[_Puts the plant aside, picks up a dandelion._]

HADDA PADDA. What do you use the dandelion for?

HERBORIST. If the young lady had warts on her hands, I would rub them with the milk of the dandelion, and the warts would vanish. [_Takes up a new plant._]

HADDA PADDA. What do you call this flower?

HERBORIST. Doesn't she know the sun-dew? It is a cure for freckles.

HADDA PADDA [_taking the flower_]. Ah! I know this.--You cruel pretty little flower! With your beauty you lure the insects to you. Then you close on them, and kill them. You cruel pretty little flower! Do you know my sister? [_Puts the sun-dew aside._]

HERBORIST [_holding a new plant in her hand_]. This is the gra.s.s of Parna.s.sus. It makes a good hair-ointment.--Pretty is the young lady's hair.

HADDA PADDA. You have dug up all the flowers by the roots.

HERBORIST [_pointing to the knife_]. I cut them up by the roots. They must not lose their power. They are all alive.--Shall I tell you more?

HADDA PADDA. Not now, thank you.

HERBORIST [_puts the flowers into the bag; points to the sky_]. Look how red the clouds are!--I think we'll have fine weather to-morrow.

HADDA PADDA. Do you think so?

HERBORIST. Evening-glow means warm, morning-glow means storm.

HADDA PADDA [_is silent_].

HERBORIST. Why do you look at me so long?

HADDA PADDA. You have such a peaceful smile on your face. Are you always so contented?

HERBORIST. I have no reason not to be.

HADDA PADDA. Have you never been discontented with life?

HERBORIST. Yes, when I deserved it. But when one is kind to every one, life brings peace and happiness.

HADDA PADDA. Has kindness never taken revenge?

HERBORIST. Kindness does not take revenge. It is only evil that takes revenge.

HADDA PADDA. Then you have been obedient to your fate?

HERBORIST. What I say is true, my girl. Life treats us as we deserve. We cannot get rid of our past. Nature is a righteous judge.

HADDA PADDA. Nature is heartless and blind.

HERBORIST. Nature IS a righteous judge. I shall never forget something that happened thirty years ago. I lived at the sea-sh.o.r.e then. One day, when I was washing fish with some other girls, we saw a woman from the farm take her child by the hand and lead her out to a jutting rock--when the flood tide came it took her....

HADDA PADDA [looking up].

HERBORIST.... The case was brought before the judge. The mother insisted that she had left the child on the ridge, and that it must have walked down to the sh.o.r.e while she was gathering some dulse. Each of us had to point out the spot where she had left the child, but the mother pointed to the ridge. As she raised her three fingers to swear that it was true, a wave rose, and out of it shot a white column of foam. It stretched like an arm into the air--like an arm with three swearing fingers. The sea itself swore against her.

HADDA PADDA [A cold shiver runs through her. She draws her scarf more closely around her]. It is so strangely cold here.

HERBORIST. The sun is going down. I had better be going. [The bag upsets, and some plants slip out.]

HADDA PADDA. The dandelion is slipping out of the bag. Grant the dandelion its life.

HERBORIST. I can't grant the dandelion its life. Perhaps to-morrow a mother will come with her little girl. "Rid her of her warts," she will say, "for her hands are so fine."...

HADDA PADDA [takes the dandelion in her hands]. Grant the dandelion its life. Do you see how it stretches its thousand delicate fingers to the fading light? If you plant it again, it will close up and be silent a whole night with joy.

HERBORIST. You are silent and you don't smile--is it with joy?

HADDA PADDA. You must not ask me that.

HERBORIST. Smile, and I will grant the dandelion its life.

HADDA PADDA. Now I am smiling.

HERBORIST [thrusts her hand into the bag]. Tell me of your joy, young woman. Each time you give an answer you grant a flower its life.--

Of all things,--what is the softest you have ever felt?

HADDA PADDA. The hair on my cheek when my lover stroked it.

HERBORIST [taking a plant from the bag]. Now you have granted the yarrow its life.--Tell me of your joy, young woman. What made your hand so pretty?

HADDA PADDA. Happiness made my hand so pretty. It has smoothed back the hair from the most beautiful forehead.

HERBORIST [taking out another plant]. Now you have granted the catch-fly its life.--What cast the shade of sorrow in your eyes?

HADDA PADDA. Now you are not asking me of joy. Now I will not answer.

HERBORIST [shows her a new plant, fondling the flower]. Why shall the violet die?

HADDA PADDA. Do not ask me why the violet shall die.... I want to be alone.

HERBORIST [gets up, puts the bag on her shoulder, takes the knife and flowers]. G.o.d bless thee, young woman! The Lord be with thee, Hadda Padda. [Disappears to the left.]

[The sun sets behind the mountains and twilight gradually descends.

Hadda Padda sits gazing into s.p.a.ce. Suddenly she is startled by voices, and she disappears into the bushes. Native and foreign tourists come from behind the rock, two by two, crossing the stage, conversing. German and French are heard. Behind them all, comes]

A YOUNG WOMAN [waiting till the others are gone, she calls]. Hadda Padda!... Hadda!... Hrafnhild! [She shades her eyes with her hand.]

There they are! [Goes out to the right.]

[Ingolf and Kristrun enter from behind the rock.]