ragnhild—­So clingeth my Soul to him alone, Gunnar—­ To him alone;

Both—­So clingeth my soul to him alone.

Gunnar—­Each brook sings its song, but forever the same,

Ragnhild—­ Forever the same;

Gunnar—­Forever my heart beats that maiden’s name,

Ragnhild—­ That maiden’s name;

Both—­Forever my heart beats that maiden’s name.

Ragnhild—­The plover hath but an only tone,

Gunnar—­ An only tone;

Ragnhild—­My life hath its love, and its love alone,

Gunnar—­ Its love alone;

Both—­My life hath its love, and its love alone.

Gunnar—­The rivers all to the fjord they go, Ragnhild—­ To the fjord they go;

Gunnar—­ So may our lives then together flow, Ragnhild—­ Together flow;

Both—­Oh, may our lives then together flow!

Here Gunnar stopped, made a leap toward Ragnhild, caught her round the waist, and again danced off with her, while a storm of voices joined in the last refrain, and loud shouts of admiration followed them.  For this was a stev that was good for something; long time it was since so fine a stev had been heard on this side of the mountains.  Soon the dance became general, and lasted till after midnight.  Then the sleigh-bells and the stamping of hoofs from without reminded the merry guests that night was waning.  There stood the well-known swan-shaped sleigh from Henjum, and the man on the box was Atle himself.  Ragnhild and Gudrun were hurried into it, the whip cracked, and the sleigh shot down over the star-illumined fields of snow.

The splendor of the night was almost dazzling as Gunnar came out from the crowded hall and again stood under the open sky.  A host of struggling thoughts and sensations thronged upon him.  He was happy, oh, so happy!—­at least he tried to persuade himself that he was; but strange to say, he did not fully succeed.  Was it not toward this day his yearnings had pointed, and about which his hopes had been clustering from year to year, ever since he had been old enough to know what yearning was?  Was it not this day which had been beckoning him from afar, and had shed light upon his way like a star, and had he not followed its guidance as faithfully and as trustingly as those wise men of old?  “Folly and nonsense,” muttered he; “the night breeds nightly thoughts!” With an effort he