Part + 

III + 

Lavrans Björgulfsön + 

I + 

Kristin came home when the spring was at fairest. The Laagen rushed headlong round its bend, past the farmstead and the fields; through the tender leaves of the alder thickets its current glittered and sparkled with flashes of silver. ’Twas as though the gleams of light had a voice of their own and joined in the river’s song, for when the evening twilight fell, the waters seemed to go by with a duller roar. But day and night the air above Jörundgaard was filled with the rushing sound, till Kristin thought she could feel the very timbers of the houses quivering like the sound box of a cithern. + 

Small threads of water shone high up on the fell-sides, that stood wrapped in blue haze day after day. The heat brooded and quivered over the fields; the brown earth of the plough-lands was nigh hidden by the spears of corn; the meadows grew deep with grass, and shimmered like silk where the breaths of wind passed over. Groves and hill sward smelt sweet; and as soon as the sun was down there streamed out all around the strong, cool, sourish breath of sap and growing things⁠—it was as though the earth gave out a long, lightened sigh. Kristin thought, trembling, of the moment when Erlend’s arms released her. Each evening she lay down, sick with longing, and in the mornings she awoke, damp with sweat and tired out with her dreams. + 

’Twas more than she could understand how the folks at home could forbear to speak ever a word of the one thing that was in her thoughts. But week went by after week, and naught was said of Simon and her broken faith, and none asked what was in her heart. Her father lay much out in the woods, now he had the spring ploughing and sowing off his hands⁠—he went to see his tar burners’ work, and he took hawks and hounds with him and was away many days together. When he was at home, he spoke to his daughter kindly as ever⁠—but it was as though he had little to say to her, and never did he ask her to go with him when he rode out. + 

Kristin had dreaded to go home to her mother’s chidings; but Ragnfrid said never a word⁠—and this seemed even worse. + 

Every year when he feasted his friends at St. John’s Mass, it was Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to give out among the poor folks of the parish the meat and all sorts of food that had been saved in his household in the last week of the Fast. Those who lived nighest to Jörundgaard would come themselves to fetch away the alms; these poor folks were ever welcomed and feasted, and Lavrans and his guests and all the house servants would gather round them: for some of them were old men who had by heart many sagas and lays. They sat in the hearth-room and whiled the time away with the ale-cup and friendly talk; and in the evening they danced in the courtyard. + 

This year the Eve of St. John was cloudy and cold; but none was sorry that it was so, for by now the farmers of the Dale had begun to fear a drought. No rain had fallen since St. Halvard’s Wake, and there had been little snow in the mountains; not for thirteen years could folk remember to have seen the river so low at midsummer. + 

So Lavrans and his guests were of good cheer when they went down to greet the almsmen in the hearth-room. The poor folks sat round the board eating milk porridge and washing it down with strong ale; and Kristin stood by the table, and waited on the old folk and the sick. + 

Lavrans greeted his poor guests, and asked if they were content with their fare. Then he went about the board to bid welcome to an old bedesman, who had been brought thither that day for his term at Jörundgaard. The man’s name was Haakon; he had fought under King Haakon the Old, and had been with the King when he took the field for the last time in Scotland. He was the poorest of the poor now, and was all but blind; the farmers of the Dale had offered to set him up in a cottage of his own, but he chose rather to be handed on as bedesman from farm to farm, for everywhere folk welcomed him more like an honoured guest, since he had seen much of the world, and had laid up great store of knowledge. + 

Lavrans stood by with a hand on his brother’s shoulder; for Aasmund Björgulfsön had come to Jörundgaard on a visit. He asked Haakon, too, how the food liked him. + 

“The ale is good, Lavrans Björgulfsön,” said Haakon, “but methinks a jade has cooked our porridge for us today. While the cook cuddles, the porridge burns, says the byword; and this porridge is singed.” + 

“An ill thing indeed,” said Lavrans, “that I should give you singed porridge. But I wot well the old byword doth not always say true, for ’tis my daughter, herself, who cooked the porridge for you.” He laughed, and bade Kristin and Tordis make haste to bring in the trenchers of meat. + 

Kristin slipped quickly out and made across to the kitchen. Her heart was beating hard⁠—she had caught a glimpse of Aasmund’s face when Haakon was speaking. + 

That evening she saw her father and his brother walking and talking together in the courtyard long and late. She was dizzy with fear; and it was no better with her the next day when she marked that her father was silent and joyless. But he said no word. + 

Nor did he say aught after his brother was gone. But Kristin marked well that he spoke less with Haakon than was his wont, and, when their turn for harbouring the old warrior was over, Lavrans made no sign towards keeping him a while longer, but let him move on to the next farm. + 

For the rest, Lavrans Björgulfsön had reason enough this summer to be moody and downcast, for now all tokens showed that the year would be an exceedingly bad one in all the country round; and the farmers were coming together time and again to take counsel how they should meet the coming winter. As the late summer drew on, it was plain to most, that they must slaughter great part of their cattle or drive them south for sale, and buy corn to feed their people through the winter. The year before had been no good corn year, so that the stocks of old corn were but scanty. + 

One morning in early autumn Ragnfrid went out with all her three daughters to see to some linen she had lying out on the bleach field. Kristin praised much her mother’s weaving. Then the mother stroked little Ramborg’s hair and said: + 

“We must save this for your bride-chest, little one.” + 

“Then, mother,” said Ulvhild, “shall I not have any bride-chest when I go to the nunnery?” + 

“You know well,” said Ragnfrid, “your dowry will be nowise less than your sisters. But ’twill not be such things as they need that you will need. And then you know full well, too, that you are to bide with your father and me as long as we live⁠—if so be you will.” + 

“And when you come to the nunnery,” said Kristin, unsteadily, “it may be, Ulvhild, that I shall have been a nun there for many years.” + 

She looked across at her mother, but Ragnfrid held her peace. + 

“Had I been such an one that I could marry,” said Ulvhild, “never would I have turned away from Simon⁠—he was so kind, and he was so sorrowful when he said farewell to us all.” + 

“You know your father bade us not speak of this,” said Ragnfrid; but Kristin broke in defiantly: + 

“Aye; well I know that ’twas far more sorrow for him parting from you than from me.” + 

Her mother spoke in anger: + 

“And little must his pride have been, I wot, had he shown his sorrow before you⁠—you dealt not well and fairly by Simon Andressön, my daughter. Yet did he beg us to use neither threats nor curses with you⁠—” + 

“Nay,” said Kristin as before, “he thought, maybe, he had cursed me himself so much, there was no need for any other to tell me how vile I was. But I marked not ever that Simon had much care for me, till he saw that I loved another more than him.” + 

“Go home, children,” said Ragnfrid to the two little ones. She sat herself down on a log that lay by the green, and drew Kristin down beside her. + 

“You know, surely,” said she then, “that it has ever been held seemly and honourable, that a man should not talk overmuch of love to his betrothed maiden⁠—nor sit with her much alone, nor woo too hotly⁠—” + 

“Oh!” said Kristin, “much I wonder whether young folk that love one another bear ever in mind what old folk count for seemly, and forget not one time or another all such things.” + 

“Be you ware, Kristin,” said her mother, “that you forget them not.” She sat a little while in silence: “What I see but too well now is that your father goes in fear that you have set your heart on a man he can never gladly give you to.” + 

“What did my uncle say?” asked Kristin in a little while. + 

“Naught said he,” answered her mother, “but that Erlend of Husaby is better of name than of fame. Aye, for he spoke to Aasmund, it seems, to say a good word for him to Lavrans. Small joy was it to your father when he heard this.” + 

But Kristin sat beaming with gladness. Erlend had spoken to her father’s brother. And she had been vexing her heart because he made no sign! + 

Then her mother spoke again: + 

“Yet another thing is: that Aasmund said somewhat of a waif word that went about in Oslo, that folk had seen this Erlend hang about in the byways near by the convent, and that you had gone out and spoken with him by the fences there.” + 

“What then?” asked Kristin. + 

“Aasmund counselled us, you understand, to take this proffer,” said Ragnfrid. “But at that Lavrans grew more wroth than I can call to mind I saw him ever before. He said that a wooer who tried to come to his daughter by that road should find him in his path sword in hand. ’Twas little honour enough to us to have dealt as we had with the Dyfrin folk; but were it so that Erlend had lured you out to gad about the ways in the darkness with him, and that while you were dwelling in a cloister of holy nuns, ’twas a full good token you would be better served by far by missing such a husband.” + 

Kristin crushed her hands together in her lap⁠—the colour came and went in her face. Her mother put an arm about her waist⁠—but the girl shrank away from her, beside herself with the passion of her mood, and cried: + 

“Let me be, mother! Would you feel, maybe, if my waist hath grown⁠—” + 

The next moment she was standing up, holding her hand to her cheek⁠—she looked down bewildered at her mother’s flashing eyes. None had ever struck her before since she was a little child. + 

“Sit down,” said Ragnfrid. “Sit down,” she said again, and the girl was fain to obey. The mother sat a while silent; when she spoke, her voice was shaking: + 

“I have seen it full well, Kristin⁠—much have you never loved me. I told myself, maybe ’twas that you thought I loved not you so much⁠—not as your father loves you. I bided my time⁠—I thought when the time came that you had borne a child yourself, you would surely understand⁠— + 

“While yet I was suckling you, even then was it so, that when Lavrans came near us two, you would let go my breast and stretch out towards him, and laugh so that my milk ran over your lips. Lavrans thought ’twas good sport⁠—and God knows I was well content for his sake. I was well content, too, for your sake, that your father laughed and was merry each time he laid eyes on you. I thought my own self ’twas pity of you, you little being, that I could not have done with all that much weeping. I was ever thinking more whether I was to lose you too, than joying that I had you. But God and His holy Mother know that I loved you no whit less than Lavrans loved.” + 

The tears were running down over Ragnfrid’s cheeks, but her face was quite calm now, and so too was her voice: + 

“God knows I never bore him or you a grudge for the love that was between you. Methought ’twas little enough joy I had brought him in the years we had lived together; I was glad that he had joy in you. I thought, too, that had my father, Ivar, been such a father to me⁠— + 

“There are many things, Kristin, that a mother should have taught her daughter to beware of. But methought there was little need of this with you, who have followed about with your father all these years⁠—you should know, if any know, what right and honour are. That word you spoke but now⁠—think you I could believe you would have the heart to bring on Lavrans such a sorrow⁠—? + 

“I would say but this to you⁠—my wish is that you may win for husband a man you can love well. But that this may be, you must bear you wisely⁠—let not Lavrans have cause to think that he you have chosen is a breeder of trouble, and one that regards not the peace of women, nor their honour. For to such an one he will never give you⁠—not if it were to save you from open shame. Rather would Lavrans let the steel do judgment between him and the man who had marred your life⁠—” + 

And with this the mother rose and went from her. + 

II + 

At the Haugathing held on the day of Bartholomew’s Mass, the 24th of August, the daughter’s son of King Haakon of happy memory was hailed as King. Among the men sent thither from Northern Gudbrandsdal was Lavrans Björgulfsön. He had had the name of kingsman since his youth, but in all these years he had seldom gone nigh the Household, and the good name he had won in the war against Duke Eirik he had never sought to turn to account. Nor had he now much mind to this journey to the homaging, but he could not deny himself to the call. Besides, he and the other Thing-men from the upper valley were charged to try and buy corn in the South and send it round by ship to Romsdal. + 

The folk of the parishes round about were heartless now, and went in dread of the winter that was at hand. An ill thing, too, the farmers deemed it that once again a child would be King in Norway. Old folks called to mind the time when King Magnus was dead and his sons were little children, and Sira Eirik said: + 

“Vae terrae, ubi puer rex est. Which in the Norse tongue is: No resting o’ nights for rats in the house where the cat’s a kitten.” + 

Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter managed all things on the manor while her husband was gone, and it was good both for Kristin and for her that they had their heads and hands full of household cares and work. All over the parish the folks were busy gathering in moss from the hills and stripping bark from the trees, for the hay-crop had been but light, and of straw there was next to none; and even the leaves gathered after St. John’s Eve were yellow and sapless. On Holy Cross day, when Sira Eirik bore the crucifix about the fields, there were many in the procession who wept and prayed aloud to God to have mercy on the people and the dumb beasts. + 

A week after Holy Cross Lavrans Björgulfsön came home from the Thing. + 

It was long past the house-folks’ bedtime, but Ragnfrid still sat in the weaving-house. She had so much to see to in the daytime now, that she often worked on late into the night at weaving and sewing. Ragnfrid liked the house well, too. It had the name of being the oldest on the farm; it was called the Mound-house, and folk said it had stood there ever since the old heathen ages. Kristin and the girl called Astrid were with Ragnfrid; they were sitting spinning by the hearth. + 

They had been sitting for a while sleepy and silent, when they heard the hoof-beats of a single horse⁠—a man came riding at a gallop into the wet farm-place. Astrid went to the outer room to look out⁠—in a moment she came in again, followed by Lavrans Björgulfsön. + 

Both his wife and his daughter saw at once that he had been drinking more than a little. He reeled in his walk, and held to the pole of the smoke-vent while Ragnfrid took from him his dripping wet cloak and hat and unbuckled his sword-belt. + 

“What have you done with Halvdan and Kolbein?” she said, in some fear; “have you left them behind on the road?” + 

“No, I left them behind at Loptsgaard,” he said with a little laugh. “I had such a mind to come home again⁠—there was no rest for me till I did⁠—the men went to bed down at Loptsgaard, but I took Guldsveinen and galloped home⁠—” + 

“You must find me a little food, Astrid,” he said to the servant. “Bring it in here, girl; then you need not go so far in the rain. But be quick, for I have eaten no food since early morning⁠—” + 

“Had you no food at Loptsgaard, then?” asked his wife in wonder. + 

Lavrans sat rocking from side to side on the bench, laughing a little. + 

“Food there was, be sure⁠—but I had no stomach to it when I was there. I drank a while with Sigurd⁠—but⁠—methought then ’twas as well I should come home at once as wait till tomorrow⁠—” + 

Astrid came back bearing food and ale; she brought with her, too, a pair of dry shoes for her master. + 

Lavrans fumbled with his spur-buckles to unloose them; but came near to falling on his face. + 

“Come hither, Kristin, my girl,” he said, “and help your father. I know you will do it from a loving heart⁠—aye, a loving heart⁠—today.” + 

Kristin kneeled down to obey. Then he took her head between his two hands and turned her face up: + 

“One thing I trow you know, my daughter⁠—I wish for naught but your good. Never would I give you sorrow, except I see that thereby I save you from many sorrows to come. You are full young yet, Kristin⁠—’twas but seventeen years old you were this year⁠—three days after Halvard’s Mass⁠—but seventeen years old⁠—” + 

Kristin had done with her service now. She was a little pale as she rose from her knees and sat down again on her stool by the hearth. + 

Lavran’s head seemed to grow somewhat clearer as he ate and was filled. He answered his wife’s questions and the servant maid’s about the Haugathing⁠—Aye, ’twas a fair gathering. They had managed to buy corn, and some flour and malt, part at Oslo and part at Tunsberg; the wares were from abroad⁠—they might have been better, but they might have been worse, too. Aye, he had met many, both kinsfolk and friends, and they had sent their greetings home with him⁠—But the answers dropped from him, one by one, as he sat there. + 

“I spoke with Sir Andres Gudmundsön,” he said, when Astrid was gone out. “Simon marries the young widow at Manvik; he has held his betrothal feast. The wedding will be at Dyfrin at St. Andrew’s Mass. He has chosen for himself this time, has the boy. I held aloof from Sir Andres at Tunsberg, but he sought me out⁠—’twas to tell me he knew for sure that Simon saw Lady Halfrid for the first time this midsummer. He feared that I should think Simon had this rich marriage in mind when he broke with us.” Lavrans paused a little and laughed joylessly. “You understand⁠—that good and worthy man feared much that we should believe such a thing of his son.” + 

Kristin breathed more freely. She thought it must be this that had troubled her father so sorely. Maybe he had been hoping all this time that it might come to pass after all, her marriage with Simon Andressön. At first she had been in dread lest he had heard some tidings of her doings in the south at Oslo. + 

She rose up and said good night; but her father bade her stay yet a little. + 

“I have one more thing to tell,” said Lavrans. “I might have held my peace about it before you⁠—but ’tis better you should know it. This it is, Kristin⁠—the man you have set your heart on, him must you strive to forget.” + 

Kristin had been standing with arms hanging down and bent head. She looked up now into her father’s face. She moved her lips, but no sound came forth that could be heard. + 

Lavrans looked away from his daughter’s eyes; he struck out sideways with his hand: + 

“I wot well you know that never would I set myself against it, could I anyways believe ’twould be for your good.” + 

“What are the tidings that have been told you on this journey, father?” said Kristin in a clear voice. + 

“Erlend Nikulaussön and his kinsman, Sir Munan Baardsön, came to me at Tunsberg,” answered Lavrans. “Sir Munan asked for you for Erlend, and I answered him: no.” + 

Kristin stood a while, breathing heavily. + 

“Why will you not give me to Erlend Nikulaussön?” she asked. + 

“I know not how much you know of the man you would have for husband,” said Lavrans. “If you cannot guess the reason for yourself, ’twill be no pleasing thing for you to hear from my lips.” + 

“Is it because he has been outlawed, and banned by the Church?” asked Kristin as before. + 

“Know you what was the cause that King Haakon banished his near kinsman from his Court⁠—and how at last he fell under the Church’s ban for defying the Archbishop’s bidding⁠—and that when he fled the land ’twas not alone?” + 

“Aye,” said Kristin. Her voice grew unsteady: “I know, too, that he was but eighteen years old when he first knew her⁠—his paramour.” + 

“No older was I when I was wed,” answered Lavrans. “We reckoned, when I was young, that at eighteen years a man was of age to answer for himself, and care for others’ welfare and his own.” + 

Kristin stood silent. + 

“You called her his paramour, the woman he has lived with for ten years, and who has borne him children,” said Lavrans after a while. “Little joy would be mine the day I sent my daughter from her home with a husband who had lived openly with a paramour year out year in before ever he was wed. But you know that ’twas not loose life only, ’twas life in adultery.” + 

Kristin spoke low: + 

“You judged not so hardly of Lady Aashild and Sir Björn.” + 

“Yet can I not say I would be fain we should wed into their kindred,” answered Lavrans. + 

“Father,” said Kristin, “have you been so free from sin all your life, that you can judge Erlend so hardly⁠—?” + 

“God knows,” said Lavrans sternly, “I judge no man to be a greater sinner before Him than I am myself. But ’tis not just reckoning that I should give away my daughter to any man that pleases to ask for her, only because we all need God’s forgiveness.” + 

“You know I meant it not so,” said Kristin hotly. “Father⁠—mother⁠—you have been young yourselves⁠—have you not your youth so much in mind that you know ’tis hard to keep oneself from the sin that comes of love⁠—?” + 

Lavrans grew red as blood: + 

“No,” he said curtly. + 

“Then you know not what you do,” cried Kristin wildly, “if you part Erlend Nikulaussön and me.” + 

Lavrans sat himself down again on the bench. + 

“You are but seventeen, Kristin,” he began again. “It may be so that you and he⁠—that you have come to be more dear to each other than I thought could be. But he is not so young a man but he should have known⁠—had he been a good man, he had never come near a young, unripe child like you with words of love⁠—That you were promised to another, seemed to him, mayhap, but a small thing. + 

“But I wed not my daughter to a man who has two children by another’s wedded wife. You know that he has children? + 

“You are too young to understand that such a wrong breeds enmity in a kindred⁠—and hatred without end. The man cannot desert his own offspring, and he cannot do them right⁠—hardly will he find a way to bring his son forth among good folk, or to get his daughter married with any but a serving-man or a cottar. They were not flesh and blood, those children, if they hated not you and your children with a deadly hate⁠— + 

“See you not, Kristin⁠—such sins as these⁠—it may be that God may forgive such sins more easily than many others⁠—but they lay waste a kindred in such wise that it can never be made whole again. I thought of Björn and Aashild too⁠—there stood this Munan, her son; he was blazing with gold; he sits in the Council of the King’s Counsellors; they hold their mother’s heritage, he and his brothers; and he hath not come once to greet his mother in her poverty in all these years. Aye, and ’twas this man your lover had chosen to be his spokesman. + 

“No, I say⁠—no! Into that kindred you shall never come, while my head is above the ground.” + 

Kristin buried her face in her hands and broke into weeping: + 

“Then will I pray God night and day, night and day, that if you change not your will, He may take me away from this earth.” + 

“It boots not to speak more of this tonight,” said her father, with anguish in his voice. “You believe it not now, maybe; but I must needs guide your life so as I may hope to answer it hereafter. Go now, child, and rest.” + 

He held out his hand toward her; but she would not see it and went sobbing from the room. + 

The father and mother sat on a while. Then Lavrans said to his wife: + 

“Would you fetch me in a draught of ale?⁠—no, bring in a little wine,” he asked. “I am weary⁠—” + 

Ragnfrid did as he asked. When she came back with the tall wine stoup, her husband was sitting with his face hidden in his hands. He looked up, and passed his hand over her headdress and her sleeves: + 

“Poor wife, now you are wet⁠—Come, drink to me, Ragnfrid.” + 

She barely touched the cup with her lips. + 

“Nay, now drink with me,” said Lavrans vehemently, and tried to draw her down on his knees. Unwillingly the woman did as he bade. Lavrans said: “You will stand by me in this thing, wife of mine, will you not? Surely ’twill be best for Kristin herself that she understand from the very outset she must drive this man from her thoughts.” + 

“ ’Twill be hard for the child,” said the mother. + 

“Aye; well do I see it will,” said Lavrans. + 

They sat silent awhile, then Ragnfrid asked: + 

“How looks he, this Erlend of Husaby?” + 

“Oh,” said Lavrans slowly, “a proper fellow enough⁠—after a fashion. But he looks not a man that is fit for much but to beguile women.” + 

They were silent again for a while; then Lavrans said: + 

“The great heritage that came to him from Sir Nikulaus⁠—with that I trow he has dealt so that it is much dwindled. ’Tis not for such a son-in-law that I have toiled and striven to make my children’s lives sure.” + 

The mother wandered restlessly up and down the room. Lavrans went on: + 

“Least of all did it like me that he sought to tempt Kolbein with silver⁠—to bear a secret letter to Kristin.” + 

“Looked you what was in the letter?” asked Ragnfrid. + 

“No, I did not choose,” said Lavrans curtly. “I handed it back to Sir Munan, and told him what I thought of such doings. Erlend had hung his seal to it too⁠—I know not what a man should say of such child’s tricks. Sir Munan would have me see the device of the seal; that ’twas King Skule’s privy seal, come to Erlend through his father. His thought was, I trow, that I might bethink me how great an honour they did me to sue for my daughter. But ’tis in my mind that Sir Munan had scarce pressed on this matter for Erlend so warmly, were it not that in this man’s hands ’tis downhill with the might and honour of the Husaby kindred, that it won in Sir Nikulaus’ and Sir Baard’s days⁠—No longer can Erlend look to make such a match as befitted his birth.” + 

Ragnfrid stopped before her husband: + 

“Now I know not, husband, if you are right in this matter. First must it be said that, as times are now, many men round about us on the great estates have had to be content with less of power and honour than their fathers had before them. And you, yourself, best know that ’tis less easy now for a man to win riches either from land or from merchantry than it was in the old world⁠—” + 

“I know, I know,” broke in Lavrans impatiently. “All the more does it behoove a man to guide warily the goods that have come down to him⁠—” + 

But his wife went on: + 

“And this, too, is to be said: I see not that Kristin can be an uneven match for Erlend. In Sweden your kin sit among the best, and your father, and his father before him, bore the name of knights in this land of Norway. My forefathers were Barons of shires, son after father, many hundred years, down to Ivar the Old; my father and my father’s father were Wardens. True it is, neither you nor Trond have held titles or lands under the Crown. But, as for that, methinks it may be said that ’tis no otherwise with Erlend Nikulaussön than with you.” + 

“ ’Tis not the same,” said Lavrans hotly. “Power and the knightly name lay ready to Erlend’s hand, and he turned his back on them to go a-whoring. But I see, now, you are against me, too. Maybe you think, like Aasmund and Trond, ’tis an honour for me that these great folks would have my daughter for one of their kinsmen⁠—” + 

Ragnfrid spoke in some heat: “I have told you, I see not that you need be so overnice as to fear that Erlend’s kinsmen should think they stoop in these dealings. But see you not what all things betoken⁠—a gentle and a biddable child to find courage to set herself up against us and turn away Simon Darre⁠—have you not seen that Kristin is nowise herself since she came back from Oslo⁠—see you not she goes around like one bewitched⁠—Will you not understand, she loves this man so sorely, that, if you yield not, a great misfortune may befall?” + 

“What mean you by that?” asked the father, looking up sharply. + 

“Many a man greets his son-in-law and knows not of it,” said Ragnfrid. + 

The man seemed to stiffen where he sat; his face grew slowly white: + 

“You that are her mother!” he said hoarsely. “Have you⁠—have you seen⁠—such sure tokens⁠—that you dare charge your own daughter⁠—” + 

“No, no,” said Ragnfrid quickly. “I meant it not as you think. But when things are thus, who can tell what has befallen, or what may befall? I have seen her heart; not one thought hath she left but her love for this man⁠—’twere no marvel if one day she showed us that he is dearer to her than her honour⁠—or her life.” + 

Lavrans sprang up: + 

“Oh, you are mad! Can you think such things of our fair, good child? No harm, surely, can have come to her where she was⁠—with the holy nuns. I wot well she is no byre-wench to go clipping behind walls and fences. Think but of it: ’tis not possible she can have seen this man or talked with him so many times⁠—be sure it will pass away; it cannot be aught but a young maid’s fancy. God knows, ’tis a heavy sight enough for me to see her sorrow so; but be sure it must pass by in time. + 

“Life, you say, and honour⁠—. At home here by my own hearthstone ’twill go hard if I cannot guard my own maiden. Nor do I deem that any maid come of good people and bred up Christianly in shamefastness will be so quick to throw away her honour⁠—nor yet her life. Aye, such things are told of in songs and ballads, sure enough⁠—but methinks ’tis so that when a man or a maid is tempted to do such a deed, they make up a song about it, and ease their hearts thereby⁠—but the deed itself they forbear to do⁠—. + 

“You yourself,” he said, stopping before his wife: “There was another man you would fain have wed, in those days when we were brought together. How think you it would have gone with you, had your father let you have your will on that score?” + 

It was Ragnfrid now that was grown deadly pale: + 

“Jesus, Maria! who hath told⁠—” + 

“Sigurd of Loptsgaard said somewhat⁠—’twas when we were just come hither to the Dale,” said Lavrans. “But answer me what I asked⁠—Think you your life had been gladder had Ivar given you to that man?” + 

His wife stood with head bowed low: + 

“That man,” she said⁠—he could scarce hear the words: “ ’Twas he would not have me.” A throb seemed to pass through her body⁠—she struck out before her with her clenched hand. + 

The husband laid his hands softly on her shoulders: + 

“Is it that,” he asked as if overcome, and a deep and sorrowful wonder sounded in his voice; “⁠—is it that⁠—through all these years⁠—have you been sorrowing for him⁠—Ragnfrid?” + 

She trembled much, but she said nothing. + 

“Ragnfrid?” he asked again. “Aye, but afterward⁠—when Björgulf was dead⁠—and afterward⁠—when you⁠—when you would have had me be to you as⁠—as I could not be. Were you thinking then of that other?” He spoke low, in fear and bewilderment and pain. + 

“How can you have such thoughts?” she whispered, on the verge of weeping. + 

Lavrans pressed his forehead against hers and moved his head gently from side to side. + 

“I know not. You are so strange⁠—and all you have said tonight. I was afraid, Ragnfrid. Like enough I understand not the hearts of women⁠—” + 

Ragnfrid smiled palely and laid her arms about his neck. + 

“God knows, Lavrans⁠—I was a beggar to you, because I loved you more than ’tis good that a human soul should love.⁠—And I hated that other so that I felt the devil joyed in my hate.” + 

“I have held you dear, my wife,” said Lavrans, kissing her, “aye, with all my heart have I held you dear. You know that, surely? Methought always that we two were happy together⁠—Ragnfrid?” + 

“You were the best husband to me,” said she with a little sob, and clung close to him. + 

He pressed her to him strongly: + 

“Tonight I would fain sleep with you, Ragnfrid. And if you would be to me as you were in old days, I should not be⁠—such a fool⁠—” + 

The woman seemed to stiffen in his arms⁠—she drew away a little: + 

“ ’Tis Fast-time.” She spoke low⁠—in a strange, hard voice. + 

“It is so.” He laughed a little. “You and I, Ragnfrid⁠—we have kept all the fasts, and striven to do God’s bidding in all things. And now almost I could think⁠—maybe we had been happier had we more to repent⁠—” + 

“Oh, speak not so⁠—you,” she begged wildly, pressing her thin hands to his temples. “You know well I would not you should do aught but what you feel yourself is the right.” + 

He drew her to him closely once more⁠—and groaned aloud: “God help her. God help us all, my Ragnfrid⁠—” + 

Then: “I am weary,” he said, and let her go. “And ’tis time, too, for you to go to rest.” + 

He stood by the door waiting, while she quenched the embers on the hearth, blew out the little iron lamp by the loom, and pinched out the glowing wick. Together they went across through the rain to the hall. + 

Lavrans had set foot already on the loft-room stair, when he turned to his wife, who was still standing in the entry-door. + 

He crushed her in his arms again, for the last time, and kissed her in the dark. Then he made the sign of the cross over his wife’s face, and went up the stair. + 

Ragnfrid flung off her clothes and crept into bed. A while she lay and listened to her husband’s steps in the loft-room above; then she heard the bed creak, and all was still. Ragnfrid crossed her thin arms over her withered breasts: + 

Aye, God help her! What kind of a woman was she, what kind of mother? She would soon be old now. Yet was she the same; though she no longer begged stormily for love, as when they were young and her passion had made this man shrink and grow cold when she would have had him be lover and not only husband. So had it been⁠—and so, time after time, when she was with child, had she been humbled, beside herself with shame, that she had not been content with his lukewarm husband-love. And then, when things were so with her, and she needed goodness and tenderness⁠—then he had so much to give; the man’s tireless, gentle thought for her, when she was sick and tormented, had fallen on her soul like dew. Gladly did he take up all she laid on him and bear it⁠—but there was ever something of his own he would not give. She had loved her children, so that each time she lost one, ’twas as though the heart was torn from her. God! God! what woman was she then, that even then, in the midst of her torments, she could feel it as a drop of sweetness that he took her sorrow into his heart and laid it close beside his own. + 

Kristin⁠—gladly would she have passed through the fire for her daughter; they believed it not, neither Lavrans nor the child⁠—but ’twas so. Yet did she feel toward her now an anger that was near to hate⁠—’twas to forget his sorrow for the child’s sorrow that he had wished tonight that he could give himself up to his wife⁠— + 

Ragnfrid dared not rise, for she knew not but that Kristin might be lying awake in the other bed. But she raised herself noiselessly to her knees, and with forehead bent against the footboard of the bed she strove to pray. For her daughter, for her husband and for herself. While her body, little by little, grew stiff with the cold, she set out once more on one of the night-wanderings she knew so well, striving to break her way through to a home of peace for her heart. + 

III + 

Haugen lay high up in the hills on the west side of the valley. This moonlight night the whole world was white. Billow after billow, the white fells lay domed under the pale blue heavens with their thin-strewn stars. Even the shadows that peaks and domes stretched forth over the snow-slopes seemed strangely thin and light, the moon was sailing so high. + 

Downward, toward the valley, the woods stood fleecy-white with snow and rime, round the white fields of crofts scrolled over with tiny huts and fences. But far down in the valley-bottom the shadows thickened into darkness. + 

Lady Aashild came out of the byre, shut the door after her, and stood a while in the snow. White⁠—the whole world; yet it was more than three weeks still to Advent. Clementsmass cold⁠—’twas like winter had come in earnest already. Aye, aye; in bad years it was often so. + 

The old woman sighed heavily in the desolate air. Winter again, and cold and loneliness⁠—Then she took up the milkpail and went towards the dwelling-house. She looked once again down over the valley. + 

Four black dots came out of the woods halfway up the hillside. Four men on horseback⁠—and the moonlight glanced from a spearhead. They were ploughing heavily upward⁠—none had come that way since the snowfall. Were they coming hither? + 

Four armed men⁠—’Twas not like that any who had a lawful errand here would come so many in company. She thought of the chest with her goods and Björn’s in it. Should she hide in the outhouse? + 

She looked out again over the wintry waste about her. Then she went into the living-house. The two old hounds that lay before the smoky fireplace smote the floorboards with their tails. The young dogs Björn had with him in the hills. + 

Aashild blew the embers of the fire into flame, and laid more wood on them; filled the iron pot with snow and set it on the fire; then poured the milk into a wooden bowl and bore it to the closet beside the outer room. + 

Then she doffed her dirty, undyed, wadmal gown, that smelt of the byre and of sweat, put on a dark-blue garment, and changed her tow-linen hood for a coif of fine white linen, which she smoothed down fairly round her head and neck. Her shaggy boots of skin she drew off, and put on silver-buckled shoes. Then she fell to setting her room in order⁠—smoothed the pillows and the skin in the bed where Björn had lain that day, wiped the long-board clean, and laid the bench-cushions straight. + 

When the dogs set up their warning barking, she was standing by the fireplace, stirring the supper-porridge. She heard horses in the yard, and the tread of men in the outer room; someone knocked on the door with a spear-butt. Lady Aashild lifted the pot from the fire, settled her dress about her, and, with the dogs at her side, went forward to the door and opened. + 

Out in the moonlit yard were three young men holding four horses white with rime. A man that stood before her in the porch cried out joyfully: + 

“Moster Aashild! come you yourself to open to us? Nay, then must I say Ben trouvè!” + 

“Sister’s son, is it you indeed? Then the same say I to you! Go into the room, while I show your men the stable.” + 

“Are you all alone on the farm?” asked Erlend. He followed her while she showed the men where to go. + 

“Aye; Sir Björn and our man are gone into the hills with the sleigh⁠—they are to see and bring home some fodder we have stacked up there,” said Lady Aashild. “And serving-woman I have none,” she said, laughing. + 

A little while after, the four young men were sitting on the outer bench with their backs to the board, looking at the old lady, as, busily but quietly, she went about making ready their supper. She laid a cloth on the board, and set on it a lighted candle; then brought forth butter, cheese, a bear-ham and a high pile of thin slices of fine bread. She fetched ale and mead up from the cellar below the room, and then poured out the porridge into a dish of fine wood, and bade them sit in to the board and fall to. + 

“ ’Tis but little for you young folk,” she said, laughing. “I must boil another pot of porridge. Tomorrow you shall fare better⁠—but I shut up the kitchen-house in the winter, save when I bake or brew. We are few folks on the farm, and I begin to grow old, kinsman.” + 

Erlend laughed and shook his head. He had marked that his men behaved before the old woman seemly and modestly as he had scarce ever seen them bear themselves before. + 

“You are a strange woman, Moster. Mother was ten years younger than you, and she looked older when last we were in your house than you look today.” + 

“Aye, Magnhild’s youth left her full early,” said Lady Aashild softly. “Where are you come from, now?” she asked after a while. + 

“I have been for a season at a farmstead up north in Lesja,” said Erlend, “I had hired me lodging there. I know not if you can guess what errand has brought me to this countryside?” + 

“You would ask: know I that you have had suit made to Lavrans Björgulfsön of Jörundgaard for his daughter?” + 

“Aye,” said Erlend. “I made suit for her in seemly and honourable wise, and Lavrans Björgulfsön answered with a churlish: no. Now see I no better way, since Kristin and I will not be forced apart, than that I bear her off by the strong hand. I have⁠—I have had a spy in this countryside, and I know that her mother was to be at Sundbu at Clementsmass and for a while after, and Lavrans is gone to Romsdal with the other men to fetch across the winter stores to Sil.” + 

Lady Aashild sat silent a while. + 

“That counsel, Erlend, you had best let be,” said she. “I deem not either that the maid will go with you willingly; and I trow you would not use force?” + 

“Aye, but she will. We have spoken of it many times⁠—she has prayed me herself many times to bear her away.” + 

“Kristin has⁠—?” said Lady Aashild. Then she laughed. “None the less I would not have you make too sure that the maid will follow when you come to take her at her word.” + 

“Aye, but she will,” said Erlend. “And, Moster, my thought was this: that you send word to Jörundgaard and bid Kristin come and be your guest⁠—a week or so, while her father and mother are from home. Then could we be at Hamar before any knew she was gone,” he added. + 

Lady Aashild answered, still smiling: + 

“And had you thought as well what we should answer, Sir Björn and I, when Lavrans comes and calls us to account for his daughter.” + 

“Aye,” said Erlend. “We were four well-armed men and the maid was willing.” + 

“I will not help you in this,” said the lady hotly. “Lavrans has been a trusty man to us for many a year⁠—he and his wife are honourable folk, and I will not be art or part in deceiving them or beshaming their child. Leave the maid in peace, Erlend. ’Twill soon be high time, too, that your kin should hear of other deeds of yours than running in and out of the land with stolen women.” + 

“I must speak with you alone, lady,” said Erlend, shortly. + 

Lady Aashild took a candle, led him to the closet, and shut the door behind them. She sat herself down on a corn-bin: Erlend stood with his hands thrust into his belt, looking down at her. + 

“You may say this, too, to Lavrans Björgulfsön: that Sira Jon of Gerdarud joined us in wedlock ere we went on our way to Lady Ingebjörg Haakonsdatter in Sweden.” + 

“Say you so?” said Lady Aashild. “Are you well assured that Lady Ingebjörg will welcome you, when you are come thither?” + 

“I spoke with her at Tunsberg,” said Erlend. “She greeted me as her dear kinsman, and thanked me when I proffered her my service either here or in Sweden. And Munan hath promised me letters to her.” + 

“And know you not,” said Aashild, “that even should you find a priest that will wed you, yet will Kristin have cast away all right to the heritage of her father’s lands and goods? Nor can her children be your lawful heirs. Much I doubt if she will be counted as your lawfully wedded wife.” + 

“Not in this land, maybe. ’Tis therefore we fly to Sweden. Her forefather, Laurentius Lagmand, was never wed to the Lady Bengta in any other sort⁠—they could never win her brother’s consent. Yet was she counted as a wedded lady⁠—” + 

“There were no children,” said Aashild. “Think you my sons will hold their hands from your heritage, if Kristin be left a widow with children and their lawful birth can be cast in dispute?” + 

“You do Munan wrong,” said Erlend. “I know but little of your other children⁠—I know indeed that you have little cause to judge them kindly. But Munan has ever been my trusty kinsman. He is fain to have me wed; ’twas he went to Lavrans with my wooing⁠—Besides, afterwards, by course of law, I can assure our children their heritage and rights.” + 

“Aye, and thereby mark their mother as your concubine,” said Lady Aashild. “But ’tis past my understanding how that meek and holy man, Jon Helgesön, will dare to brave his Bishop by wedding you against the law.” + 

“I confessed⁠—all⁠—to him last summer,” said Erlend in a low voice. “He promised then to wed us, if all other ways should fail.” + 

“Is it even so?” said Lady Aashild, slowly⁠—“A heavy sin have you laid upon your soul, Erlend Nikulaussön. ’Twas well with Kristin at home with her father and mother⁠—a good marriage was agreed for her with a comely and honourable man of good kindred⁠—” + 

“Kristin hath told me herself how you said once that she and I would match well together. And that Simon Andressön was no husband for her⁠—” + 

“Oh⁠—I have said, and I have said!” Aashild broke in. “I have said so many things in my time⁠—Neither can I understand at all that you can have gained your will with Kristin so lightly. So many times you cannot have met together. And never could I have thought that maid had been so light to win⁠—” + 

“We met at Oslo,” said Erlend. “Afterwards she was dwelling out at Gerdarud with her father’s brother. She came out and met me in the woods.” He looked down and spoke very low: “I had her alone to myself out there⁠—” + 

Lady Aashild started up. Erlend bent his head yet lower. + 

“And after that⁠—she still was friends with you?” she asked unbelievingly. + 

“Aye.” Erlend smiled a weak, wavering smile. “We were friends still. And ’twas not so bitterly against her⁠—but no blame lies on her. ’Twas then she would have had me take her away⁠—she was loth to go back to her kin⁠—” + 

“But you would not?” + 

“No. I was minded to try to win her for my wife with her father’s will.” + 

“Is it long since?” asked Lady Aashild. + 

“ ’Twas a year last Lawrencemass,” answered Erlend. + 

“You have not hasted overmuch with your wooing,” said the other. + 

“She was not free before from her first betrothal.” + 

“And since then you have not come nigh her?” asked Aashild. + 

“We managed so that we met once and again.” Once more the wavering smile flitted over the man’s face. “In a house in the town.” + 

“In God’s name!” said Lady Aashild. “I will help you and her as best I may. I can see it well: not long could Kristin bear to live there with her father and mother, hiding such a thing as this.⁠—Is there yet more?” she asked of a sudden. + 

“Not that I have heard,” said Erlend shortly. + 

“Have you bethought you,” asked the lady in a while, “that Kristin has friends and kinsmen dwelling all down the Dale?” + 

“We must journey as secretly as we can,” said Erlend. “And therefore it behooves us to make no delay in setting out, that we may be well on the way before her father comes home. You must lend us your sleigh, Moster.” + 

Aashild shrugged her shoulders. + 

“Then is there her uncle at Skog⁠—what if he hear that you are holding your wedding with his brother’s daughter at Gerdarud?” + 

“Aasmund has spoken for me to Lavrans,” said Erlend. “He would not be privy to our counsels, but ’tis like he will wink an eye⁠—we must come to the priest by night, and journey onward by night. And afterward, I trow well Aasmund will put it to Lavrans that it befits not a God-fearing man like him to part them that a priest has wedded⁠—and that ’twill be best for him to give his consent, that we may be lawful wedded man and wife. And you must say the like to the man, Moster. He may set what terms he will for atonement between us, and ask all such amends as he deems just.” + 

“I trow Lavrans Björgulfsön will be no easy man to guide in this matter,” said Lady Aashild. “And God and St. Olav know, sister’s son, I like this business but ill. But I see well ’tis the last way left you to make good the harm you have wrought Kristin. Tomorrow will I ride myself to Jörundgaard, if so be you will lend me one of your men, and I get Ingrid of the croft above us here to see to my cattle.” + 

Lady Aashild came to Jörundgaard next evening just as the moonlight was struggling with the last gleams of day. She saw how pale and hollow-cheeked Kristin was, when the girl came out into the courtyard to meet her guest. + 

The Lady sat by the fireplace playing with the two children. Now and then she stole keen glances at Kristin, as she went about and set the supper-board. Thin she was truly, and still in her bearing. She had ever been still, but it was a stillness of another kind that was on the girl now. Lady Aashild guessed at all the straining and the stubborn defiance that lay behind. + 

“ ’Tis like you have heard,” said Kristin, coming over to her, “what befell here this last autumn.” + 

“Aye⁠—that my sister’s son has made suit for you.” + 

“Mind you,” asked Kristin, “how you said once he and I would match well together? Only that he was too rich and great of kin for me?” + 

“I hear that Lavrans is of another mind,” said the lady drily. + 

There was a gleam in Kristin’s eyes, and she smiled a little. She will do, no question, thought Lady Aashild. Little as she liked it, she must hearken to Erlend, and give the helping hand he had asked. + 

Kristin made ready her parents’ bed for the guest, and Lady Aashild asked that the girl should sleep with her. After they had lain down and the house was silent, Lady Aashild brought forth her errand. + 

She grew strangely heavy at heart as she saw that this child seemed to think not at all on the sorrow she would bring on her father and mother. Yet I lived with Baard for more than twenty years in sorrow and torment, she thought. Well, maybe ’tis so with all of us. It seemed Kristin had not even seen how Ulvhild had fallen away this autumn⁠—’tis little like, thought Aashild, that she will see her little sister any more. But she said naught of this⁠—the longer Kristin could hold to this mood of wild and reckless gladness, the better would it be, no doubt. + 

Kristin rose up in the dark, and gathered together her ornaments in a little box which she took with her into the bed. Then Lady Aashild could not keep herself from saying: + 

“Yet methinks, Kristin, the best way of all would be that Erlend ride hither, when your father comes home⁠—that he confess openly he hath done you a great wrong⁠—and put himself in Lavrans’ hands.” + 

“I trow that, then, father would kill Erlend,” said Kristin. + 

“That would not Lavrans, if Erlend refuse to draw steel against his love’s father.” + 

“I have no mind that Erlend should be humbled in such wise,” said Kristin. “And I would not father should know that Erlend had touched me, before he asked for me in seemliness and honour.” + 

“Think you Lavrans will be less wroth,” asked Aashild, “when he hears that you have fled from his house with Erlend; and think you ’twill be a lighter sorrow for him to bear? So long as you live with Erlend, and your father has not given you to him, you can be naught but his paramour before the law.” + 

“ ’Tis another thing,” said Kristin, “if I be Erlend’s paramour after he has tried in vain to win me for his lawful wife.” + 

Lady Aashild was silent. She thought of her meeting with Lavrans Björgulfsön when he came home and learnt that his daughter had been stolen away. + 

Then Kristin said: + 

“I see well, Lady Aashild, I seem to you an evil, thankless child. But so has it been in this house ever since father came from the Haugathing, that every day has been a torment to him and to me. ’Tis best for all that there be an end of this matter.” + 

They rode from Jörundgaard betimes the next day, and came to Haugen a little after nones. Erlend met them in the courtyard, and Kristin threw herself into his arms, paying no heed to the man who was with her and Lady Aashild. + 

In the house she greeted Björn Gunnarsön; and then greeted Erlend’s two men, as though she knew them well already. Lady Aashild could see no sign in her of bashfulness or fear. And after, when they sat at the board, and Erlend set forth his plan, Kristin put her word in with the others and gave counsel about the journey: that they should ride forth from Haugen next evening so late that they should come to the gorge when the moon was setting, and should pass in the dark through Sil to beyond Loptsgaard, thence up along the Otta stream to the bridge, and from thence along the west side of the Otta and the Laagen over bypaths through the waste as far as the horses could bear them. They must lie resting through the day at one of the empty spring sæters on the hillside there; “for till we are out of the Holledis country there is ever fear that we may come upon folk that know me.” + 

“Have you thought of fodder for the horses?” said Aashild. “You cannot rob folks’ sæters in a year like this⁠—even if so be there is fodder there⁠—and you know none in all the Dale has fodder to sell this year.” + 

“I have thought of that,” answered Kristin. “You must lend us three days’ food and fodder. ’Tis a reason the more why we must not journey in so strong a troop. Erlend must send Jon back to Husaby. The year has been better on the Trondheim side, and surely some loads can be got across the hills before the Yuletide snows. There are some poor folk dwelling southward in the parish, Lady Aashild, that I would fain you should help with a gift of fodder from Erlend and me.” + 

Björn set up an uncanny, mirthless horselaugh. Lady Aashild shook her head. But Erlend’s man Ulf lifted his keen, swarthy visage and looked at Kristin with his bold smile: + 

“At Husaby there is never abundance, Kristin Lavransdatter, neither in good years nor in bad. But maybe things will be changed when you come to be mistress there. By your speech a man would deem you are the housewife that Erlend needs.” + 

Kristin nodded to the man calmly, and went on. They must keep clear of the high-road as far as might be. And she deemed it not wise to take the way that led through Hamar. But, Erlend put in, Munan was there⁠—and the letter to the Duchess they must have. + 

“Then Ulf must part from us at Fagaberg and ride to Sir Munan, while we hold on west of Mjösen and make our way by land and the byroads through Hadeland down to Hakedal. Thence there goes a waste way south to Margretadal, I have heard my uncle say. ’Twere not wise for us to pass through Raumarike in these days, when a great wedding-feast is toward at Dyfrin,” she said with a smile. + 

Erlend went round and laid his arm about her shoulders, and she leaned back to him, paying no heed to the others who sat by looking on. Lady Aashild said angrily: + 

“None would believe aught else than that you are well-used to running away”; and Sir Björn broke again into his horselaugh. + 

In a little while Lady Aashild stood up to go to the kitchen-house and see to the food. She had made up the kitchen fire so that Erlend’s men could sleep there at night. She bade Kristin go with her: “For I must be able to swear to Lavrans Björgulfsön that you were never a moment alone together in my house,” she said wrathfully. + 

Kristin laughed and went with the Lady. Soon after, Erlend came strolling in after them, drew a stool forward to the hearth, and sat there hindering the women in their work. He caught hold of Kristin every time she came nigh him, as she hurried about her work. At last he drew her down on his knee: + 

“ ’Tis even as Ulf said, I trow; you are the housewife I need.” + 

“Aye, aye,” said Aashild, with a vexed laugh. “She will serve your turn well enough. ’Tis she that stakes all in this adventure⁠—you hazard not much.” + 

“You speak truth,” said Erlend. “But I wot well I have shown I had the will to come to her by the right road. Be not so angry, Moster Aashild.” + 

“I do well to be angry,” said the lady. “Scarce have you set your house in order, but you must needs guide things so that you have to run from it all again with a woman.” + 

“You must bear in mind, kinswoman⁠—so hath it ever been, that ’twas not the worst men who fell into trouble for a woman’s sake⁠—all sagas tell us that.” + 

“Oh, God help us all!” said Aashild. Her face grew young and soft. “That tale have I heard before, Erlend,” she laid her hand on his head and gave his hair a little tug. + 

At that moment Ulf Haldorsön tore open the door, and shut it quickly behind him: + 

“Here is come yet another guest, Erlend⁠—the one you are least fain to see, I trow.” + 

“Is it Lavrans Björgulfsön?” said Erlend, starting up. + 

“Well if it were,” said the man. “ ’Tis Eline Ormsdatter.” + 

The door was opened from without; the woman who came in thrust Ulf aside and came forward into the light. Kristin looked at Erlend; at first he seemed to shrivel and shrink together; then he drew himself up, with a dark flush on his face: + 

“In the devil’s name, where come you from⁠—what would you here?” + 

Lady Aashild stepped forward and spoke: + 

“You must come with us to the hall, Eline Ormsdatter. So much manners at least we have in this house, that we welcome not our guests in the kitchen.” + 

“I look not, Lady Aashild,” said the other, “to be welcomed as a guest by Erlend’s kinsfolk⁠—Asked you from whence I came?⁠—I come from Husaby, as you might know. I bear you greetings from Orm and Margret; they are well.” + 

Erlend made no answer. + 

“When I heard that you had had Gissur Arnfinsön raise money for you, and that you were for the south again,” she went on, “I thought ’twas like you would bide a while this time with your kinsfolk in Gudbrandsdal. I knew that you had made suit for the daughter of a neighbour of theirs.” + 

She looked across at Kristin for the first time, and met the girl’s eyes. Kristin was very pale, but she looked calmly and keenly at the other. + 

She was stony-calm. She had known it from the moment she heard who was come⁠—this was the thought she had been fleeing from always; this thought it was she had tried to smother under impatience, restlessness and defiance; the whole time she had been striving not to think whether Erlend had freed himself wholly and fully from his former paramour. Now she was overtaken⁠—useless to struggle any more. But she begged not nor beseeched for herself. + 

She saw that Eline Ormsdatter was fair. She was young no longer; but she was fair⁠—once she must have been exceeding fair. She had thrown back her hood; her head was round as a ball, and hard; the cheekbones stood out⁠—but none the less it was plain to see, once she had been very fair. Her coif covered but the back part of her head; while she was speaking, her hands kept smoothing the waving, bright-gold front-hair beneath the linen. Kristin had never seen a woman with such great eyes; they were dark brown, round and hard; but under the narrow coal-black eyebrows and the long lashes they were strangely beautiful against her golden hair. The skin of her cheeks and lips was chafed and raw from her ride in the cold, but it could not spoil her much; she was too fair for that. The heavy riding-dress covered up her form, but she bore herself in it as does only a woman most proud and secure in the glory of a fair body. She was scarce as tall as Kristin; but she held herself so well that she seemed yet taller than the slender, spare-limbed girl. + 

“Hath she been with you at Husaby the whole time?” asked Kristin in a low voice. + 

“I have not been at Husaby,” said Erlend curtly, flushing red again. “I have dwelt at Hestnæs the most of the summer.” + 

“Here now are the tidings I came to bring you, Erlend,” said Eline. “You need not any longer take shelter with your kinsfolk and try their hospitality for that I am keeping your house. Since this autumn I have been a widow.” Erlend stood motionless. + 

“It was not I that bade you come to Husaby last year, to keep my house,” said he with effort. + 

“I heard that all things were going to waste there,” said Eline. “I had so much kindness left for you from old days, Erlend, that methought I should lend a hand to help you⁠—although God knows you have not dealt well with our children or with me.” + 

“For the children I have done what I could,” said Erlend. “And well you know, ’twas for their sake I suffered you to live on at Husaby. That you profited them or me by it you scarce can think yourself, I trow,” he added, smiling scornfully. “Gissur could guide things well enough without your help.” + 

“Aye, you have ever had such mighty trust in Gissur,” said Eline, laughing softly. “But now the thing is this, Erlend⁠—now I am free. And if so be you will, you can keep the promise now you made me once.” + 

Erlend stood silent. + 

“Mind you,” asked Eline, “the night I bore your son? You promised then that you would wed me when Sigurd died.” + 

Erlend passed his hand up under his hair, that hung damp with sweat. + 

“Aye⁠—I remember,” he said. + 

“Will you keep that promise now?” asked Eline. + 

“No,” said Erlend. + 

Eline Ormsdatter looked across at Kristin⁠—then smiled a little and nodded. Then she looked again at Erlend. + 

“It is ten years since, Eline,” said the man. “And since that time you and I have lived together year in year out like two damned souls in hell.” + 

“But not only so, I trow!” said she with the same smile. + 

“It is years and years since aught else has been,” said Erlend dully. “The children would be none the better off. And you know⁠—you know I can scarce bear to be in a room with you any more!” he almost screamed. + 

“I marked naught of that when you were at home in the summer,” said Eline, with a meaning smile. “Then we were not unfriends⁠—always.” + 

“If you deem that we were friends, have it as you will, for me,” said Erlend wearily. + 

“Will you stand here without end?” broke in Lady Aashild. She poured the porridge from the pot into two great wooden dishes and gave one to Kristin. The girl took it. “Bear it to the hall⁠—and you, Ulf, take the other⁠—and set them on the board; supper we must have, whether it be so, or so.” + 

Kristin and the man went out with the dishes. Lady Aashild said to the two others: + 

“Come now, you two; what boots it that you stand here barking at each other?” + 

“ ’Tis best that Eline and I have our talk out together now,” said Erlend. + 

Lady Aashild said no more, but went out and left them. + 

In the hall Kristin had laid the table and fetched ale from the cellar. She sat on the outer bench, straight as a wand and calm of face, but she ate nothing. Nor had the others much stomach to their food, neither Björn nor Erlend’s men. Only the man that had come with Eline and Björn’s hired man ate greedily. Lady Aashild sat herself down and ate a little of the porridge. No one spoke a word. + 

At length Eline Ormsdatter came in alone. Lady Aashild bade her sit between Kristin and herself; Eline sat down and ate a little. Now and again a gleam as of a hidden smile flitted across her face, and she stole a glance at Kristin. + 

A while after, Lady Aashild went out to the kitchen-house. + 

The fire on the hearth was almost burnt out. Erlend sat by it on his stool, crouched together, his head down between his arms. + 

Lady Aashild went to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. + 

“God forgive you, Erlend, that you have brought things to this pass⁠—” + 

Erlend turned up to her a face besmeared with wretchedness: + 

“She is with child,” he said, and shut his eyes. + 

Lady Aashild’s face flamed up, she gripped his shoulder hard: + 

“Which of them?” she asked, roughly and scornfully. + 

“My child it is not,” said Erlend, in the same dead voice. “But like enough you will not believe me⁠—none will believe me⁠—” he sank together again. + 

Lady Aashild sat down in front of him on the edge of the hearth. + 

“Now must you try to play the man, Erlend. ’Tis not so easy to believe you in this matter. Do you swear it is not yours?” + 

Erlend lifted his ravaged face: + 

“As surely as I need God’s mercy⁠—as surely as I hope⁠—that God in Heaven has comforted mother for all she suffered here⁠—I have not touched Eline since first I saw Kristin!” He cried out the words, so that Lady Aashild had to hush him. + 

“Then I see not that this is so great a misfortune. You must find out who the father is, and make it worth his while to wed her.” + 

“ ’Tis in my mind that it is Gissur Arnfinsön⁠—my steward at Husaby,” said Erlend wearily. “We talked together last year⁠—and since then too⁠—Sigurd’s death has been looked for this long time past. He was willing to wed her, when she was a widow, if I would give her a fitting portion⁠—” + 

“Well?” said Lady Aashild. Erlend went on: + 

“She swears with great oaths she will have none of him. She will name me as the father. And if I swear I am not⁠—think you any will believe aught but that I am forsworn?” + 

“You must sure be able to turn her purpose,” said Lady Aashild. “There is no other way now but that you go home with her to Husaby no later than tomorrow. And there must you harden your heart and stand firm till you have this marriage fixed between your steward and Eline.” + 

“Aye,” said Erlend. Then he threw himself forward again and groaned aloud: + 

“Can you not see⁠—Moster⁠—what think you Kristin will believe⁠—?” + 

At night Erlend lay in the kitchen-house with the men. In the hall Kristin slept with Lady Aashild in the lady’s bed, and Eline Ormsdatter in the other bed that was there. Björn went out and lay down in the stable. + 

The next morning Kristin went out with Lady Aashild to the byre. While the lady went to the kitchen to make ready the breakfast, Kristin bore the milk up to the hall. + 

A candle stood burning on the table. Eline was sitting dressed on the edge of her bed. Kristin greeted her silently, then fetched a milk-pan and poured the milk into it. + 

“Will you give me a drink of milk?” asked Eline. Kristin took a wooden ladle, filled it and handed it to the other; she drank eagerly, looking at Kristin over the rim of the cup. + 

“So you are that Kristin Lavransdatter, that hath stolen from me Erlend’s love,” she said, as she gave back the ladle. + 

“You should know best if there was any love to steal,” said the girl. + 

Eline bit her lip. + 

“What will you do,” she said, “if Erlend one day grow weary of you, and offer to wed you to his serving-man? Will you do his will in that as well?” + 

Kristin made no answer. Then the other laughed, and said: + 

“You do his will in all things now, I well believe. What think you, Kristin⁠—shall we throw dice for our man, we two paramours of Erlend Nikulaussön?” When no answer came, she laughed again and said: “Are you so simple, that you deny not you are his paramour?” + 

“To you I care not to lie,” said Kristin. + 

“ ’Twould profit you but little if you did,” answered Eline, still laughing. “I know the boy too well. He flew at you like a blackcock, I trow, the second time you were together. ’Tis pity of you too, fair child that you are.” + 

Kristin’s cheeks grew white. Sick with loathing, she said low: + 

“I will not speak with you⁠—” + 

“Think you he is like to deal with you better than with me?” went on Eline. Then Kristin answered sharply: + 

“No blame will I ever cast on Erlend, whatever he may do. I went astray of my own will⁠—I shall not whimper or wail if the path lead out on to the rocks⁠—” + 

Eline was silent for a while. Then she said unsteadily, flushing red: + 

“I was a maid too, when he came to me, Kristin⁠—even though I had been wife in name to the old man for seven years. But like enough you could never understand what the misery of that life was.” + 

Kristin began to tremble violently. Eline looked at her. Then from her travelling-case that stood by her on the step of the bed she took a little horn. She broke the seal that was on its mouth and said softly: + 

“You are young and I am old, Kristin. I know well it boots not for me to strive against you⁠—your time is now. Will you drink with me, Kristin?” + 

Kristin did not move. Then the other raised the horn to her own lips; but Kristin marked that she did not drink. Eline said: + 

“So much honour you sure can do me, to drink to me⁠—and promise you will not be a hard stepmother to my children?” + 

Kristin took the horn. At that moment Erlend opened the door. He stood a moment, looking from one to the other of the women. + 

“What is this?” he asked. + 

Kristin answered, and her voice was wild and piercing: + 

“We are drinking to each other⁠—we⁠—your paramours⁠—” + 

He gripped her wrist and took the horn from her. + 

“Be still,” he said, harshly. “You shall not drink with her.” + 

“Why not?” cried Kristin as before. “She was pure as I was, when you tempted her⁠—” + 

“That hath she said so often, that I trow she is come to believe it herself,” said Erlend. “Mind you, Eline, when you made me go to Sigurd with that tale, and he brought forth witness that he had caught you before with another man?” + 

White with loathing, Kristin turned away. Eline had flushed darkly⁠—now she said, defiantly: + 

“Yet will it scarce bring leprosy on the girl, if she drink with me!” + 

Erlend turned on Eline in wrath⁠—then of a sudden his face seemed to grow long and hard as stone, and he gasped with horror: + 

“Jesus!” he said below his breath. He gripped Eline by the arm: + 

“Drink to her then,” he said in a harsh and quivering voice. “Drink you first; then she shall drink to you.” + 

Eline wrenched herself away with a groan. She fled backwards through the room, the man after her. “Drink,” he said. He snatched the dagger from his belt and held it as he followed. “Drink out the drink you have brewed for Kristin!” He seized Eline’s arm again and dragged her to the table, then forced her head forward toward the horn. + 

Eline shrieked once and buried her face on her arm. Erlend released her and stood trembling. + 

“A hell was mine with Sigurd,” shrieked Eline. “You⁠—you promised⁠—but you have been worst to me of all, Erlend!” + 

Then came Kristin forward and grasped the horn: + 

“One of us two must drink⁠—both of us you cannot keep⁠—” + 

Erlend wrenched the horn from her and flung her from him so that she reeled and fell near by Lady Aashild’s bed. Again he pushed the horn against Eline Ormsdatter’s mouth⁠—with one knee on the bench he stood by her side, and with a hand round her head tried to force the drink between her teeth. + 

She reached out under his arm, snatched his dagger from the table, and struck hard at the man. The blow did but scratch his flesh through the clothes. Then she turned the point against her own breast, and the instant after sank sidelong down into his arms. + 

Kristin rose and came to them. Erlend was holding Eline, her head hanging back over his arm. The rattle came in her throat almost at once⁠—blood welled up and ran out of her mouth. She spat some of it out and said: + 

“ ’Twas for you I meant⁠—that drink⁠—for all the times⁠—you deceived me⁠—” + 

“Bring Lady Aashild hither,” said Erlend in a low voice. Kristin stood immovable. + 

“She is dying,” said Erlend as before. + 

“Then is she better served than we,” said Kristen. Erlend looked at her⁠—the despair in his eyes softened her. She left the room. + 

“What is it?” asked Lady Aashild, when Kristin called her out from the kitchen. + 

“We have killed Eline Ormsdatter,” said Kristin. “She is dying⁠—” + 

Lady Aashild set off running to the hall. But Eline breathed her last as the Lady crossed the threshold. + 

Lady Aashild had laid out the dead woman on the bench, wiped the blood from her face and covered it with the linen of her coif. Erlend stood leaning against the wall, behind the body. + 

“Know you,” said Aashild, “that this was the worst thing that could befall?” + 

She had filled the fireplace with twigs and firewood; now she thrust the horn into the midst of them and blew them into a blaze. + 

“Can you trust your men?” asked the Lady again. + 

“Ulf and Haftor are trusty, methinks⁠—of Jon and the man with Eline I know but little.” + 

“You know, belike,” said the lady, “should it come out that Kristin and you were together here, and that you two were alone with her when she died, ’twere as well for Kristin you had let her drink of Eline’s brew⁠—And should there be talk of poison, all men will call to mind what once was laid to my charge.⁠—Had she any kindred or friends?” + 

“No,” said Erlend in a low voice. “She had none but me.” + 

“Yet,” said Lady Aashild again, “it may well be a hard matter to cover up this thing and hide the body away, without the ugliest of misthought falling on you.” + 

“She shall rest in hallowed ground,” said Erlend, “if it cost me Husaby. What say you, Kristin?” + 

Kristin nodded. + 

Lady Aashild sat silent. The more she thought, the more hopeless it seemed to her to find any way out. In the kitchen-house were four men⁠—even if Erlend could bribe them all to keep silence, even if some of them, if Eline’s man, could be bribed to leave the country⁠—still, sure they could never be. And ’twas known at Jörundgaard that Kristin had been here⁠—if Lavrans heard of this, she feared to think what he would do. And how to bear the dead woman hence. The mountain path to the west was not to be thought of now⁠—there was the road to Romsdal, or over the hills to Trondheim, or south down the Dale. And should the truth come out, it would never be believed⁠—even if folk let it pass for true. + 

“I must take counsel with Björn in this matter,” she said, and rose and went out to call him. + 

Björn Gunnarsön listened to his wife’s story without moving a muscle and without withdrawing his eyes from Erlend’s face. + 

“Björn,” said Aashild desperately. “There is naught for it but that one must swear he saw her lay hands upon herself.” + 

Björn’s dead eyes grew slowly dark, as life came into them; he looked at his wife, and his mouth drew aside into a crooked smile: + 

“And you mean that I should be the one?” + 

Lady Aashild crushed her hands together and lifted them towards him: + 

“Björn, you know well what it means for these two⁠—” + 

“And you think that, whether or no, ’tis all over with me?” he said slowly. “Or think you there is so much left of the man I once was that I dare be forsworn to save that boy there from going down to ruin? I that was dragged down myself⁠—all those years ago. Dragged down, I say,” he repeated. + 

“You say it because I am old now,” whispered Aashild. + 

Kristin burst out into such weeping that the piercing sound filled the room. She had sat in the corner by Aashild’s bed, stark and silent. Now she began weeping wildly and loud. It was as though Lady Aashild’s voice had torn her heart open. The voice had been heavy with the memories of the sweetness of love; it was as though its sound had made her understand for the first time what her love and Erlend’s had been. The memory of hot and passionate happiness swept over all else⁠—swept away the hard despair and hatred of last night. All she knew of now was her love and her will to hold out. + 

They looked at her⁠—all three. Then Sir Björn went across and lifted her chin with his hand and looked at her: + 

“Say you, Kristin, she did it herself?” + 

“Every word you have heard is true,” said Kristin firmly. “We threatened her till she did it.” + 

“She had meant Kristin should suffer a worse fate,” said Aashild. + 

Sir Björn let go the girl. He went over to the body, lifted it up into the bed where Eline had lain the night before, and laid it close to the wall, drawing up the coverings well over it: + 

“Jon and the man you do not know you must send home to Husaby, with word that Eline is journeying south with you. Let them ride at midday. Say that the women are asleep in the hall; they must take their food in the kitchen. Afterward you must speak with Ulf and Haftor. Hath she threatened before to do this? So that you can bring witness to it, if such question should be asked?” + 

“Every soul that was at Husaby the last years we lived together there,” said Erlend wearily, “can witness that she threatened to take her own life⁠—and mine too sometimes⁠—when I spoke of parting from her.” + 

Björn laughed harshly: + 

“I thought as much. Tonight we must clothe her in her riding-coats and set her in the sleigh. You must sit beside her⁠—” + 

Erlend swayed on his feet where he stood: + 

“I cannot!” + 

“God knows how much manhood will be left in you when you have gone your own gait twenty years more,” said Björn. “Think you, then, you can drive the sleigh? For then will I sit beside her. We must travel by night and by lonely paths, till we are come down to Fron. In this cold none can know how long she has been dead. We will drive in to the monk’s hospice at Roaldstad. There will you and I bear witness that you two were together in the sleigh, and it came to bitter words betwixt you. There is witness enough that you would not live with her since the ban was taken off you, and that you have made suit for a maiden of birth that fits your own. Ulf and Haftor must hold themselves aloof the whole way, so they can swear, if need be, she was alive when last they saw her. You can bring them to do so much, I trow? At the monastery you can have the monks lay her in her coffin⁠—and afterward you must bargain with the priests for grave-peace for her and soul’s peace for yourself⁠— + 

“⁠—Aye, a fair deed it is not. But so as you have guided things, no fairer can it be. Stand not there like a breeding woman ready to swoon away. God help you, boy, a man can see you have not proved before what ’tis to feel the knife-edge at your throat.” + 

A biting blast came rushing down from the mountains, driving a fine silvery smoke from the snow-wreaths up into the moon-blue air, as the men made ready to drive away. + 

Two horses were harnessed, one in front of the other. Erlend sat in the front of the sleigh. Kristin went up to him: + 

“This time, Erlend, you must try to send me word how this journey goes, and what becomes of you after.” + 

He crushed her hand till she thought the blood must be driven out from under the nails. + 

“Dare you still hold fast to me, Kristin?” + 

“Aye, still,” she said; and after a moment: “Of this deed we are both guilty⁠—I egged you on⁠—for I willed her death.” + 

Lady Aashild and Kristin stood and looked after the sleigh, as it rose and dipped over the snowdrifts. It went down from sight into a hollow⁠—then came forth again farther down on a snow-slope. And then the men passed into the shadow of a fell, and were gone from sight for good. + 

The two women sat by the fireplace, their backs to the empty bed, from which Aashild had borne away all the bedding and straw. Both could feel it standing there empty and gaping behind them. + 

“Would you rather that we should sleep in the kitchen-house tonight?” asked Lady Aashild at length. + 

“ ’Tis like it will be the same where we lie,” said Kristin. + 

Lady Aashild went out to look at the weather. + 

“Aye, should the wind get up or a thaw come on, they will not journey far before it comes out,” said Kristin. + 

“Here at Haugen it blows ever,” answered Lady Aashild. “ ’Tis no sign of a change of weather.” + 

They sat on as before. + 

“You should not forget,” said the Lady at last, “what fate she had meant for you two.” + 

Kristin answered low: + 

“I was thinking, maybe in her place I had willed the same.” + 

“Never would you have willed another should be a leper,” said Aashild vehemently. + 

“Mind you, Moster, you said to me once that ’tis well when we dare not do a thing we think not good and fair, but not so well when we think a thing not good and fair because we dare not do it?” + 

“You had not dared to do it, because ’twas sin,” said Lady Aashild. + 

“No, I believe not so,” said Kristin. “Much have I done already that I deemed once I dared not do because ’twas sin. But I saw not till now what sin brings with it⁠—that we must tread others underfoot.” + 

“Erlend would fain have made an end of his ill life long before he met you,” said Aashild eagerly. “All was over between those two.” + 

“I know it,” said Kristin. “But I trow she had never cause to deem Erlend’s purposes so firm that she could not shake them.” + 

“Kristin,” begged the lady fearfully, “surely you would not give up Erlend now? You cannot be saved now except you save each other.” + 

“So would a priest scarce counsel,” said Kristin, smiling coldly. “But well I know that never can I give up Erlend now⁠—not if I should tread my own father underfoot.” + 

Lady Aashild rose: + 

“We had as well put our hands to some work as sit here thus,” she said. “Like enough ’twould be vain for us to try to sleep.” + 

She fetched the butter-churn from the closet, then bore in some pans of milk, filled the churn and made ready to begin churning. + 

“Let me do it,” Kristin asked. “My back is younger.” + 

They worked without speaking; Kristin stood by the closet-door churning, while Aashild carded wool by the hearth. At last, when Kristin had emptied the churn and was kneading the butter, the girl asked of a sudden: + 

“Moster Aashild⁠—are you never afraid of the day when you must stand before God’s judgment?” + 

Lady Aashild rose, and came and stood before Kristin in the light: + 

“It may be I shall find courage to ask Him that hath made me as I am, if He will have mercy on me in His own good time. For I have never begged for His mercy when I broke His commands. And never have I begged God or man to forgive me a farthing of the price I have paid here in this mountain hut.” + 

A little while after she said softly: + 

“Munan, my eldest son, was twenty years old. He was not such an one then, as I know he is now. They were not such ones then, my children⁠—” + 

Kristin answered low: + 

“But yet have you had Sir Björn by your side each day and each night in all these years.” + 

“Aye⁠—that too have I had,” said Aashild. + 

In a little while after, Kristin was done with the butter-making. Lady Aashild said then that they must lie down and try to sleep a little. + 

Inside, in the dark bed, she laid her arm round Kristin’s shoulders, and drew the young head in to her breast. And it was not long before she heard by her even gentle breathing that Kristin was fallen asleep. + 

IV + 

The frost held on. In every byre in the parish the half-starved beasts bellowed dolefully with hunger and cold. Already the farmers were skimping and saving on their fodder, every straw they could. + 

There was little visiting round at Yule this year; folks stayed quiet in their own homes. + 

During Yuletide the cold grew greater⁠—it was as though each day was colder than the last. Scarce anyone could call to mind so hard a winter⁠—there came no more snow, not even up in the mountains; but the snow that had fallen at Clementsmass froze hard as a stone. The sun shone from a clear sky, now the days began to grow lighter. At night the northern lights flickered and flamed above the range to the north⁠—they flamed over half the heaven, but they brought no change of weather; now and again would come a cloudy day, and a little dry snow would sprinkle down⁠—and then came clear weather again and biting cold. The Laagen muttered and gurgled sluggishly under its ice-bridges. + 

Kristin thought each morning that she could bear no more, that she could never hold out to the day’s end. For each day she felt was as a duel between her and her father. And could they be against each other so, when every living being in the parish, man and beast, was suffering under one common trial?⁠—But still, when the evening came, she had held out one day more. + 

It was not that her father was unfriendly. They spoke no word of what was between them, but she felt, behind all that he did not say, his firm unbending will to hold fast to his denial. + 

And her heart ached within her for the lack of his friendship. The ache was so dreadful in its keenness, because she knew how much else her father had on his shoulders⁠—and had things been as before, he would have talked with her of it all⁠—It was indeed so, that at Jörundgaard they were in better case than most other places; but here, too, they felt the pinch of the year each day and each hour. Other years it had been Lavrans’ wont in the winters to handle and break in his young colts; but this year he had sent them all south in the autumn and sold them. And his daughter missed the sound of his voice out in the courtyard, and the sight of him struggling with the slender, ragged two-year-olds in the game he loved so well. Storehouses and barns and bins at Jörundgaard were not bare yet⁠—there was store left from the harvest of the year before⁠—but many folk came to ask for help⁠—to buy, or to beg for gifts⁠—and none ever asked in vain. + 

Late one evening came a huge old skin-clad man on ski. Lavrans talked with him out in the courtyard, and Halvdan bore food across to the hearth-room for him. None on the place who had seen him knew who he was⁠—he might well be one of those wild folk who lived far in among the fells; like enough Lavrans had come upon him there. But Lavrans said naught of the visitor, nor Halvdan either. + 

But one evening came a man whom Lavrans Björgulfsön had been at odds with for many years. Lavrans went to the storeroom with him. When he came back to the hall again he said: + 

“They come to me for help, every man of them. But here in my own house you are all against me. You, too, wife,” he said hotly. + 

The mother flamed up at Kristin: + 

“Hear you what your father says to me! No, I am not against you, Lavrans. I know⁠—and I wot well you know it too, Kristin⁠—what befell away south at Roaldstad late in the autumn, when he journeyed down the Dale with that other adulterer, his kinsman of Haugen⁠—she took her own life, the unhappy woman he had lured away from all her kin.” + 

Kristin stood with a hard, frozen face: + 

“I see that ’tis all one⁠—you blame him as much for the years he has striven to free himself from sin, as for the years he lived in it.” + 

“Jesus, Maria!” cried Ragnfrid, clasping her hands together: “What is come to you! Has even this not availed to change your heart?” + 

“No,” said Kristin. “I have not changed.” + 

Then Lavrans looked up from the bench where he sat by Ulvhild: + 

“Neither have I changed, Kristin,” he said in a low voice. + 

But Kristin felt within her that in a manner she was changed, in thoughts if not in heart. She had had tidings of how it had fared with them on that dreadful journey. As things fell out it had gone off more easily than they looked it should. Whether the cold had got into the hurt or whatever the cause might be, the knife-wound in Erlend’s breast had festered, and constrained him to lie sick some while in the hospice at Roaldstad, Sir Björn tending him. But that Erlend was wounded made it easier to win belief for their tale of how that other things had befallen. + 

When he was fit to journey on, he had taken the dead woman with him in a coffin all the way to Oslo. There, by Sira Jon’s help, he had won for her Christian burial in the churchyard of the old Church of St. Nikolaus that had been pulled down. Then had he made confession to the Bishop of Oslo himself, and the Bishop had laid on him as penance to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Blood at Schwerin. Now was he gone out of the land. + 

She could not make pilgrimage to any place on earth, and find absolution. For her there was naught but to sit here and wait and think, and strive to hold out in the struggle with her father and mother. A strange wintry-cold light fell on all her memories of meetings with Erlend. She thought of his vehemency⁠—in love and in grief⁠—and it was borne in on her that had she been able, like him, to take up all things of a sudden, and straightway rush forward with them headlong, afterwards maybe they might have seemed less fearful and heavy to bear. At times, too, she would think: maybe Erlend will give me up. It seemed to her she must always have had a little lurking fear that if things grew too hard for them he would fail her. But she would never give him up, unless he himself loosed her from all vows. + 

So the winter dragged on toward its end. And Kristin could not cheat herself any more; she had to see that the hardest trial of all lay before them⁠—that Ulvhild had not long to live. And in the midst of her bitter sorrow for her sister she saw with horror that truly her own soul was wildered and eaten away with sin. For, with the dying child and the parents’ unspeakable sorrow before her eyes, she was still brooding on this one thing⁠—if Ulvhild dies, how can I bear to look at my father and not throw myself at his feet and confess all and beseech him to forgive me⁠—and command me⁠— + 

They were come far on in the long fast. Folks had begun slaughtering the small stock they had hoped to save alive, for fear they should die of themselves. And the people themselves sickened and pined from living on fish, with naught besides but a little wretched meal and flour. Sira Eirik gave leave to the whole parish to eat milk food if they would. But few of the folk could come by a drop of milk. + 

Ulvhild lay in bed. She lay alone in the sisters’ bed, and someone watched by her each night. It chanced sometimes that both Kristin and her father would be sitting by her. On such a night Lavrans said to his daughter: + 

“Mind you what Brother Edvin said that time about Ulvhild’s lot? Even then the thought came to me that maybe he meant this. But I thrust it from me then.” + 

Sometimes in these nights he would speak of this thing and that from the time when the children were small. Kristin sat there, white and desperate⁠—she knew that behind the words her father was beseeching her. + 

One day Lavrans had gone with Kolbein to hunt out a bear’s winter lair in the wooded hills to the north. They came home with a she-bear on a sledge, and Lavrans brought with him a living bear-cub in the bosom of his coat. Ulvhild brightened a little when he showed it to her. But Ragnfrid said that was surely no time to rear up such a beast⁠—what would he do with it at a time like this? + 

“I will rear it up and bind it before my daughters’ bower,” said Lavrans, laughing harshly. + 

But they could not get for the cub the rich milk it needed, and Lavrans had to kill it a few days after. + 

The sun had gained so much strength now that sometimes, at midday, the roofs would drip a little. The titmice clambered about, clinging on the sunny side of the timber walls, and pecked till the wood rang, digging for the flies sleeping in the cracks. Over the rolling fields around, the snow shone hard and bright as silver. + 

At last one evening clouds began to draw together over the moon. And the next morning the folk at Jörundgaard woke in the midst of a whirling world of snow that shut in their sight on every hand. + 

That day they knew that Ulvhild was dying. + 

All the house-folk were indoors, and Sira Eirik came over to them. Many candles were burning in the hall. Early in the evening Ulvhild passed away, quietly and peacefully, in her mother’s arms. + 

Ragnfrid bore it better than any had thought possible. The father and mother sat together; both were weeping very quietly. All in the room were weeping. When Kristin went across to her father, he laid his arm round her shoulders. He felt how she shook and trembled, and he drew her close in to him. But to her it seemed that he must feel as if she were farther from him far than the dead child in the bed. + 

She understood not how it was that she still held out. She scarce remembered herself what it was she held out for; but, dulled and dumb with grief as she was, she held herself up and did not yield⁠— + 

—A few planks were torn up from the church floor in front of St. Thomas’s shrine, and a grave was hewn in the stone-hard ground beneath for Ulvhild Lavransdatter. + 

It was snowing thick and silently all through those days, while the child lay in the dead-straw; it was snowing still when she was borne to the grave; and it went on snowing, almost without cease, till a whole month was out. + 

To the folk of the Dale, waiting and waiting for the spring to deliver them, it seemed as though it would never come. The days grew long and light, and the steam-cloud from the melting snow lay on all the valley as long as the sun shone. But the cold still held the air, and there was no strength in the heat to overcome it. By night it froze hard⁠—there was loud cracking from the ice, there were booming sounds from the distant fells; and the wolves howled and the fox barked down among the farms as at midwinter. Men stripped the bark from the trees for their cattle, but they dropped down dead in their stalls by scores. None could tell how all this was to end. + 

Kristin went out on such a day, when water was trickling in the ruts and the snow on the fields around glistened like silver. The snow-wreaths had been eaten away hollow on the side toward the sun, so that the fine ice-trellis of the snow-crust edges broke with a silver tinkle when her foot touched them. But everywhere, where the smallest shadow fell, the sharp cold held the air and the snow was hard. + 

She went upward towards the church⁠—she knew not herself what she went to do, but something drew her there. Her father was there⁠—some of the freeholders, guild-brothers, were to meet in the cloister-way, she knew. + 

Halfway up the hill she met the troop of farmers, coming down. Sira Eirik was with them. The men were all on foot; they walked stoopingly in a dark, shaggy knot, and spoke no word together. They gave back her greeting sullenly, as she went by them. + 

Kristin thought how far away the time was when every soul in the parish had been her friend. Like enough all men knew now that she was a bad daughter. Perhaps they knew yet more about her. It might well be that all believed now there had been some truth in the old talk about her and Arne and Bentein. It might be that she had fallen into the worst ill-fame. She held her head high and passed on toward the church. + 

The door stood ajar. It was cold in the church, yet was it as though a mild warmth streamed into her heart from the brown dusky hall with the high, upspringing pillars holding up the darkness under the roof-beams. There was no light on the altars, but a ray of sun shone in through a chink of the door and gleamed faintly back from the pictures and the holy vessels. + 

Far in before the altar of St. Thomas she saw her father kneeling with head bent forward on his folded hands, which held his cap crushed to his breast. + 

Shrinking back in fear and sadness, Kristin stole out and stood in the cloister-way, with her hands about two of its small pillars. Framed in the arch between them she saw Jörundgaard lying below, and behind her home the pale blue haze that filled the valley. Where the river lay stretched through the countryside its ice and water sent out white sparkles in the sunshine. But the alder thickets along its bed were yellow-brown with blossom, even the pinewood up by the church was tinged with spring green, and there was a piping and twittering and whistling of little birds in the grove near by. Aye, there had been birdsong like this each evening after the sun was down. + 

And she felt that the longing she thought must have been racked out of her long since, the longing in her body and her blood, was stirring now again, faintly and feebly, as about to waken from a winter sleep. + 

Lavrans Björgulfsön came out and locked the church door behind him. He came and stood by his daughter, looking out through the arch next to her. She saw how the winter gone by had harrowed her father’s face. She understood not herself how she could touch now on what was between them, but the words seemed to rush out of themselves: + 

“Is it true, what mother told me the other day⁠—that you said to her: had it been Arne Gyrdsön you would have given me my will?” + 

“Aye,” said Lavrans, not looking at her. + 

“You said not so while yet Arne lived,” said Kristin. + 

“It never came in question. I saw well enough that the boy held you dear⁠—but he said nothing⁠—and he was young⁠—and I marked not ever that you had such thoughts towards him. You could scarce think I would proffer my daughter to a man of no estate?” He smiled slightly. “But I loved the boy,” he said in a low voice; “and had I seen you pining for love of him⁠—” + 

They stood still, gazing. Kristin felt that her father was looking at her⁠—she strove hard to be calm of face, but she felt herself grow deadly white. Then her father came towards her, put both his arms around her and pressed her strongly to him. He bent her head backwards, looked down into his daughter’s face, and then hid it again on his shoulder. + 

“Jesus Kristus, little Kristin, are you so unhappy⁠—?” + 

“I think I shall die of it, father,” she said, her face pressed to him. + 

She burst into weeping. But she wept because she had felt in his caress and seen in his eyes that now he was so worn out with pain that he could not hold out against her any more. She had overcome him. + 

Far on in the night she was wakened in the dark by her father’s touch on her shoulder. + 

“Get up,” he said softly. “Do you hear⁠—?” + 

She heard the singing of the wind round the house-corners⁠—the deep, full note of the south wind, heavy with wetness. Streams were pouring from the roof; there was the whisper of rain falling on soft, melting snow. + 

Kristin flung her dress on her back and went after her father to the outer door. They stood together looking out into the twilight of the May night⁠—warm wind and rain smote against them⁠—the heavens were a welter of tangled drifting rain-clouds, the woods roared, the wind whistled between the houses, and from far up in the fells they heard the dull boom of snow-masses falling. + 

Kristin felt for her father’s hand and held it. He had called her that he might show her this. So had it been between them before, that he would have done this; and so it was now again. + 

When they went in to bed again, Lavrans said: + 

“The stranger serving-man that came last week brought me letters from Sir Munan Baardsön. He is minded to come up the Dale to our parts next summer to see his mother; and he asked if he might meet me and have speech with me.” + 

“What will you answer him, my father?” she whispered. + 

“That can I not tell you now,” said Lavrans. “But I will speak with him; and then must I order this matter so as I may deem I can answer it to God, my daughter.” + 

Kristin crept in again beside Ramborg, and Lavrans went and lay down by the side of his sleeping wife. He lay thinking that if the flood came over-sudden and strong there were few places in the parish that lay so much in its path as Jörundgaard. Folk said there was a prophecy that some day the river would carry it away. + 

V + 

Spring came at a single bound. Only a few days after the sudden thaw the whole parish lay dark brown under the flooding rain. The waters rushed foaming down the hillsides, the river swelled up and lay in the valley-bottom, like a great leaden-grey lake, with lines of treetops floating on its waters and a treacherous bubbling furrow where the current ran. At Jörundgaard the water stood far up over the fields. But everywhere the mischief done was less than folks had feared. + 

Of necessity the spring work was thrown late, and the people sowed their scanty corn with prayers to God that He would save it from the night-frosts in autumn. And it looked as though He would hearken to them and a little ease their burdens. June came in with mild, growing weather, the summer was good, and folk set their faces forward in hope that the marks of the evil year might be wiped out in time. + 

The hay harvest had been got in, when one evening four men rode up to Jörundgaard. First came two knights, and behind them their serving-men; and the knights were Sir Munan Baardsön and Sir Baard Petersön of Hestnæs. + 

Ragnfrid and Lavrans had the board spread in the upper hall, and beds made ready in the guestroom over the storehouse. But Lavrans begged the knights to tarry with their errand till the next day, when they should be rested from their journey. + 

Sir Munan led the talk throughout the meal; he turned much to Kristin in talking, and spoke as if he and she were well-acquainted. She saw that this was not to her father’s liking. Sir Munan was square-built, red-faced, ugly, talkative, and something of a buffoon in his bearing. People called him Dumpy Munan or Dance Munan. But for all his flighty bearing, Lady Aashild’s son was a man of understanding and parts, who had been used by the Crown more than once in matters of trust, and was known to have a word in the counsels of them that guided the affairs of the kingdom. He held his mother’s heritage in the Skogheim Hundred; was exceeding rich, and had made a rich marriage. Lady Katrin, his wife, was hard-featured beyond the common, and seldom opened her mouth; but her husband ever spoke of her as if she were the wisest of dames, so that she was known in jest as Lady Katrin the Ready-witted, or the Silver-tongued. They seemed to live with each other well and lovingly, though Sir Munan was known all too well for the looseness of his life both before and after his marriage. + 

Sir Baard Petersön was a comely and a stately old man, even though now somewhat ample of girth and heavy-limbed. His hair and beard were faded now, but their hue was still as much yellow as ’twas white. Since King Magnus Haakonsön’s death he had lived retired, managing his great possessions in Nordmöre. He was a widower for the second time, and had many children, who, it was said, were all comely, well-nurtured and well-to-do. + 

The next day Lavrans and his guests went up to the upper hall for their parley. Lavrans would have had his wife be present with them, but she would not. + 

“This matter must be in your hands wholly. You know well ’twill be the heaviest of sorrows for our daughter if it should come to naught; but I see well that there are but too many things that may make against this marriage.” + 

Sir Munan brought forth a letter from Erlend Nikulaussön. Erlend’s proffer was that Lavrans should fix, himself, each and all of the conditions, if he would betroth his daughter Kristin to him. Erlend was willing to have all his possessions valued and his incomings appraised by impartial men, and to grant to Kristin such extra-gift and morning-gift, that she would possess a third of all his estate besides her own dowry and all such heritage as might come to her from her kin, should she be left a widow without living children. Further, his proffer was to grant Kristin full power to deal at her pleasure with her share of the common estate, both what she had of her own kindred and what came to her from her husband. But if Lavrans wished for other terms of settlement, Erlend was most willing to hear his wishes and to follow them in all things. To one thing only he asked that Kristin’s kindred, on their side, should bind themselves: that, should the guardianship of his children and Kristin’s ever come to them, they would never try to set aside the gifts he had made to his children by Eline Ormsdatter, but would let all such gifts hold good, as having passed from his estate before his entry into wedlock with Kristin Lavransdatter. At the end of all Erlend made proffer to hold the wedding in all seemly state at Husaby. + 

Lavrans spoke in reply: + 

“This is a fair proffer. I see by it that your kinsman has it much at heart to come to terms with me. All the more is this plain to me by reason that he has moved you, Sir Munan, to come for the second time on such an errand to a man like me, who am of little weight beyond my own countryside; and that a knight like you, Sir Baard, hath been at the pains of making such a journey to further his cause. But concerning Erlend’s proffer I would say this: my daughter has not been bred up to deal herself with the ordering of goods and gear, but I have ever hoped to give her to such a man as that I could lay the maid’s welfare in his hands with an easy mind. I know not, indeed, whether Kristin be fit to be set in such authority, but I can scarce believe that ’twould be for her good. She is mild of mood and biddable⁠—and ’twas one of the reasons I have had in mind in setting myself against this marriage, that ’tis known Erlend has shown want of understanding in more matters than one. Had she been a power-loving, bold and headstrong woman, then indeed the matter had taken on another face.” + 

Sir Munan burst out laughing: + 

“Dear Lavrans, lament you that the maid is not headstrong enough⁠—?” and Sir Baard said with a little smile: + 

“Methinks your daughter has shown that she lacks not a will of her own⁠—for two years now she has held to Erlend clean against your will.” + 

Lavrans said: + 

“I have not forgotten it; yet do I know well what I say. She has suffered sorely herself all this time she has stood against me; nor will she long be glad with a husband who cannot rule her.” + 

“Nay, then the devil’s in it!” said Sir Munan. “Then must your daughter be far unlike all the women I have known; for I have never seen one that was not fain to rule herself⁠—and her man to boot!” + 

Lavrans shrugged his shoulders and made no answer. + 

Then said Baard Petersön: + 

“I can well believe, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that you have found this marriage between your daughter and my foster-son no more to your liking, since the woman who had lived with him came to the end we know of last year. But you must know it has come out now that the unhappy woman had let herself be led astray by another man, Erlend’s steward at Husaby. Erlend knew of this when he went with her down the Dale; he had proffered to portion her fittingly, if the man would wed her.” + 

“Are you well assured that this is so?” asked Lavrans. “And yet I know not,” he said again, “if the thing is anyway bettered thereby. Hard must it be for a woman come of good kindred to go into a house hand and hand with the master, and be led out by the serving-man.” + 

Munan Baardsön took the word: + 

“ ’Tis plain to me, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that what goes against my cousin most with you, is that he has had these hapless dealings with Sigurd Saksulvsön’s wife. And true it is that ’twas not well done of him. But in God’s name, man, you must remember this⁠—here was this young boy dwelling in one house with a young and fair woman, and she had an old, cold, strengthless husband⁠—and the night is a half-year long up there: methinks a man could scarce look for aught else to happen, unless Erlend had been a very saint. There is no denying it: Erlend had made at all time but a sorry monk; but methinks your young, fair daughter would give you little thanks, should you give her a monkish husband. True it is that Erlend bore himself like a fool then, and a yet greater fool since⁠—But the thing should not stand against him forever⁠—we his kinsmen have striven to help the boy to his feet again; the woman is dead; and Erlend has done all in his power to care for her body and her soul; the Bishop of Oslo himself hath absolved him of his sin, and now is he come home again made clean by the Holy Blood at Schwerin⁠—would you be stricter than the Bishop of Oslo, and the Archbishop at Schwerin⁠—or whoever it may be that hath charge of that precious blood⁠—? + 

“Dear Lavrans, true it is that chastity is a fair thing indeed; but ’tis verily hard for a grown man to attain to it without a special gift of grace from God. By St. Olav⁠—Aye, and you should remember too that the Holy King himself was not granted that gift till his life here below was drawing to an end⁠—very like ’twas God’s will that he should first beget that doughty youth King Magnus, who smote down the heathen when they raged against the Nordlands. I wot well King Olav had that son by another than his Queen⁠—yet doth he sit amidst the highest saints in the host of heaven. Aye, I can see in your face that you deem this unseemly talk⁠—” + 

Sir Baard broke in: + 

“Lavrans Björgulfsön, I liked this matter no better than you, when first Erlend came to me and said he had set his heart on a maid that was handfast to another. But since then I have come to know that there is so great kindness between these two young folk, that ’twould be great pity to part their loves. Erlend was with me at the last Yuletide feasting King Haakon held for his men⁠—they met together there, and scarce had they seen each other when your daughter swooned away and lay a long while as one dead⁠—and I saw in my foster-son’s face that he would rather lose his life than lose her.” + 

Lavrans sat still awhile before answering: + 

“Aye; all such things sound fair and fine when a man hears them told in a knightly saga of the southlands. But we are not in Bretland here, and ’tis like you too would ask more in the man you would choose for son-in-law than that he had brought your daughter to swoon away for love in all folk’s sight⁠—” + 

The two others were silent, and Lavrans went on: + 

“ ’Tis in my mind, good sirs, that had Erlend Nikulaussön not made great waste both of his goods and of his fame, you would scarce be sitting here pleading so strongly with a man of my estate that I should give my daughter to him. But I would be loth it should be said of Kristin that ’twas an honour for her to wed a great estate and a man from amongst the highest in the land⁠—after the man had so beshamed himself, that he could not look to make a better match, or keep undiminished the honour of his house.” + 

He rose in heat, and began walking to and fro. + 

But Sir Munan started up: + 

“Now, before God, Lavrans, if the talk is of shame, I would have you know you are overproud in⁠—” + 

Sir Baard broke in quickly, going up to Lavrans: + 

“Proud you are, Lavrans⁠—you are like those udal farmers we have heard of in olden times, who would have naught to do with the titles the Kings would have given them, because their pride could not brook that folk should say they owed thanks to any but themselves. I tell you, that were Erlend still master of all the honour and riches the boy was born to, yet would I never deem that I demeaned him or myself in asking a wellborn and wealthy man to give his daughter to my foster-son, if I knew that the two young creatures might break their hearts if they parted. And the rather,” he said in a low voice, laying his hand on Lavrans’ shoulder, “if so it were that ’twould be best for the souls of both they should wed each other.” + 

Lavrans drew away from the other’s hand; his face grew set and cold: + 

“I scarce believe I understand your meaning, Sir Knight?” + 

The two men looked at each other for a space; then Sir Baard said: + 

“I mean that Erlend has told me, they two have sworn troth to each other with the dearest oaths. Maybe you would say that you have power to loose your child from her oath, since she swore without your will. But Erlend you cannot loose.⁠—And for aught I can see what most stands in the road is your pride⁠—and the hate you bear to sin. But in that ’tis to me as though you were minded to be stricter than God himself, Lavrans Björgulfsön.” + 

Lavrans answered somewhat uncertainly: + 

“It may be there is truth in this that you say to me, Sir Baard. But what most has set me against this match is that I have deemed Erlend to be so unsure a man that I could not trust my daughter to his hands.” + 

“Methinks I can answer for my foster-son now,” said Baard quietly. “Kristin is so dear to him that I know, if you will give her to him, he will prove in the event such a son-in-law that you shall have no cause of grief.” + 

Lavrans did not answer at once. Then Sir Baard said earnestly, holding out his hand: + 

“In God’s name, Lavrans Björgulfsön, give your consent!” + 

Lavrans laid his hand in Sir Baard’s: + 

“In God’s name!” + 

Ragnfrid and Kristin were called to the upper hall, and Lavrans told them his will. Sir Baard greeted the two women in fair and courtly fashion; Sir Munan took Ragnfrid by the hand and spoke to her in seemly wise, but Kristin he greeted in the foreign fashion with a kiss, and he took time over his greeting. Kristin felt that her father looked at her while this was doing. + 

“How like you your new kinsman, Sir Munan?” he asked jestingly when he was alone with her for a moment late that evening. + 

Kristin looked beseechingly at him. Then he stroked her face a little and said no more. + 

When Sir Baard and Sir Munan went to their room, Munan broke out: + 

“Not a little would I give to see this Lavrans Björgulfsön’s face, should he come to know the truth about this precious daughter of his. Here have you and I had to beg on our knees to win for Erlend a woman he has had with him in Brynhild’s house many times⁠—” + 

“Hold your peace⁠—no word of that,” answered Sir Baard in wrath. “ ’Twas the worst deed Erlend ever did, to lure that child to such places⁠—and see that Lavrans never hear aught of it; the best that can happen now for all is that those two should be friends.” + 

The feast for the drinking of the betrothal ale was appointed to be held that same autumn. Lavrans said he could not make the feast very great, the year before had been such a bad one in the Dale; but to make up he would bear the cost of the wedding himself, and hold it at Jörundgaard in all seemly state. He named the bad year again as the cause why he required that the time of betrothal should last a year. + 

VI + 

For more reasons than one the betrothal feast was put off; it was not held till the New Year; but Lavrans agreed that the bridal need not therefore be delayed; it was to be just after Michaelmas, as was fixed at first. + 

So Kristin sat now at Jörundgaard as Erlend’s betrothed in all men’s sight. Along with her mother she looked over all the goods and gear that had been gathered and saved up for her portion, and strove to add still more to the great piles of bedding and clothes; for when once Lavrans had given his daughter to the master of Husaby, it was his will that naught should be spared. + 

Kristin wondered herself at times that she did not feel more glad. But, spite of all the busyness, there was no true gladness at Jörundgaard. + 

Her father and mother missed Ulvhild sorely, that she saw. But she understood too that ’twas not that alone which made them so silent and so joyless. They were kind to her, but when they talked with her of her betrothed, she saw that they did but force themselves to it to please her and show her kindness; ’twas not that they themselves had a mind to speak of Erlend. They had not learned to take more joy in the marriage she was making, now they had come to know the man. Erlend, too, had kept himself quiet and withdrawn the short time he had been at Jörundgaard for the betrothal⁠—and like enough this could not have been otherwise, thought Kristin; for he knew it was with no good will her father had given his consent. + 

She herself and Erlend had scarce had the chance to speak ten words alone together. And it had brought a strange unwonted feeling, to sit together thus in all folks’ sight; at such times they had little to say, by reason of the many things between them that could not be said. There arose in her a doubtful fear, vague and dim, but always present⁠—perhaps ’twould make it hard for them in some way after they were wedded, that they had come all too near to each other at the first, and after had lived so long quite parted. + 

But she tried to thrust the fear away. It was meant that Erlend should visit them at Whitsuntide; he had asked Lavrans and Ragnfrid if they had aught against his coming, and Lavrans had laughed a little, and answered that Erlend might be sure his daughter’s bridegroom would be welcome. + 

At Whitsuntide they would be able to go out together; they would have a chance to speak together as in the old days, and then surely it would fade away, the shadow that had come between them in this long time apart, when each had gone about alone bearing a burden the other could not share. + 

At Easter Simon Andressön and his wife came to Formo. Kristin saw them in the church. Simon’s wife was standing not far off from her. + 

She must be much older than he, thought Kristin⁠—nigh thirty years old. Lady Halfrid was little and slender and thin, but she had an exceeding gracious visage. The very hue of her pale brown hair as it flowed in waves from under her linen coif, seemed, as it were, so gentle, and her eyes too were full of gentleness; they were great grey eyes flecked with tiny golden specks. Every feature of her face was fine and pure⁠—but her skin was something dull and grey, and when she opened her mouth one saw that her teeth were not good. She looked not as though she were strong, and folks said indeed that she was sickly⁠—she had miscarried more than once already, Kristin had heard. She wondered how it would fare with Simon with this wife. + 

The Jörundgaard folk and they of Formo had greeted each other across the church-green more than once, but had not spoken. But on Easter-day Simon was in the church without his wife. He went across to Lavrans, and they spoke together a while. Kristin heard Ulvhild’s name spoken. Afterwards he spoke with Ragnfrid. Ramborg, who was standing by her mother, called out aloud: “I mind you quite well⁠—I know who you are.” Simon lifted the child up a little and twirled her round: “ ’Tis well done of you, Ramborg, not to have forgotten me.” Kristin he only greeted from some way off; and her father and mother said no word afterward of the meeting. + 

But Kristin pondered much upon it. For all that had come and gone, it had been strange to see Simon Darre again as a wedded man. So much that was past came to life again at the sight; she remembered her own blind and all-yielding love for Erlend in those days. Now, she felt, there was some change in it. The thought came to her: how if Simon had told his wife how they had come to part, he and she⁠—but she knew he had kept silence⁠—“for my father’s sake,” she thought scoffingly. ’Twas a poor showing, and strange, that she should be still living here unwed, in her parents’ house. But at least they were betrothed; Simon could see that they had had their way in spite of all. Whatever else Erlend might have done, to her he had held faithfully, and she had not been loose or wanton. + 

One evening in early spring Ragnfrid had to send down the valley to old Gunhild, the widow who sewed furs. The evening was so fair that Kristin asked if she might not go; at last they gave her leave, since all the men were busy. + 

It was after sunset, and a fine white frost-haze was rising toward the gold-green sky. Kristin heard at each hoof-stroke the brittle sound of the evening’s ice as it broke and flew outwards in tinkling splinters. But from all the roadside brakes there was a happy noise of birds singing, softly but full-throated with spring, into the twilight. + 

Kristin rode sharply downwards; she thought not much of anything, but felt only it was good to be abroad alone once more. She rode with her eyes fixed on the new moon sinking down toward the mountain ridge on the far side of the Dale; and she had near fallen from her horse when he suddenly swerved aside and reared. + 

She saw a dark body lying huddled together at the roadside⁠—and at first she was afraid. The hateful fear that had passed into her blood⁠—the fear of meeting people alone by the way⁠—she could never quite be rid of. But she thought ’twas maybe a wayfaring man who had fallen sick; so when she had mastered her horse again, she turned and rode back, calling out to know who it was. + 

The bundle stirred a little, and a voice said: + 

“Methinks ’tis you yourself, Kristin Lavransdatter⁠—?” + 

“Brother Edvin?” she asked softly. She came near to thinking this was some phantom or some deviltry sent to trick her. But she went nigh to him; it was the old monk himself, and he could not raise himself from the ground without help. + 

“Dear my Father⁠—are you out wandering at this time of the year?” she said in wonder. + 

“Praise be to God, who sent you this way tonight,” said the monk. Kristin saw that his whole body was shaking. “I was coming north to you folks, but my legs would carry me no further this night. Almost I deemed ’twas God’s will that I should lie down and die on the roads I have been wandering about on all my life. But I was fain to see you once again, my daughter⁠—” + 

Kristin helped the monk up on her horse; then led it homeward by the bridle, holding him on. And, all the time he was lamenting that now she would get her feet wet in the icy slush, she could hear him moaning softly with pain. + 

He told her that he had been at Eyabu since Yule. Some rich farmers of the parish had vowed in the bad year to beautify their church with new adornments. But the work had gone slowly; he had been sick the last of the winter⁠—the evil was in his stomach⁠—it could bear no food, and he vomited blood. He believed himself he had not long to live, and he longed now to be home in his cloister, for he was fain to die there among his own brethren. But he had a mind first to come north up the Dale one last time, and so he had set out, along with the monk who came from Hamar to be the new prior of the pilgrim hospice at Roaldstad. From Fron he had come on alone. + 

“I heard that you were betrothed,” he said, “to that man⁠—and then such a longing came on me to see you. It seemed to me a sore thing that that should be our last meeting, that time in our church at Oslo. It has been a heavy burden on my heart, Kristin, that you had strayed away into the path where is no peace⁠—” + 

Kristin kissed the monk’s hand: + 

“Truly I know not, Father, what I have done, or how deserved, that you show me such great love.” + 

The monk answered in a low voice: + 

“I have thought many a time, Kristin, that had it so befallen we had met more often, then might you have come to be as my daughter in the spirit.” + 

“Mean you that you would have brought me to turn my heart to the holy life of the cloister?” asked Kristin. Then, a little after, she said: “Sira Eirik laid a command on me that, should I not win my father’s consent and be wed with Erlend, then must I join with a godly sisterhood and make atonement for my sins⁠—” + 

“I have prayed many a time that the longing for the holy life might come to you,” said Brother Edvin. “But not since you told me that you wot of⁠—I would have had you come to God, wearing your garland, Kristin⁠—” + 

When they came to Jörundgaard Brother Edvin had to be lifted down and borne in to his bed. They laid him in the old winter house, in the hearth-room, and cared for him most tenderly. He was very sick, and Sira Eirik came and tended him with medicines for the body and the soul. But the priest said the old man’s sickness was cancer, and it could not be that he had long to live. Brother Edvin himself said that when he had gained a little strength he would journey south again and try to come home to his own cloister. But Sira Eirik told the others he could not believe this was to be thought of. + 

It seemed to all at Jörundgaard that a great peace and gladness had come to them with the monk. Folks came and went in the hearth room all day long, and there was never any lack of watchers to sit at nights by the sick man. As many as had time flocked in to listen, when Sira Eirik came over and read to the dying man from godly books, and they talked much with Brother Edvin of spiritual things. And though much of what he said was dark and veiled, even as his speech was wont to be, it seemed to these folks that he strengthened and comforted their souls, because each and all could see that Brother Edvin was wholly filled with the love of God. + 

But the monk was fain to hear, too, of all kind of other things⁠—asked the news of the parishes round, and had Lavrans tell him all the story of the evil year of drought. There were some folk who had betaken them to evil courses in that tribulation, turning to such helpers as Christian men should most abhor. Some way in over the ridges west of the Dale was a place in the mountains where were certain great white stones, of obscene shapes, and some men had fallen so low as to sacrifice boars and gib-cats before these abominations. So Sira Eirik moved some of the boldest, most God-fearing farmers to come with him one night and break the stones in pieces. Lavrans had been with them, and could bear witness that the stones were all besmeared with blood, and there lay bones and other refuse all around them⁠—’Twas said that up in Heidal the people had had an old crone sit out on a great earth-fast rock three Thursday nights, chanting ancient spells. + 

One night Kristin sat alone by Brother Edvin. At midnight he woke up, and seemed to be suffering great pain. Then he bade Kristin take the book of Miracles of the Virgin Mary, which Sira Eirik had lent to Brother Edvin, and read to him. + 

Kristin was little used to read aloud, but she set herself down on the step of the bed and placed the candle by her side; she laid the book on her lap and read as well as she could. + 

In a little while she saw that the sick man was lying with teeth set tight, clenching his wasted hands as the fits of agony took him. + 

“You are suffering much, dear Father,” said Kristin sorrowfully. + 

“It seems so to me, now. But I know ’tis but that God has made me a little child again and is tossing me about, up and down⁠— + 

“I mind me one time when I was little⁠—four winters old I was then⁠—I had run away from home into the woods. I lost myself, and wandered about many days and nights. My mother was with the folks that found me, and when she caught me up in her arms, I mind me well, she bit me in my neck. I thought it was that she was angry with me⁠—but afterward I knew better⁠— + 

“I long, myself, now, to be home out of this forest. It is written: forsake ye all things and follow Me⁠—but there has been all too much in this world that I had no mind to forsake⁠—” + 

“You, Father?” said Kristin. “Ever have I heard all men say that you have been a pattern for pure life and poverty and humbleness⁠—” + 

The monk laughed slyly. + 

“Aye, a young child like you thinks, maybe, there are no other lures in the world than pleasure and riches and power. But I say to you, these are small things men find by the wayside; and I⁠—I have loved the ways themselves⁠—not the small things of the world did I love, but the whole world. God gave me grace to love Lady Poverty and Lady Chastity from my youth up, and thus methought with these playfellows it was safe to wander, and so I have roved and wandered, and would have been fain to roam over all the ways of the earth. And my heart and my thoughts have roamed and wandered too⁠—I fear me I have often gone astray in my thoughts on the most hidden things. But now ’tis all over, little Kristin; I will home now to my house and lay aside all my own thoughts, and hearken to the clear words of the Gardian telling what I should believe and think concerning my sin and the mercy of God⁠—” + 

A little while after he dropped asleep. Kristin went and sat by the hearth, tending the fire. But well on in the morning, when she was nigh dozing off herself, of a sudden Brother Edvin spoke from the bed: + 

“Glad am I, Kristin, that this matter of you and Erlend Nikulaussön is brought to a good end.” + 

Kristin burst out weeping: + 

“We have done so much wrong before we came so far. And what gnaws at my heart most is that I have brought my father so much sorrow. He has no joy in this wedding either. And even so he knows not⁠—did he know all⁠—I trow he would take his kindness quite from me.” + 

“Kristin,” said Brother Edvin gently, “see you not, child, that ’tis therefore you must keep it from him, and ’tis therefore you must give him no more cause of sorrow⁠—because he never will call on you to pay the penalty. Nothing you could do could turn your father’s heart from you.” + 

A few days later Brother Edvin was grown so much better that he would fain set out on his journey southward. Since his heart was set on this, Lavrans had a kind of litter made, to be slung between two horses, and on this he brought the sick man as far south as to Lidstad; there they gave him fresh horses and men to tend him on his way, and in this wise was he brought as far as Hamar. There he died in the cloister of the Preaching Friars, and was buried in their church. Afterward the Barefoot Friars claimed that his body should be delivered to them; for that many folks all about in the parishes held him to be a holy man, and spoke of him by the name of Saint Evan. The peasants of the Uplands and the Dales, all the way north to Trondheim, prayed to him as a saint. So it came about that there was a long dispute between the two Orders about his body. + 

Kristin heard naught of this till long after. But she grieved sorely at parting from the monk. It seemed to her that he alone knew all her life⁠—he had known the innocent child as she was in her father’s keeping, and he had known her secret life with Erlend; so that he was, as it were, a link, binding together all that had first been dear to her with all that now filled her heart and mind. Now was she quite cut off from herself as she had been in the time when she was yet a maid. + 

VII + 

“Aye,” said Ragnfrid, feeling with her hand the lukewarm brew in the vats, “methinks ’tis cool enough now to mix in the barm.” + 

Kristin had been sitting in the brew-house doorway spinning, while she waited for the brew to cool. She laid down the spindle on the threshold, unwrapped the rug from the pail of risen yeast, and began measuring out. + 

“Shut the door first,” bade her mother, “so the draught may not come in⁠—you seem walking in your sleep, Kristin,” she said testily. + 

Kristin poured the yeast into the vats, while Ragnfrid stirred. + 

—Geirhild Drivsdatter called on Hatt, but he was Odin. So he came and helped her with the brewing; and he craved for his wage that which was between the vat and her⁠—’Twas a saga that Lavrans had once told when she was little. + 

—That which was between the vat and her⁠— + 

Kristin felt dizzy and sick with the heat and the sweet, spicy-smelling steam that filled the dark close-shut brew-house. + 

Out in the farm-place Ramborg and a band of children were dancing in a ring, singing: + 

“The eagle sits on the topmost hill-crag + 

Crooking his golden claws.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Kristin followed her mother through the little outer room where lay empty ale-kegs and all kinds of brewing gear. A door led from it out to a strip of ground between the back wall of the brew-house and the fence round the barley-field. A herd of pigs jostled each other, and bit and squealed as they fought over the lukewarm grains thrown out to them. + 

Kristin shaded her eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. The mother looked at the pigs and said: + 

“With less than eighteen reindeer we shall never win through.” + 

“Think you we shall need so many?” said her daughter absently. + 

“Aye, for we must have game to serve up with the pork each day,” answered Ragnfrid. “And of wildfowl and hare we shall scarce have more than will serve for the table in the upper hall. Remember, ’twill be well on toward two hundred people we shall have on the place⁠—counting serving-folk and children⁠—and the poor that have to be fed. And even should you and Erlend set forth on the fifth day, some of the guests, I trow, will stay out the week⁠—at least.” + 

“You must stay here and look to the ale, Kristin,” she went on. “ ’Tis time for me to get dinner for your father and the reapers.” + 

Kristin fetched her spinning gear and sat herself down there in the back doorway. She put the distaff with the bunch of wool up under her armpit, but her hands, with the spindle in them, sank into her lap. + 

Beyond the fence the ears of barley gleamed silvery and silken in the sunshine. Above the song of the river she heard now and again from the meadows on the river-island the ring of a scythe⁠—sometimes the iron would strike upon a stone. Her father and the house-folk were hard at work on the haymaking, to get it off their hands. For there was much to get through and to make ready against her wedding. + 

The scent of the lukewarm grains, and the rank smell of the swine⁠—she grew qualmish again. And the midday heat made her so dizzy and faint. White and stiffly upright she sat and waited for it to pass over⁠—she would not to be sick again⁠— + 

Never before had she felt what now she felt. ’Twas of no avail to try to tell herself for comfort; it was not certain yet⁠—she might be wrong⁠—That which was between the vat and her⁠— + 

Eighteen reindeer. Well on toward two hundred wedding guests⁠—Folk would have a rare jest to laugh at when ’twas known that all this hubbub had but been about a breeding woman they had to see and get married before⁠— + 

Oh no! She threw her spinning from her and started up as the sickness overcame her again⁠—Oh no! it was sure enough!⁠— + 

They were to be wedded the second Sunday after Michaelmas, and the bridal was to last for five days. There were more than two months still to wait; they would be sure to see it on her⁠—her mother and the other housewives of the parish. They were ever so wise in such things⁠—knew them months before Kristin could understand how they saw them. “Poor thing, she grows so pale”⁠—Impatiently Kristin rubbed her hands against her cheeks; she felt that they were white and bloodless. + 

Before, she had so often thought: this must happen soon or late. And she had not feared it so terribly. But ’twould not have been the same then, when they could not⁠—were forbidden to come together in lawful wise. It was counted⁠—aye, a shame in a manner, and a sin too⁠—but if ’twere two young things who would not let themselves be forced apart, folk remembered that ’twas so, and spoke of them with forbearance. She would not have been ashamed. But when such things happened between a betrothed pair⁠—there was naught for them but laughter and gross jesting. She saw it herself⁠—one could not but laugh: here was brewing and mixing of wine, slaughtering and baking and cooking for a wedding that should be noised far abroad in the land⁠—and she, the bride, grew qualmish if she but smelt food, and crept in a cold sweat behind the outhouses to be sick. + 

Erlend! She set her teeth hard in anger. He should have spared her this. For she had not been willing. He should have remembered that before, when all had been so unsure for her, when she had had naught to trust to but his love, she had ever, ever gladly been his. He should have let her be now, when she tried to deny him because she thought ’twas not well of them to take aught by stealth, after her father had joined their hands together in the sight of Erlend’s kinsmen and hers. But he had taken her to him, half by force, with laughter and caresses; so that she had not had strength enough to show him she was in earnest in her denial. + 

She went in and saw to the beer in the vats, then came back again and stood leaning on the fence. The standing grain moved gently in shining ripples before a breath of wind. She could not remember any year when she had seen the cornfields bear such thick and abundant growth.⁠—The river glittered far off, and she heard her father’s voice shouting⁠—she could not catch the words, but she could hear the reapers on the island laughing. + 

—Should she go to her father and tell him: ’Twould be best to let be all this weary bustle and let Erlend and her come together quietly without church-wedding or splendid feasts⁠—now that the one thing needful was that she should bear the name of wife before ’twas plain to all men that she bore Erlend’s child under her heart already? + 

He would be a laughingstock, Erlend too, as much as she⁠—or even more, for he was no green boy any longer. But it was he who would have this wedding; he had set his heart on seeing her stand as his bride in silk and velvets and tall golden crown⁠—that was his will, and it had been his will, too, to possess her in those sweet secret hours of last spring. She had yielded to him in that. And she must do his will too in this other thing. + 

But in the end ’twas like he would be forced to see⁠—no one could have it both ways in such things. He had talked so much of the great Yuletide feast he would hold at Husaby the first year she sat there as mistress of his house⁠—how he would show forth to all his kinsmen and friends and all the folks from far around the fair wife he had won. Kristin smiled scornfully. A seemly thing ’twould be this Yuletide, such a homecoming feast! + 

Her time would be at St. Gregory’s Mass or thereabout. Thoughts seemed to swarm and jostle in her mind when she said to herself that at Gregory’s Mass she was to bear a child. There was some fear among the thoughts⁠—she remembered how her mother’s cries had rung all round the farm-place for two whole days, the time that Ulvhild was born. At Ulvsvold two young wives had died in childbirth, one after the other⁠—and Sigurd of Loptsgaard’s first wives too. And her own father’s mother, whose name she bore⁠— + 

But fear was not uppermost in her mind. She had often thought, when after that first time she saw no sign that she was with child⁠—maybe this was to be their punishment⁠—hers and Erlend’s. She would always be barren. They would wait and wait in vain for what they had feared before, would hope as vainly as of old they had feared needlessly⁠—till at last they would know that one day they should be borne forth from the home of his fathers and be as though they had never been⁠—for his brother was a priest, and the children he had could inherit naught from him. Dumpy Munan and his sons would come in and sit in their seats, and Erlend would be blotted out from the line of his kindred. + 

She pressed her hand hard to her body. It was there⁠—between the fence and her⁠—between the vat and her. ’Twas between her and all the world⁠—Erlend’s own son. She had made the trial already that she had once heard Lady Aashild speak of; with blood from her right arm and her left. ’Twas a son that was coming to her⁠—whatever fate he was to bring⁠—She remembered her dead little brothers, her parents’ sorrowful faces when they spoke of them; she remembered all the times she had seen them both in despair for Ulvhild’s sake⁠—and the night when Ulvhild died. And she thought of all the sorrow she herself had brought them, of her father’s grief-worn face⁠—and the end was not yet of the sorrows she was to bring on her father and mother. + 

And yet⁠—and yet, Kristin laid her head on the arm that rested on the fence; the other hand she still held to her body. Even if it brought her new sorrows, even if it led her feet down to death⁠—she would rather die in bearing Erlend a son than that they should both die one day, and leave their houses standing empty, and the corn on their lands should wave for strangers⁠— + 

She heard a footstep in the room behind her. The ale! thought Kristin⁠—I should have seen to it long ago. She stood up and turned⁠—and Erlend came stooping through the doorway and stepped out into the sunlight⁠—his face shining with gladness. + 

“Is this where you are?” he asked. “And not a step will you come to meet me, even?” he said; and came and threw his arms about her. + 

“Dearest; are you come hither?” she said in wonder. + 

It was plain he was just alighted from his horse⁠—his cloak still hung from his shoulder, and his sword at his side⁠—he was unshaven, travel-soiled and covered with dust. He was clad in a red surcoat that hung in folds from its collar and was open up the sides almost to the armpits. As they passed through the brew-house and across the courtyard, the coat swung and flapped about him so that his thighs showed right up to the waist. His legs bent a little outwards when he walked⁠—it was strange she had never marked it before⁠—she had only seen that he had long slender legs, with fine ankles and small well-shaped feet. + 

Erlend had come well-attended⁠—with five men and four led-horses. He told Ragnfrid that he was come to fetch Kristin’s goods⁠—’twould be more homely for her, he thought, to find the things awaiting her at Husaby when she came thither. And so late in the autumn as the wedding was to be, it might be harder then to have the goods brought across the hills⁠—besides they might easily be spoiled by the seawater on shipboard. Now the Abbot of Nidarholm had proffered to give him leave to send them by the Laurentius galleass⁠—’twas meant she should sail from Veöy about Assumption Day. So he was come to have the goods carted over to Romsdal and down to Næs. + 

He sat in the doorway of the kitchen-house, drinking ale and talking while Ragnfrid and Kristin plucked the wild-duck Lavrans had brought home the day before. Mother and daughter were alone on the place; all the women were busy raking in the meadows. He looked so glad and happy⁠—he was pleased with himself for coming on such a wise and prudent errand. + 

Ragnfrid went out, and Kristin stayed minding the spit with the roasting birds. Through the open door she could catch a glimpse of Erlend’s men lying in the shadow on the other side of the courtyard, with the ale-bowl circling among them. Erlend himself sat on the threshold, chatting and laughing⁠—the sun shone right down on his uncovered coal-black hair; she spied some white threads in it. Aye, he must be near thirty-two years old⁠—but he bore himself like a mischievous boy. She knew she would not be able to tell him of her trouble⁠—time enough when he saw it for himself. Laughing tenderness streamed through her heart, over the hard little spot of anger at its core, like a glittering river flowing over stones. + 

She loved him above all on earth⁠—her soul was filled with her love, though all the time she saw and remembered all those other things. How ill this gallant in the fine red surcoat, with silver spurs on heel and belt adorned with gold, suited with the busy harvest-time of Jörundgaard.⁠—She marked well, too, that her father came not up to the farm, though her mother had sent Ramborg down to the river to bear him word of the guest that was come. + 

Erlend stood beside her and passed his arm around her shoulders: + 

“Can you believe it!” he said joyfully, “Seems it not marvellous to you⁠—that ’tis for our wedding, all this toil and bustle?” + 

Kristin gave him a kiss and thrust him aside⁠—then turned to basting the birds and bade him stand out of the way. No, she would not say it⁠— + 

It was not till suppertime that Lavrans came back to the farm⁠—along with the other harvesters. He was clad much like his workmen in an undyed wadmal coat cut off at the knees and loose breeches reaching to the ankles; he walked barefoot, with his scythe over his shoulder. There was naught in his dress to mark him off from the serving-men, save the leathern shoulder-piece that made a perch for the hawk he bore on his left shoulder. He led Ramborg by the hand. + 

He greeted his son-in-law heartily enough, begging him to forgive that he had not come before⁠—’twas that they must push on with the farm work as hard as they could, for he himself had a journey to make to the market town between the hay and the corn harvests. But when Erlend told the errand he had come on, as they sat at the supper-board, Lavrans grew something out of humour. + 

’Twas impossible he should spare carts and horses for such work at this time. Erlend answered: he had brought four packhorses with him. But Lavrans said there would be three cartloads at the least. Besides, the maid must have her wearing apparel with her here. And the bed-furniture that Kristin was to have with her, they would need here too for the wedding, so many guests as they would have in the house. + 

Well, well, said Erlend. Doubtless some way could be found to have the goods sent through in the autumn. But he had been glad, and had thought it seemed a wise counsel, when the Abbot had proffered to have the goods brought in the Church galleass. The Abbot had reminded him of their kinship. “They are all ready now to remember that,” said Erlend, smiling. His father-in-law’s displeasure seemed not to trouble him in the least. + 

But in the end it was agreed that Erlend should be given the loan of a cart and should take away a cartload of the things Kristin would need most when first she came to her new home. + 

The day after they were busy with the packing. The big and the little loom the mother thought might go at once⁠—Kristin would scarce have time for weaving much more before the wedding. Ragnfrid and her daughter cut off the web that was on the loom. It was undyed wadmal, but of the finest, softest wool, with unwoven tufts of black sheep’s wool that made a pattern of spots. Kristin and her mother rolled up the stuff and laid it in the leather sack. Kristin thought: ’twould make good warm swaddling-cloths⁠—and right fair ones, too, with blue or red bands wrapped round them. + 

The sewing-chair, too, that Arne had once made her, was to be sent. Kristin took out of the box-seat all the things Erlend had given her from time to time. She showed her mother the blue velvet cloak patterned in red that she was to wear at the bridal, on the ride to church. The mother turned it about and about, and felt the stuff and the fur lining. + 

“A costly cloak, indeed,” said Ragnfrid. “When was it Erlend gave you this?” + 

“He gave it me when I was at Nonneseter,” said her daughter. + 

Kristin’s bride-chest, that held all the goods her mother had gathered together and saved up for her since she was a little child, was emptied and packed anew. Its sides and cover were all carved in squares, with a leaping beast or a bird amidst leaves in each square. The wedding-dress Ragnfrid laid away in one of her own chests. It was not quite ready yet, though they had sewed on it all winter. It was of scarlet silk, cut to sit very close to the body. Kristin thought: ’twould be all too tight across the breast now. + 

Toward evening the whole load stood ready, firmly bound under the wagon-tilt. Erlend was to set forth early the next morning. + 

He stood with Kristin leaning over the courtyard gate, looking northward to where a blue-black storm-cloud filled the Dale. Thunder was rolling far off in the mountains⁠—but southward the green fields and the river lay in yellow, burning sunshine. + 

“Mind you the storm that day in the woods at Gerdarud?” he asked softly, playing with her fingers. + 

Kristin nodded and tried to smile. The air was so heavy and close⁠—her head ached, and at every breath she took her skin grew damp with sweat. + 

Lavrans came across to the two as they stood by the gate, and spoke of the storm. ’Twas but rarely it did much harm down here in the parish⁠—but God knew if they should not hear of cattle and horses killed up in the mountains. + 

It was black as night above the church up on the hillside. A lightning flash showed them a troop of horses standing uneasily huddled together on the greensward outside the church gate. Lavrans thought they could scarce belong here in the parish⁠—rather must they be horses from Dovre that had been running loose up on the hills below Jetta; but yet he had a mind to go up and look at them, he shouted through a peal of thunder⁠—there might be some of his among them⁠— + 

A fearful lightning-flash tore the darkness above the church⁠—the thunder crashed and bellowed so as to deafen them to all other sounds. The cluster of horses burst asunder, scattering over the hill-slopes beneath the mountain ridge. All three of them crossed themselves⁠— + 

Then came another flash; it was as though the heavens split asunder right above them, a mighty snow-white flame swooped down upon them⁠—the three were thrown against each other, and stood with shut, blinded eyes, and a smell in their nostrils as of burning stone⁠—while the crashing thunder rent their ears. + 

“Saint Olav, help us!” said Lavrans in a low voice. + 

“Look! the birch⁠—the birch,” shouted Erlend; the great birch-tree in the field near by seemed to totter⁠—and a huge bough parted from the tree and sank to the ground, leaving a great gash in the trunk. + 

“Think you ’twill catch fire⁠—Jesus Kristus! The churchroof is alight!” shouted Lavrans. + 

They stood and gazed⁠—no⁠—yes! Red flames were darting out among the shingles beneath the ridge-turret. + 

Both men rushed back across the courtyard. Lavrans tore open the doors of all the houses he came to and shouted to those inside; the house-folk came swarming out. + 

“Bring axes, bring axes⁠—timber axes,” he cried, “and billhooks”⁠—he ran on to the stables. In a moment he came out leading Guldsveinen by the mane; he sprang on the horse’s bare back and dashed off up the hill, with the great broad-axe in his hand. Erlend rode close behind him⁠—all the men followed; some were a-horseback, but some could not master the terrified beasts, and giving up, ran on afoot. Last came Ragnfrid and all the women on the place with pails and buckets. + 

None seemed to heed the storm any longer. By the light of the flashes they could see folk streaming out of the houses further down the valley. Sira Eirik was far up the hill already, running with his house-folk behind him. There was a thunder of horses’ hoofs on the ridge below⁠—some men galloped past, turning white, appalled faces toward their burning church. + 

It was blowing a little from the southeast. The fire had a strong hold on the north wall; on the west the entrance door was blocked already. But it had not caught yet on the south side nor on the apse. + 

Kristin and the women from Jörundgaard came into the graveyard south of the church at a place where the fence was broken. + 

The huge red glare lighted up the grove of trees north of the church and the green by it where there were bars to tie the horses to. None could come thither for the glowing heat⁠—the great cross stood alone out there, bathed in the light of the flames. It looked as though it lived and moved. + 

Through the hissing and roar of the flames sounded the thudding of axes against the staves of the south wall. There were men in the cloister-way hewing and hammering at the wall, while others tried to tear down the cloister itself. Someone called out to the Jörundgaard women that Lavrans and a few other men had followed Sira Eirik into the church, and now ’twas high time to cut a passage through the south wall⁠—small tongues of flame were peeping out among the shingles here too; and should the wind go round or die down, the fire would take hold on the whole church. + 

To think of putting out the fire was vain; there was no time to make a chain down to the river; but at Ragnfrid’s bidding the women made a line and passed water along from the little beck that ran by the roadside⁠—it was but little to throw on the south wall and over the men working there. Many of the women sobbed and wept the while, in terror for the men who had made their way into the burning building, and in sorrow for their church. + 

Kristin stood foremost in the line of women handing along the pails⁠—she gazed breathless at the burning church⁠—they were both there, inside⁠—her father⁠—and surely Erlend too. + 

The torn-down pillars of the cloister-way lay in a tangled mass of timber and shingles from its roof. The men were attacking the inner wall of staves now with all their might⁠—a group of them had lifted up a great log and were battering the wall with it. + 

Erlend and one of his men came out of the little door in the south wall of the choir, carrying between them the great chest from the sacristy⁠—the chest Eirik was used to sit on when he heard confession. Erlend and the man flung the chest out into the churchyard. + 

He shouted out something, but Kristin could not hear; he dashed on at once into the cloister-way. Nimble as a cat he seemed as he ran⁠—he had thrown off his outer garments and had naught on him but shirt, breeches and hose. + 

The others took up his shout⁠—the choir and the sacristy were burning; none could pass from the nave to the south-door any longer⁠—the fire had blocked both ways of escape. Some of the staves in the wall had been splintered by the ram⁠—Erlend had seized a fire-hook and with it he tugged and wrenched at the wreckage of the staves⁠—he and those with him tore a hole in the side of the church, while other folks cried to take care, for the roof might fall and shut in the men inside; the shingle roof on this side too was burning hard now, and the heat had grown till ’twas scarce to be borne. + 

Erlend burst through the hole and helped out Sira Eirik. The priest came bearing the holy vessels from the altars in the skirt of his gown. + 

A young boy followed, with one hand over his face and the other holding the tall processional cross lance-wise in front of him. Lavrans came next. He kept his eyes shut against the smoke⁠—he staggered under the weight of the great crucifix, which he bore in his arms; it was much taller than the man himself. + 

Folk ran forward and helped them out and into the churchyard. Sira Eirik stumbled and fell on his knees, and the altar vessels rolled out down the slope. The silver dove flew open and the Host fell out⁠—the priest took it up, brushed the soil off it and kissed it, sobbing aloud; he kissed the gilded head, too, that had stood on the altar with shreds of the nails and hair of Saint Olav in it. + 

Lavrans Björgulfsön still stood holding up the Holy Rood. His arm lay along the arms of the cross; his head was bowed against the shoulder of the Christ-figure; it seemed as though the Redeemer bent his fair, sorrowful face over the man to pity and to comfort. + 

The roof on the north side of the church had begun to fall in by bits⁠—a burning piece from a falling beam was hurled outwards and struck the great bell in the belfry by the churchyard gate. The bell gave out a deep sobbing note, which died in a long wail that was drowned in the roaring of the flames. + 

None had paid heed to the weather all this time⁠—the whole had lasted indeed no long time, but whether short or long scarce any could have told. The thunder and lightning had passed now far down the Dale; the rain, that had begun some time back, fell ever the more heavily, and the wind had died down. + 

But of a sudden it was as though a sheet of flame shot up from the groundsill of the building⁠—a moment, and with a mounting roar the fire had swallowed up the church from end to end. + 

The people scattered, rushing away to escape the devouring heat. Erlend was at Kristin’s side on the instant, dragging her away down the hill. The whole man smelt of burning⁠—when she stroked his head and face her hand came away full of burnt hair. + 

They could not hear each other’s voices for the roaring of the fire. But she saw that his eyebrows were burnt off to the roots; he had burns on his face, and great holes were burnt in his shirt. He laughed as he dragged her along with him after the others. + 

All the folk followed the old priest as he went weeping, with Lavrans Björgulfsön bearing the crucifix. + 

At the foot of the churchyard Lavrans set the Rood from him up against a tree, and sank down to a seat on the wreckage of the fence. Sira Eirik was sitting there already⁠—he stretched out his arms toward the burning church: + 

“Farewell, farewell, thou Olav’s-Church; God bless thee, thou my Olav’s-Church; God bless thee for every hour I have chanted in thee and said Mass in thee⁠—thou Olav’s-Church, good night, good night⁠—” + 

The church-folk wept aloud with their priest. The rain streamed down on the groups of people, but none thought of seeking shelter. Nor did it seem to check the fierce burning of the tarred woodwork⁠—brands and glowing shingles were tossed out on every side. Then, suddenly, the ridge-turret crashed down into the fiery furnace, sending a great shower of sparks high into the air. + 

Lavrans sat with one hand over his face; the other arm lay in his lap, and Kristin saw that the sleeve was all bloody from the shoulder down, and blood ran down over his fingers. She went to him and touched his arm. + 

“Not much is amiss, methinks⁠—there fell somewhat on my shoulder,” he said, looking up. He was white to the lips. “Ulvhild,” he murmured in anguish, gazing into the burning pile. + 

Sira Eirik heard the word and laid a hand on his shoulder: + 

“ ’Twill not wake your child, Lavrans⁠—she will sleep none the less sound for the burning above her bed. She hath not lost her soul’s home, as we others have lost ours this night.” + 

Kristin hid her face on Erlend’s breast, and stood there feeling the grasp of his arm round her shoulders. Then she heard her father asking for his wife. + 

Someone answered that a woman had fallen in labour from the fright; they had borne her down to the parsonage, and Ragnfrid had gone with her there. + 

Then Kristin called to mind again what she had clean forgotten ever since they saw that the church was afire. She should not have looked on this. There lived a man in the south of the parish who had a red stain over half his face; ’twas said he was thus because his mother had looked at a burning house while she was big with him. Dear, Holy Virgin Mother, she prayed in her heart, let not my child have been marred by this⁠— + 

The day after, the whole parish was called to meet on the church-green to take counsel how best to build up the church anew. + 

Kristin sought out Sira Eirik at Romundgaard before the time set for the meeting. She asked the priest if he deemed she should take this as a sign. Maybe ’twas God’s will that she should say to her father she was unworthy to wear the bridal crown; that it were more seemly she should be given in marriage to Erlend Nikulaussön without feasting, or bridal honours. + 

But Sira Eirik flew up at her with eyes glistening with wrath: + 

“Think you that God cares so much how you sluts may fly about and cast yourselves away, that He would burn up a fair, venerable church for your sake? Leave you your sinful pride, and bring not on your mother and Lavrans such a sorrow as they would scarce win through for many a day. If you wear not the crown with honour on your honourable day⁠—the worse for you; but the more need have you and Erlend of all the rites of the Church when ye are brought together. Each and all of us have sins to answer for; ’tis therefore, I trow, that this visitation is come upon us all. See you to it that you mend your life, and that you help to build up our church again, both you and Erlend.” + 

It was in Kristin’s mind that he knew not all, for that yet she had not told him of this last thing that was come upon her⁠—but she rested content and said no more. + 

She went with the men to the meeting. Lavrans came with his arm in a sling, and Erlend had many burns on his face; he was ill to look upon, but he laughed it off. None of the wounds were large, and he said he hoped they would not spoil his face too much when he came to be a bridegroom. He stood up after Lavrans and promised four marks of silver as an offering to the church, and for his betrothed, with Lavrans’ assent, land worth sixty cows from her holdings in the parish. + 

It was found needful for Erlend to stay a week at Jörundgaard by reason of his burns. Kristin saw that ’twas as though Lavrans had come to like his son-in-law better since the night of the fire; the men seemed now to be good friends enough. She thought: maybe her father might grow to like Erlend Nikulaussön so well that he would not judge them too strictly, and would not take the matter so hardly as she had feared when the time came when he must know that they had transgressed against him. + 

VIII + 

The year proved a rarely good one over all the north part of the Dale. The hay crop was heavy, and it was got in dry; the folk came home from the sæters in autumn with great store of dairy-stuff and full and fat flocks and herds⁠—they had been mercifully spared from wild beasts, too, this year. The corn stood tall and thick as few folks could call to mind having seen it before⁠—it grew full-eared and ripened well, and the weather was fair as heart could wish. Between St. Bartholomew’s and the Virgin’s Birthfeast, the time when night-frosts were most to be feared, it rained a little and was mild and cloudy, but thereafter the time of harvest went by with sun and wind and mild, misty nights. The week after Michaelmas most of the corn had been garnered all over the parish. + 

At Jörundgaard all folks were toiling and moiling, making ready for the great wedding. The last two months Kristin had been so busy from morning to night that she had but little time to trouble over aught but her work. She saw that her bosom had filled out; the small pink nipples were grown brown, and they were tender as smarting hurts when she had to get out of bed in the cold⁠—but it passed over when she had worked herself warm, and after that she had no thought but of all she must get done before evening. When now and again she was forced to straighten up her back and stand and rest a little, she felt that the burden she bore was growing heavy⁠—but to look on she was still slim and slender as she had ever been. She passed her hands down her long shapely thighs. No, she would not grieve over it now. Sometimes a faint creeping longing would come over her with the thought: like enough in a month or so she might feel the child quick within her⁠—By that time she would be at Husaby.⁠—Maybe Erlend would be glad⁠—She shut her eyes and fixed her teeth on her betrothal ring⁠—then she saw before her Erlend’s face, pale and moved, as he stood in the hall here in the winter and said the words of espousal with a loud clear voice: + 

“So be God my witness and these men standing here, that I Erlend Nikulaussön do espouse Kristin Lavransdatter according to the laws of God and men, on such conditions as here have been spoken before these witnesses standing hereby. That I shall have thee to my wife and thou shalt have me to thy husband, so long as we two do live, to dwell together in wedlock, with all such fellowship as God’s law and the law of the land do appoint.” + 

As she ran on errands from house to house across the farm-place, she stayed a moment⁠—the rowan trees were so thick with berries this year⁠—’twould be a snowy winter. The sun shone over the pale stubble fields where the corn sheaves stood piled on their stakes. If this weather might only hold over the wedding! + 

Lavrans stood firmly to it that his daughter should be wedded in church. It was fixed, therefore, that the wedding should be in the chapel at Sundbu. On the Saturday the bridal train was to ride over the hills to Vaage; they were to lie for the night at Sundbu and the neighbouring farms, and ride back on Sunday after the wedding-mass. The same evening after vespers, when the holy day was ended, the wedding feast was to be held, and Lavrans was to give his daughter away to Erlend. And after midnight the bride and bridegroom were to be put to bed. + 

On Friday afternoon, Kristin stood in the upper hall balcony, watching the bridal train come riding from the north, past the charred ruins of the church on the hillside. It was Erlend coming with all his groomsmen; she strained her eyes to pick him out among the others. They must not see each other⁠—no man must see her now before she was led forth tomorrow in her bridal dress. + 

Where the ways divided, a few women left the throng and took the road to Jörundgaard. The men rode on toward Laugarbru; they were to sleep there that night. + 

Kristin went down to meet the comers. She felt wearied after the bath, and the skin of her head was sore from the strong lye her mother had used to wash her hair, that it might shine fair and bright on the morrow. + 

Lady Aashild slipped down from her saddle into Lavrans’ arms. How can she keep so light and young, thought Kristin. Her son Sir Munan’s wife, Lady Katrin, might have passed for older than she; a big plump dame, with dull and hueless skin and eyes. Strange, thought Kristin; she is ill-favoured and he is unfaithful, and yet folks say they live well and kindly together. Then there were two daughters of Sir Baard Petersön, one married and one unmarried. They were neither comely nor ill-favoured; they looked honest and kind, but held themselves something stiffly in the strange company. Lavrans thanked them courteously that they had been pleased to honour this wedding at the cost of so far a journey so late in the year. + 

“Erlend was bred in our father’s house, when he was a boy,” said the elder, moving forward to greet Kristin. + 

But now two youths came riding into the farm-place at a sharp trot⁠—they leaped from their horses and rushed laughing after Kristin, who ran indoors and hid herself. They were Trond Gjesling’s two young sons, fair and likely lads. They had brought the bridal crown with them from Sundbu in a casket. Trond and his wife were not to come till Sunday, when they would join the bridal train after the mass. + 

Kristin fled into the hearth-room; and Lady Aashild, coming after, laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders, and drew down her face to hers to kiss it. + 

“Glad am I that I live to see this day,” said Lady Aashild. + 

She saw how thin they were grown, Kristin’s hands, that she held in hers. She saw that all else about her was grown thin, but that her bosom was high and full. All the features of the face were grown smaller and finer than before; the temples seemed as though sunken in the shadow of the heavy, damp hair. The girl’s cheeks were round no longer, and her fresh hue was faded. But her eyes were grown much larger and darker. + 

Lady Aashild kissed her again: + 

“I see well you have had much to strive against, Kristin,” she said. “Tonight will I give you a sleepy drink, that you may be rested and fresh tomorrow.” + 

Kristin’s lips began to quiver. + 

“Hush,” said Lady Aashild, patting her hand. “I joy already that I shall deck you out tomorrow⁠—none hath seen a fairer bride, I trow, than you shall be tomorrow.” + 

Lavrans rode over to Laugarbru to feast with his guests who were housed there. + 

The men could not praise the food enough⁠—better Friday food than this a man could scarce find in the richest monastery. There was rye-meal porridge, boiled beans and white bread⁠—for fish they had only trout, salted and fresh, and fat dried halibut. + 

As time went on and the men drank deeper, they grew ever more wanton of mood, and the jests broken on the bridegroom’s head ever more gross. All Erlend’s groomsmen were much younger than he⁠—his equals in age and his friends were all long since wedded men. The darling jest among the groomsmen now was that he was so aged a man and yet was to mount the bridal bed for the first time. Some of Erlend’s older kinsmen, who yet kept their wits, sat in dread, at each new sally, that the talk would come in upon matters it were best not to touch. Sir Baard of Hestnæs kept an eye on Lavrans. The host drank deep, but it seemed not that the ale made him more joyful⁠—he sat in the high-seat, his face growing more and more strained, even as his eyes grew more fixed. But Erlend, who sat on his father-in-law’s right hand, answered in kind the wanton jests flung at him, and laughed much; his face was flushed red and his eyes sparkled. + 

Of a sudden Lavrans flew out: + 

“That cart, son-in-law⁠—while I remember⁠—what have you done with the cart you had of me on loan in the summer?” + 

“Cart⁠—?” said Erlend. + 

“Have you forgot already that you had a cart on loan from me in the summer⁠—God knows ’twas so good a cart I look not ever to see a better, for I saw to it myself when ’twas making in my own smithy on the farm. You promised and you swore⁠—I take God to witness, and my house-folk know it besides⁠—you gave your word to bring it back to me⁠—but that word you have not kept⁠—” + 

Some of the guests called out that this was no matter to talk of now, but Lavrans smote the board with his fist and swore that he would know what Erlend had done with his cart. + 

“Oh like enough it lies still at the farm at Næs, where we took boat out to Veöy,” said Erlend lightly. “I thought not ’twas meant so nicely. See you, father-in-law, thus it was⁠—’twas a long and toilsome journey with a heavy-laden cart over the hills, and when we were come down to the fjord, none of my men had a mind to bring the cart all the way back here, and then journey north again over the hills to Trondheim. So we thought we might let it be there for a time⁠—” + 

“Now, may the devil fly off with me from where I sit this very hour, if I have ever heard of your like,” Lavrans burst out. “Is this how things are ordered in your house⁠—doth the word lie with you or with your men, where they are to go or not to go⁠—?” + 

Erlend shrugged his shoulders: + 

“True it is, much hath been as it should not have been in my household⁠—But now will I have the cart sent south to you again, when Kristin and I are come thither⁠—Dear my father-in-law,” said he, smiling and holding out his hand, “be assured, ’twill be changed times with all things, and with me too, when once I have brought Kristin home to be mistress of my house. ’Twas an ill thing, this of the cart. But I promise you, this shall be the last time you have cause of grief against me.” + 

“Dear Lavrans,” said Baard Petersön, “forgive him in this small matter⁠—” + 

“Small matter or great⁠—” began Lavrans⁠—but checked himself, and took Erlend’s hand. + 

Soon after he made the sign for the feast to break up, and the guests sought their sleeping-places. + 

On the Saturday before noon all the women and girls were busy in the old storehouse loft-room, some making ready the bridal bed, some dressing and adorning the bride. + 

Ragnfrid had chosen this house for the bride-house, in part for its having the smallest loft-room⁠—they could make room for many more guests in the new storehouse loft, the one they had used themselves in summer time to sleep in when Kristin was a little child, before Lavrans had set up the great new dwelling-house, where they lived now both summer and winter. But besides this, there was no fairer house on the farm than the old storehouse, since Lavrans had had it mended and set in order⁠—it had been nigh falling to the ground when they moved in to Jörundgaard. It was adorned with the finest woodcarving both outside and in, and if the loft-room were not great, ’twas the easier to hang it richly with rugs and tapestries and skins. + 

The bridal bed stood ready made, with silk-covered pillows; fine hangings made as it were a tent about it; over the skins and rugs on the bed was spread a broidered silken coverlid. Ragnfrid and some other women were busy now hanging tapestries on the timber walls and laying cushions in order on the benches. + 

Kristin sat in a great armchair that had been brought up thither. She was clad in her scarlet bridal robe. Great silver brooches held it together over her bosom, and fastened the yellow silk shift showing in the neck-opening; golden armlets glittered on the yellow silken sleeves. A silver-gilt belt was passed thrice around her waist, and on her neck and bosom lay neck-chain over neck-chain, the uppermost her father’s old gold chain with the great reliquary cross. Her hands, lying in her lap, were heavy with rings. + 

Lady Aashild stood behind her chair, brushing her heavy, gold-brown hair out to all sides. + 

“Tomorrow shall you spread it loose for the last time,” she said smiling, as she wound the red and green silk cords that were to hold up the crown, around Kristin’s head. Then the women came thronging round the bride. + 

Ragnfrid and Gyrid of Skog took the great bridal crown of the Gjesling kin from the board. It was gilt all over, the points ended in alternate crosses and cloverleaves, and the circlet was set with great rock-crystals. + 

They pressed it down on the bride’s head. Ragnfrid was pale, and her hands were shaking, as she did it. + 

Kristin rose slowly to her feet. Jesus! how heavy ’twas to bear up all this gold and silver⁠—Then Lady Aashild took her by the hand and led her forward to a great tub of water⁠—while the bridesmaids flung open the door to the outer sunlight, so that the light in the room should be bright. + 

“Look now at yourself in the water, Kristin,” said Lady Aashild, and Kristin bent over the tub. She caught a glimpse of her own face rising up white through the water; it came so near that she saw the golden crown above it. Round about, many shadows, bright and dark, were stirring in the mirror⁠—there was somewhat she was on the brink of remembering⁠—then ’twas as though she was swooning away⁠—she caught at the rim of the tub before her. At that moment Lady Aashild laid her hand on hers, and drove her nails so hard into the flesh, that Kristin came to herself with the pain. + 

Blasts of a great horn were heard from down by the bridge. Folk shouted up from the courtyard that the bridegroom was coming with his train. The women led Kristin out onto the balcony. + 

In the courtyard was a tossing mass of horses in state trappings and people in festival apparel, all shining and glittering in the sun. Kristin looked out beyond it all, far out into the Dale. The valley of her home lay bright and still beneath a thin misty-blue haze; up above the haze rose the mountains, grey with screes and black with forest, and the sun poured down its light into the great bowl of the valley from a cloudless sky. + 

She had not marked it before, but the trees had shed all their leaves⁠—the groves around shone naked and silver-grey. Only the alder thickets along the river had a little faded green on their topmost branches, and here and there a birch had a few yellow-white leaves clinging to its outermost twigs. But, for the most the trees were almost bare⁠—all but the rowans; they were still bright, with red-brown leaves around the clusters of their bloodred berries. In the still, warm day a faint mouldering smell of autumn rose from the ashen covering of fallen leaves that strewed the ground all about. + 

Had it not been for the rowans, it might have been early spring. And the stillness too⁠—but this was an autumn stillness, deathly still. When the horn-blasts died away, no other sound was heard in all the valley but the tinkling of bells from the stubble fields and fallows where the beasts wandered, grazing. + 

The river was shrunken small, its roar sunk to a murmur; it was but a few strands of water running amidst banks of sand and great stretches of white round boulders. No noise of becks from the hillsides⁠—the autumn had been so dry. The fields all around still gleamed wet⁠—but ’twas but the wetness that oozes up from the earth in autumn, howsoever warm the days may be, and however clear the air. + 

The crowd that filled the farm-place fell apart to make way for the bridegroom’s train. Straightway the young groomsmen came riding forward⁠—there went a stir among the women in the balcony. + 

Lady Aashild was standing by the bride: + 

“Bear you well now, Kristin,” said she, “ ’twill not be long now till you are safe under the linen coif.” + 

Kristin nodded helplessly. She felt how deathly white her face must be. + 

“Methinks I am all too pale a bride,” she said in a low voice. + 

“You are the fairest bride,” said Lady Aashild; “and there comes Erlend, riding⁠—fairer pair than you twain would be far to seek.” + 

Now Erlend himself rode forward under the balcony. He sprang lightly from his horse, unhindered by his heavy, flowing garments. He seemed to Kristin so fair that ’twas pain to look on him. + 

He was in dark raiment, clad in a slashed silken coat falling to the feet, leaf-brown of hue and inwoven with black and white. About his waist he had a gold-bossed belt, and at his left thigh hung a sword with gold on hilt and sheath. Back over his shoulders fell a heavy dark-blue velvet cloak, and pressed down on his coal-black hair he wore a black French cap of silk that stood out at both sides in puckered wings, and ended in two long streamers, whereof one was thrown from his left shoulder right across his breast and out behind over the other arm. + 

Erlend bowed low before his bride as she stood above; then went up to her horse and stood by it with his hand on the saddlebow, while Lavrans went up the stairs. A strange dizzy feeling came over Kristin at the sight of all this splendour⁠—in this solemn garment of green velvet, falling to his feet, her father might have been some stranger. And her mother’s face, under the linen coif, showed ashen-grey against the red of her silken dress. Ragnfrid came forward and laid the cloak about her daughter’s shoulders. + 

Then Lavrans took the bride’s hand and led her down to Erlend. The bridegroom lifted her to the saddle, and himself mounted. They stayed their horses, side by side, these two, beneath the bridal balcony, while the train began to form and ride out through the courtyard gate. First the priests: Sira Eirik, Sira Tormod from Ulvsvolden, and a Brother of the Holy Cross from Hamar, a friend of Lavrans. Then came the groomsmen and the bridesmaids, pair by pair. And now ’twas for Erlend and her to ride forth. After them came the bride’s parents, the kinsmen, friends and guests, in a long line down betwixt the fences to the highway. Their road for a long way onward was strewn with clusters of rowan-berries, branches of pine, and the last white dogfennel of autumn, and folk stood thick along the waysides where the train passed by, greeting them with a great shouting. + 

On the Sunday, just after sunset, the bridal train rode back to Jörundgaard. Through the first falling folds of darkness the bonfires shone out red from the courtyard of the bridal-house. Minstrels and fiddlers were singing and making drums and fiddles speak as the crowd of riders drew near to the warm red glare of the fires. + 

Kristin came near to falling her length on the ground when Erlend lifted her from her horse beneath the balcony of the upper hall. + 

“ ’Twas so cold upon the hills,” she whispered⁠—“I am so weary⁠—” She stood for a moment⁠—and when she climbed the stairs to the loft-room she swayed and tottered at each step. + 

Up in the hall the half-frozen wedding-guests were soon warmed up again. The many candles burning in the room gave out heat; smoking hot dishes of food were borne around, and wine, mead and strong ale circled about. The loud hum of voices, and the noise of many eating sounded like a far off roaring in Kristin’s ears. + 

It seemed as she sat there she would never be warm through again. In a while her cheeks began to burn, but her feet were still unthawed, and shudders of cold ran down her back. All the heavy gold that was on her head and body forced her to lean forward as she sat in the high-seat by Erlend’s side. + 

Every time her bridegroom drank to her, she could not keep her eyes from the red stains and patches that stood out on his face so sharply as he began to grow warm after his ride in the cold. They were the marks left by the burns of last summer. + 

The horror had come upon her last evening, when they sat over the supper-board at Sundbu, and she met Björn Gunnarsön’s lightless eyes fixed on her and Erlend⁠—unwinking, unwavering eyes. They had dressed up Sir Björn in knightly raiment⁠—he looked like a dead man brought to life by an evil spell. + 

At night she had lain with Lady Aashild⁠—the bridegroom’s nearest kinswoman in the wedding company. + 

“What is amiss with you, Kristin?” said Lady Aashild, a little sharply. “Now is the time for you to bear up stiffly to the end⁠—not give way thus.” + 

“I am thinking,” said Kristin, cold with dread, “on all them we have brought to sorrow, that we might see this day.” + 

“ ’Tis not joy alone, I trow, that you two have had,” said Lady Aashild. “Not Erlend at the least. And methinks it has been worse still for you.” + 

“I am thinking on his helpless children,” said the bride again. “I am wondering if they know their father is drinking today at his wedding feast.⁠—” + 

“Think on your own child,” said the Lady. “Be glad that you are drinking at your wedding with him who is its father.” + 

Kristin lay awhile, weak and giddy. ’Twas so strange to hear that named, that had filled her heart and mind each day for three months and more, and whereof yet she had not dared speak a word to a living soul. It was but for a little though, that this helped her. + 

“I am thinking of her who had to pay with her life, because she held Erlend dear,” she whispered, shivering. + 

“Well if you come not to pay with your life yourself, ere you are half a year older,” said Lady Aashild harshly. “Be glad while you may⁠— + 

“What shall I say to you, Kristin?” said the old woman in a while, despairingly. “Have you clean lost courage this day of all days? Soon enough will it be required of you twain that you shall pay for all you have done amiss⁠—have no fear that it will not be so.” + 

But Kristin felt as though all things in her soul were slipping, slipping⁠—as though all were toppling down that she had built up since that day of horror at Haugen, in that first time when, wild and blind with fear, she had thought but of holding out one day more, and one day more. And she had held out till her load grew lighter⁠—and at last grew even light, when she had thrown off all thought but this one thought: that now their wedding-day was coming at last, Erlend’s wedding-day at last. + 

But, when she and Erlend knelt together in the wedding-mass, all around her seemed but some trickery of the sight⁠—the tapers, the pictures, the glittering vessels, the priests in their copes and white gowns. All those who had known her where she had lived before⁠—they seemed like visions of a dream, standing there, close-packed in the church in their unwonted garments. But Sir Björn stood against a pillar, looking at those two with his dead eyes, and it seemed to her that that other who was dead must needs have come back with him, on his arm. + 

She tried to look up at Saint Olav’s picture⁠—he stood there red and white and comely, leaning on his axe, treading his own sinful human nature underfoot⁠—but her glance would ever go back to Sir Björn; and nigh to him she saw Eline Ormsdatter’s dead face, looking unmoved upon her and Erlend. They had trampled her underfoot that they might come hither⁠—and she grudged it not to them. + 

The dead woman had arisen and flung off her all the great stones that Kristin had striven to heap up above her. Erlend’s wasted youth, his honour and his welfare, his friends’ good graces, his soul’s health. The dead woman had shaken herself free of them all. He would have me and I would have him; you would have him and he would have you, said Eline. I have paid⁠—and he must pay and you must pay when your time comes. When the time of sin is fulfilled, it brings forth death⁠— + 

It seemed to her she was kneeling with Erlend on a cold stone. He knelt there with the red, burnt patches on his pale face; she knelt under the heavy bridal crown, and felt the dull, crushing weight within her⁠—the burden of sin that she bore. She had played and wantoned with her sin, had measured it as in a childish game. Holy Virgin⁠—now the time was nigh when it should lie full-born before her, look at her with living eyes; show her on itself the brands of sin, the hideous deformity of sin; strike in hate with misshapen hands at its mother’s breast. When she had borne her child, when she saw the marks of her sin upon it and yet loved it as she had loved her sin, then would the game be played to an end. + 

Kristin thought: what if she shrieked aloud now, a shriek that would cut through the song and the deep voices intoning the mass, and echo out over the people’s heads? Would she be rid then of Eline’s face⁠—would there come life into the dead man’s eyes? But she clenched her teeth together. + 

—Holy King Olav, I cry upon thee. Above all in Heaven I pray for help to thee, for I know thou didst love God’s justice above all things. I call upon thee, that thou hold thy hand over the innocent that is in my womb. Turn away God’s wrath from the innocent; turn it upon me; Amen, in the precious name of the Lord⁠— + 

My children, said Eline’s voice, are they not guiltless? Yet is there no place for them in the lands where Christians dwell. Your child is begotten outside the law, even as were my children. No rights can you claim for it in the land you have strayed away from, any more than I for mine⁠— + 

Holy Olav! Yet do I pray for grace. Pray thou for mercy for my son; take him beneath thy guard; so shall I bear him to thy church on my naked feet, so shall I bear my golden garland of maidenhood in to thee and lay it down upon thy altar, if thou wilt but help me. Amen. + 

Her face was set hard as stone in her struggle to be still and calm; but her whole body throbbed and quivered as she knelt there through the holy mass that wedded her to Erlend. + 

And now, as she sat beside him in the high-seat at home, all things around her were but as shadows in a fevered dream. + 

There were minstrels playing on harps and fiddles in the loft-room; and the sound of music and song rose from the hall below and the courtyard outside. There was a red glare of fire from without, when the door was opened for the dishes and tankards to be borne in and out. + 

Those around the board were standing now; she was standing up between her father and Erlend. Her father made known with a loud voice that he had given Erlend Nikulaussön his daughter Kristin to wife. Erlend thanked his father-in-law, and he thanked all good folk who had come together there to honour him and his wife. + 

She was to sit down, they said⁠—and now Erlend laid his bridal gifts in her lap. Sira Eirik and Sir Munan Baardsön unrolled deeds and read aloud from them concerning the jointures and settlements of the wedded pair; while the groomsmen stood around, with spears in their hands, and now and again during the reading, or when gifts and bags of money were laid on the table, smote with the butts upon the floor. + 

The tables were cleared away; Erlend led her forth upon the floor, and they danced together. Kristin thought: our groomsmen and our bridesmaids⁠—they are all too young for us⁠—all they that were young with us are gone from these places; how is it we are come back hither? + 

“You are so strange, Kristin,” whispered Erlend, as they danced. “I am afraid of you, Kristin⁠—are you not happy⁠—?” + 

They went from house to house and greeted their guests. There were many lights in all the rooms, and everywhere crowds of people drinking and singing and dancing. It seemed to Kristin she scarce knew her home again⁠—and she had lost all knowledge of time⁠—hours and the pictures of her brain seemed strangely to float about loosely, mingled with each other. + 

The autumn night was mild; there were minstrels in the courtyard too, and people dancing round the bonfire. They cried out that the bride and bridegroom must honour them, too⁠—and then she was dancing with Erlend on the cold, dewy sward. She seemed to wake a little then, and her head grew more clear. + 

Far out in the darkness a band of white mist floated above the murmur of the river. The mountains stood around coal-black against the star-sprinkled sky. + 

Erlend led her out of the ring of dancers⁠—and crushed her to him in the darkness under the balcony. + 

“Not once have I had the chance to tell you⁠—you are so fair⁠—so fair and so sweet. Your cheeks are red as flames⁠—” he pressed his cheek to hers as he spoke. “Kristin, what is it ails you⁠—?” + 

“I am so weary, so weary,” she whispered back. + 

“Soon will we go and sleep,” answered her bridegroom, looking up at the sky. The Milky Way had wheeled, and now lay all but north and south. “Mind you that we have not once slept together since that one only night I was with you in your bower at Skog?” + 

Soon after, Sira Eirik shouted with a loud voice out over the farmstead that now it was Monday. The women came to lead the bride to bed. Kristin was so weary that she was scarce able to struggle and hold back as ’twas fit and seemly she should do. She let herself be seized and led out of the loft-room by Lady Aashild and Gyrid of Skog. The groomsmen stood at the foot of the stair with burning torches and naked swords; they formed a ring round the troop of women and attended Kristin across the farm-place, and up into the old loft-room. + 

The women took off her bridal finery, piece by piece, and laid it away. Kristin saw that over the bed-foot hung the violet velvet robe she was to wear on the morrow, and upon it lay a long, snow-white, finely-pleated linen cloth. It was the wife’s linen coif. Erlend had brought it for her; tomorrow she was to bind up her hair in a knot and fasten the head-linen over it. It looked to her so fresh and cool and restful. + 

At last she was standing before the bridal bed, on her naked feet, bare-armed, clad only in the long golden-yellow silken shift. They had set the crown on her head again; the bridegroom was to take it off, when they two were left alone. + 

Ragnfrid laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek⁠—the mother’s face and hands were strangely cold, but it was as though sobs were struggling deep in her breast. Then she drew back the coverings of the bed, and bade the bride seat herself in it. Kristin obeyed, and leaned back on the pillows heaped up against the bed-head⁠—she had to bend her head a little forward to keep on the crown. Lady Aashild drew the coverings up to the bride’s waist, and laid her hands before her on the silken coverlid; then took her shining hair and drew it forward over her bosom and the slender bare upper arms. + 

Next the men led the bridegroom into the loft-room. Munan Baardsön unclasped the golden belt and sword from Erlend’s waist⁠—when he leaned over to hang it on the wall above the bed, he whispered something to the bride⁠—Kristin knew not what he said, but she did her best to smile. + 

The groomsmen unlaced Erlend’s silken robe and lifted off the long heavy garment over his head. He sat him down in the great chair and they helped him off with his spurs and boots⁠— + 

Once and once only the bride found courage to look up and meet his eyes. + 

Then began the good nights. Before long all the wedding-guests were gone from the loft. Last of all, Lavrans Björgulfsön went out and shut the door of the bride-house. + 

Erlend stood up, stripped off his underclothing, and flung it on the benches. He stood by the bed, took the crown and the silken cords from off her hair, and laid them away on the table. Then he came back and mounted into the bed. Kneeling by her side he clasped her round the head, and pressed it in against his hot naked breast, while he kissed her forehead all along the red-streak the crown had left on it. + 

She threw her arms about his shoulders and sobbed aloud⁠—she had a sweet, wild feeling that now the horror, the phantom visions were fading into air⁠—now, now once again naught was left but he and she. He lifted up her face a moment, looked down into it, and drew his hand down over her face and body, with a strange haste and roughness, as though he tore away a covering: + 

“Forget,” he begged, in a fiery whisper, “forget all, my Kristin⁠—all but this, that you are my own wife, and I am your own husband⁠—” + 

With his hand he quenched the flame of the last candle, then threw himself down beside her in the dark⁠—he too was sobbing now: + 

“Never have I believed it, never in all these years, that we should see this day⁠—” + 

Without, in the courtyard, the noise died down little by little. Wearied with the long day’s ride, and dizzy with much strong drink, the guests made a decent show of merrymaking a little while yet⁠—but more and ever more of them stole away and sought out the places where they were to sleep. + 

Ragnfrid showed all the guests of honour to their places, and bade them good night. Her husband, who should have helped her in this, was nowhere to be seen. + 

The dark courtyard was empty, save for a few small groups of young folks⁠—servants most of them⁠—when at last she stole out to find her husband and bring him with her to his bed. She had seen as the night wore on that he had grown very drunken. + 

She stumbled over him at last, as she crept along in her search outside the cattle yard⁠—he was lying in the grass behind the bathhouse on his face. + 

Groping in the darkness, she touched him with her hand⁠—aye, it was he. She thought he was asleep, and took him by the shoulder⁠—she must get him up off the icy-cold ground. But he was not asleep, at least not wholly. + 

“What would you?” he asked, in a thick voice. + 

“You cannot lie here,” said his wife. She held him up, as he stood swaying. With one hand she brushed the soil off his velvet robe. “ ’Tis time we too went to rest, husband.” She took him by the arm, and drew him, reeling, up towards the farmyard buildings. + 

“You looked not up, Ragnfrid, when you sat in the bridal bed beneath the crown,” he said in the same voice. “Our daughter⁠—she was not so shamefast⁠—her eyes were not shamefast when she looked upon her bridegroom.” + 

“She has waited for him seven half-years,” said the mother in a low voice. “No marvel if she found courage to look up⁠—” + 

“Nay, devil damn me if they have waited!” screamed the man, as his wife strove fearfully to hush him. + 

They were in the narrow passage between the back of the privy and a fence. Lavrans smote with his clenched fist on the beam across the cesspit. + 

“I set thee here for a scorn and for a mockery, thou beam. I set thee here that filth might eat thee up. I set thee here in punishment for striking down that tender little maid of mine.⁠—I should have set thee high above my hall-room door; and honoured thee and thanked thee with fairest carven ornament; because thou didst save her from shame and from sorrow⁠—because ’twas thy work that my Ulvhild died a sinless child⁠—” + 

He turned about, reeled toward the fence and fell forward upon it, and with his head between his arms fell into an unquenchable passion of weeping, broken by long, deep groans. + 

His wife took him by the shoulder. + 

“Lavrans, Lavrans!” But she could not stay his weeping. “Husband!” + 

“Oh, never, never, never should I have given her to that man! God help me⁠—I must have known it all the time⁠—he had broken down her youth and her fairest honour. I believed it not⁠—nay, could I believe the like of Kristin?⁠—but still I knew it. And yet is she too good for this weakling boy, that hath made waste of himself and her⁠—had he lured her astray ten times over, I should never have given her to him, that he may spill yet more of her life and her happiness⁠—” + 

“But what other way was there?” said the mother despairingly. “You know now, as well as I⁠—she was his already⁠—” + 

“Aye, small need was there for me to make such a mighty to-do in giving Erlend what he had taken for himself already,” said Lavrans. “ ’Tis a gallant husband she has won⁠—my Kristin⁠—” He tore at the fence; then fell again a-weeping. He had seemed to Ragnfrid as though sobered a little, but now the fit overcame him again. + 

She deemed she could not bring him, drunken and beside himself with despair as he was, to the bed in the hearth-room where they should have slept⁠—for the room was full of guests. She looked about her⁠—close by stood a little barn where they kept the best hay to feed to the horses at the spring ploughing. She went and peered in⁠—no one was there; she took her husband’s hand, led him inside the barn, and shut the door behind them. + 

She piled up hay over herself and him and laid their cloaks above it to keep them warm. Lavrans fell a-weeping now and again, and said somewhat⁠—but his speech was so broken, she could find no meaning in it. In a little while she lifted up his head on to her lap. + 

“Dear my husband⁠—since now so great a love is between them, maybe ’twill all go better than we think⁠—” + 

Lavrans spoke by fits and starts⁠—his mind seemed growing clearer: + 

“See you not⁠—he has her wholly in his power⁠—he that has never been man enough to rule himself.⁠—’Twill go hard with her before she finds courage to set herself against aught her husband wills⁠—and should she one day be forced to it, ’twill be bitter grief to her⁠—my own gentle child⁠— + 

“⁠—Now am I come so far I scarce can understand why God hath laid so many and such heavy sorrows upon me⁠—for I have striven faithfully to do His will. Why hath He taken our children from us, Ragnfrid, one by one⁠—first our sons⁠—then little Ulvhild⁠—and now I have given her that I loved dearest, honourless, to an untrusty and a witless man. Now is there none left to us but the little one⁠—and unwise must I deem it to take joy in her, before I see how it will go with her⁠—with Ramborg.” + 

Ragnfrid shook like a leaf. Then the man laid his arm about her shoulders: + 

“Lie down,” he said, “and let us sleep⁠—” He lay for a while with his head against his wife’s arm, sighing now and then, but at last he fell asleep. + 

It was still pitch-dark in the barn when Ragnfrid stirred⁠—she wondered to find that she had slept. She felt about with her hands; Lavrans was sitting up with knees updrawn and his arms around them. + 

“Are you awake already?” she asked in wonder. “Are you cold?” + 

“No,” said he in a hoarse voice, “but I cannot go to sleep again.” + 

“Is it Kristin you are thinking on?” asked the mother. “Like enough ’twill go better than we think, Lavrans,” she said again. + 

“Aye, ’tis of that I was thinking,” said the man. “Aye, aye⁠—maid or woman, at least she is come to the bride-bed with the man she loves. And ’twas not so with either you or me, my poor Ragnfrid.” + 

His wife gave a deep, dull moan, and threw herself down on her side amongst the hay. Lavrans put out a hand and laid it on her shoulder. + 

“But ’twas that I could not,” said he, with passion and pain. “No, I could not⁠—be as you would have had me⁠—when we were young. I am not such a one⁠—” + 

In a while Ragnfrid said softly through her weeping: + 

“Yet ’twas well with us in our life together, Lavrans⁠—was it not?⁠—all these years?” + 

“So thought I myself,” answered he gloomily. + 

Thoughts crowded and tossed to and fro within him. That single unveiled glance in which the hearts of bridegroom and bride had leapt together⁠—the two young faces flushing up redly⁠—to him it seemed a very shamelessness. It had been agony, a scorching pain to him, that this was his daughter. But the sight of those eyes would not leave him; and wildly and blindly he strove against the tearing away of the veil from something in his own heart, something that he had never owned was there, that he had guarded against his own wife when she sought for it. + 

’Twas that he could not, he said again stubbornly, to himself. In the devil’s name⁠—he had been married off as a boy; he had not chosen for himself; she was older than he⁠—he had not desired her; he had had no will to learn this of her⁠—to love. He grew hot with shame even now when he thought of it⁠—that she would have had him love her, when he had no will to have such love from her. That she had proffered him all this that he had never prayed for. + 

He had been a good husband to her⁠—so he had ever thought. He had shown her all the honour he could, given her full power in her own affairs, and asked her counsel in all things; he had been true to her⁠—and they had had six children together. All he had asked had been that he might live with her, without her forever grasping at this thing in his heart that he would not lay bare⁠— + 

To none had he ever borne love⁠—Ingunn, Karl Steinsön’s wife, at Bru? Lavrans flushed red in the pitch darkness. He had been their guest ever, as often as he journeyed down the Dale. He could not call to mind that he had spoken with the housewife once alone. But when he saw her⁠—if he but thought of her, a sense came over him as of the first breath of the plough-lands in the spring, when the snows are but now melted and gone. He knew it now⁠—it might have befallen him too⁠—he, too, could have loved. + 

But he had been wedded so young, and he had grown shy of love. And so had it come about that he throve best in the wild woods⁠—or out on the waste uplands⁠—where all things that live must have wide spaces around them⁠—room to flee through⁠—fearfully they look on any stranger that would steal upon them⁠— + 

One time in the year there was, when all the beasts in the woods and on the mountains forgot their shyness⁠—when they rushed to their mates. But his had been given him unsought. And she had proffered him all he had not wooed her for. + 

But the young ones in the nest⁠—they had been the little warm green spot in the wilderness⁠—the inmost, sweetest joy of his life. Those little girl-heads under his hand⁠— + 

Marriage⁠—they had wedded him, almost unasked. Friends⁠—he had many, and he had none. War⁠—it had brought him gladness, but there had been no more war⁠—his armour hung there in the loft-room, little used. He had turned farmer⁠—But he had had his daughters⁠—all his living and striving had grown dear to him, because by it he cherished them and made them safe, those soft, tender little beings he had held in his hands. He remembered Kristin’s little two-year-old body on his shoulder, her flaxen, silky hair against his cheek; her small hands holding to his belt, while she butted her round, hard child’s forehead against his shoulder-blades, when he rode out with her behind him on his horse. + 

And now had she that same glow in her eyes⁠—and she had won what was hers. She sat there in the half-shadow against the silken pillows of the bed. In the candlelight she was all golden⁠—golden crown and golden shift and golden hair spread over the naked golden arms. Her eyes were shy no longer⁠— + 

Her father winced with shame. + 

And yet it was as though his heart was bleeding within him, for what he himself had never won; and for his wife, there by his side, whom he had never given what should have been hers. + 

Weak with pity, he felt in the darkness for Ragnfrid’s hand: + 

“Aye, methought it was well with us in our life together,” he said. “Methought ’twas but that you sorrowed for our children⁠—aye, and that you were born heavy of mood. Never did it come to my mind, it might be that I was no good husband to you⁠—” + 

Ragnfrid trembled fitfully: + 

“You were ever a good husband, Lavrans.” + 

“Hm!” Lavrans sat with his chin resting on his knees. “Yet had it mayhap been better with you, if you had been wedded even as our daughter was today⁠—” + 

Ragnfrid started up with a low, piercing cry: + 

“You know! How did you know it⁠—how long have you known⁠—?” + 

“I know not what ’tis you speak of,” said Lavrans after a while, in a strange deadened voice. + 

“This do I speak of⁠—that I was no maid, when I came to be your wife,” said Ragnfrid, and her voice rang clear in her despair. + 

In a little while Lavrans answered, as before: + 

“That have I never known, till now.” + 

Ragnfrid laid her down among the hay, shaken with weeping. When the fit was over she lifted her head a little. A faint grey light was beginning to creep in through the window-hole in the wall. She could dimly see her husband sitting with his arms thrown round his knees, motionless as stone. + 

“Lavrans⁠—speak to me⁠—” she wailed. + 

“What would you I should say?” asked he, without stirring. + 

“Oh⁠—I know not⁠—curse me⁠—strike me⁠—” + 

“ ’Twould be something late now,” answered the man; there seemed to be the shade of a scornful smile in his voice. + 

Ragnfrid wept again: “Aye⁠—I heeded not then that I was betraying you. So betrayed and so dishonoured, methought, had I been myself. There was none had spared me. They came and brought you⁠—you know yourself, I saw you but three times before we were wed⁠—Methought you were but a boy, white and red⁠—so young and childish⁠—” + 

“I was so,” said Lavrans, and a faint ring of life came to his voice. “And therefore a man might deem that you, who were a woman⁠—you might have been more afraid to⁠—to deceive one who was so young that he knew naught⁠—” + 

“So did I think after,” said Ragnfrid, weeping. “When I had come to know you. Soon came the time, when I would have given my soul twenty times over, to be guiltless of sin against you.” + 

Lavrans sat silent and motionless; then said his wife: + 

“You ask not anything?” + 

“What use to ask? It was he that⁠—we met his burial-train at Feginsbrekka, as we bore Ulvhild in to Nidaros⁠—” + 

“Aye,” said Ragnfrid. “We had to leave the way⁠—go aside into a meadow. I saw them bear him on his bier⁠—with priests and monks and armed yeomen. I heard he had made a good end⁠—had made his peace with God. I prayed as we stood there with Ulvhild’s litter between us⁠—I prayed that my sin and my sorrow might be laid at his feet on the Last Day⁠—” + 

“Aye, like enough you did,” said Lavrans, and there was the same shade of scorn in his quiet voice. + 

“You know not all,” said Ragnfrid, cold with despair. “Mind you that he came out to us at Skog the first winter we were wedded⁠—?” + 

“Aye,” answered the man. + 

“When Björgulv was dying⁠—Oh, no one, no one had spared me⁠—He was drunk when he did it⁠—afterwards he said he had never cared for me, he would not have me⁠—he bade me forget it. My father knew it not; he did not betray you⁠—never think that. But Trond⁠—we were the dearest of friends to each other then⁠—I made my moan to him. He tried to force the man to wed me; but he was but a boy; he was beaten⁠—Afterwards he counselled me to hold my peace, and to take you⁠—” + 

She sat a while in silence. + 

“Then he came out to Skog⁠—a year was gone by; I thought not on it so much any more. But he came out thither⁠—he said that he repented, he would have had me now, had I been unwedded⁠—he loved me. He said so. God knows if he said true. When he was gone⁠—I dared not go out on the fjord, dared not for my sin, not with the child. And I had begun⁠—I had begun to love you so!” She cried out, a single cry of the wildest pain. The man turned his head quickly towards her. + 

“When Björgulv was born⁠—oh, I thought he was dearer to me than my life. When he lay in the death-throes⁠—I thought, if he died, I must die too. But I prayed not God to spare my boy’s life⁠—” + 

Lavrans sat a long time silent⁠—then he asked in a dead, heavy voice: + 

“Was it because I was not his father?” + 

“I knew not if you were,” said Ragnfrid, growing stiff and stark where she sat. + 

Long they sat there in a deathly stillness. Then the man asked vehemently of a sudden: + 

“In Jesu name, Ragnfrid⁠—why tell you me all this⁠—now?” + 

“Oh, I know not!” She wrung her hands till the joints cracked. “That you may avenge you on me⁠—drive me from your house⁠—” + 

“Think you that would help me⁠—” His voice shook with scorn. “Then there are our daughters,” he said quietly. “Kristin⁠—and the little one.” + 

Ragnfrid sat still a while. + 

“I mind me how you judged of Erlend Nikulaussön,” she said softly. “How judge you of me, then⁠—?” + 

A long shudder of cold passed over the man’s body⁠—yet a little of the stiffness seemed to leave him. + 

“You have⁠—we have lived together now for seven and twenty years⁠—almost. ’Tis not the same as with a stranger. I see this too⁠—worse than misery has it been for you.” + 

Ragnfrid sank together sobbing at the words. She plucked up heart to put her hand on one of his. He moved not at all⁠—sat as still as a dead man. Her weeping grew louder and louder⁠—but her husband still sat motionless, looking at the faint grey light creeping in around the door. At last she lay as if all her tears were spent. Then he stroked her arm lightly downward⁠—and she fell to weeping again. + 

“Mind you,” she said through her tears, “that man who came to us one time, when we dwelt at Skog? He that knew all the ancient lays? Mind you the lay of a dead man that was come back from the world of torment, and told his son the story of all that he had seen? There was heard a groaning from hell’s deepest ground, the querns of untrue women grinding mould for their husbands’ meat. Bloody were the stones they dragged at⁠—bloody hung the hearts from out their breasts⁠—” + 

Lavrans was silent. + 

“All these years have I thought upon those words,” said Ragnfrid. “Every day ’twas as though my heart was bleeding, for every day methought I ground you mould for meat⁠—” + 

Lavrans knew not himself why he answered as he did. It seemed to him his breast was empty and hollow, like the breast of a man that has had the blood-eagle carven through his back. But he laid his hand heavily and wearily on his wife’s head, and spoke: + 

“Mayhap mould must needs be ground, my Ragnfrid, before the meat can grow.” + 

When she tried to take his hand and kiss it, he snatched it away. But then he looked down at his wife, took one of her hands and laid it on his knee, and bowed his cold, stiffened face down upon it. And so they sat on, motionless, speaking no word more. + 