FRIDA A bird Singing under the temple’s eaves. YORUL And all Are fled. What be those four that lie so still? [Together they approach the bodies.] FRIDA Alas! O lady dear! YORUL Dead! they are dead. Egil, my master! Odin’s voice hath slain him. Cursed be Odin! FRIDA Yorul—take them back, Those words! Their sacrilege shall work us woe. YORUL What matter? He is dead. FRIDA Oh, do not think it!
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