Volume 17 — SCENE III
Anders Orbeck translation
[OLAF alone.]
OLAF. [Gazes out to the right.]
As merry she is as the youthful roe, As it plays with no thought of the morrow; But soon will she wring her small hands in woe, And suffer in anguish and sorrow! Soon must I destroy the faith in her heart, And waken her out of her dreams. And then—yes, then we forever must part. Poor Alfhild! So bitter your fate to me seems!
OLAF. [Brooding.]
What cared I for honor, what cared I for power, What mattered my race when I wandered with you! It seemed in your eyes was reflected a flower, More precious than any the world ever knew! Forgotten I had both struggle and strife, But since I again came home to this life, Since at table I sat in my father's hall, Since I went to answer my mother's call—
OLAF. [Abruptly.]
'Tis true from a noble race I am born, And Alfhild lives up in the mountains forlorn. In her I should find but a constant sorrow. I must tell her—yet, no, I can't let her know! Yet truly—I must—I must ere the morrow, She must hear what to me is the bitterest woe!