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]. God 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 space. 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.]

INGOLF [stops]. Look