'Twas as though a strange, irresistible call Summoned me forth from the worshipping flock, Over hill and dale, over mead and rock. 'Mid the silver birches I listening trod, Moving as though in a dream; Behind me stood empty the house of God; Priest and people were lured by the magic 'twould seem, Of the tones that still through the air did stream. No sound they made; they were quiet as death; To hearken the song-birds held their breath, The lark dropped earthward, the cuckoo was still, As the voice re-echoed from hill to hill. (MARGIT: Go on.) They crossed themselves, women and men; [Pressing her hands to her breast. But strange thoughts arose within me then; For the heavenly song familiar grew: Gudmund oft sang it to me and you-- Ofttimes has Gudmund carolled it, And all he e'er sang in my heart is writ. (MARGIT: And you think that it may be--?) I know it is he! I know it? I know it! You soon shall see! [Laughing. From far-off lands, at the last, in the end, Each song-bird homeward his flight doth bend! I am so happy--though why I scarce know--! Margit, what say you? I'll quickly go And take down his harp, that has hung so long In there on the wall that 'tis rusted quite; Its golden strings I will polish bright, And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.

Signe Monologue from The feast at Solhoug

Rehearse Signe's monologue