Ellida.
Yes,—that is true.
Wangel.
[Partly to Ellida.] This is the last trip. After to-night we shall see no more of it.
Ballested.
A melancholy thought, Doctor. But that's why we are turning out in its honour, as I said before. Ah yes, ah yes! The happy summer-*time is drawing to a close. "Soon will all the straits be ice-bound," as they say in the tragedy.[1]
Ellida.
All the straits ice-bound,—yes.
Ballested.
Mournful reflection! For weeks and months now we have been joyful children of the summer; it is hard to reconcile oneself to the dark days. At first, that is to say; for people can alcli—ac—climatise themselves, Mrs. Wangel. Yes they can indeed. [He bows and goes out to the left.
Ellida.
[Looks out across the fiord.] Oh this torturing suspense! This intolerable last half-hour before the decision!
Wangel.
Then you are still bent on speaking with him yourself?
Ellida.
I must speak with him myself; for I must make my choice of my own free will.
1 "Snart er alle sunde lukket."—Oehlenschläger's Hakon Jarl.
