Part + 

II + 

The Garland + 

I + 

Aasmund Björgulfsön’s church-boat stood in round the point of Hovedö early one Sunday at the end of April, while the bells were ringing in the cloister-church and were answered from across the bay by the chime of bells from the town, now louder and now fainter as the breeze rose or fell. + 

Light, fluted clouds were floating over the high, pale-blue heavens, and the sun was glittering on the dancing ripples of the water. It was quite springlike along the shores; the fields lay almost bare of snow, and over the leaf-tree thickets the light had a yellow shimmer and the shadows were blue. But in the pine-forests up on the high ridges, which framed in the settled lands of Akersbygd, there were glimpses of snow, and on the far blue fells to the westward, beyond the fjord, there still showed many flashes of white. + 

Kristin was standing in the bow of the boat with her father, and Gyrid, Aasmund’s wife. She gazed at the town, with all the light-hued churches and stone buildings that rose above the swarm of grey-brown wooden houses and bare treetops. The wind ruffled the skirts of her cloak and snatched at her hair beneath her hood. + 

They had let the cattle out at Skog the day before, and a great longing had come on her to be at Jörundgaard. It would be a long time still before they could let the cattle out there⁠—she longed with tender pity for the lean, winter-worn cows in the dark byres; they would have to wait and suffer a long while yet. Her mother, Ulvhild, who had slept in her arms each night all these years, little Ramborg⁠—she yearned so much for them; she longed for all the folk at home, and the horses and the dogs, for Kortelin, whom Ulvhild was to have while she was gone, and for her father’s hawks as they sat there on their perches with their hoods over their heads. She saw the horsehide gloves that hung beside them to wear when you took them on to your wrist, and the ivory staves to scratch them with. + 

It was as if all the woe of the last winter had gone far away from her and she only saw her home as it used to be. They had told her, too, that none thought ill of her in the parish⁠—Sira Eirik did not believe that story; he was angry and grieved at what Bentein had done. Bentein had fled from Hamar; ’twas said he had gone to Sweden. So things were not so bad between them and their neighbour as she had feared. + 

On the journey down to Oslo they had stayed as guests at Simon’s home, and she had come to know his mother and sisters⁠—Sir Andres was in Sweden still. She had not felt at ease there, and her dislike of the Dyfrin folk was all the stronger that she could think of no good ground for it. All the way thither, she had said to herself that they had no cause to be proud or to think themselves better than her kin⁠—no man knew aught of Reidar Darre, the Birch-leg, before King Sverre got him the widow of the Dyfrin Baron to wife. But lo! they were not proud at all; and when Simon himself spoke one night of his forefather: “I have found out now for sure⁠—he was a comb-maker⁠—so ’tis as though you were to come into a kingly stock⁠—almost, Kristin,” said he. “Take heed to your tongue, boy,” said his mother but they all laughed together. It vexed her strangely when she thought of her father; he laughed much, if Simon gave him the least cause⁠—a thought came to her dimly that maybe her father would gladly have had more laughter in his life. But ’twas not to her mind that he should like Simon so much. + 

They had all been at Skog over Easter. She had found that her uncle was a hard master to his farmers and serving-folk⁠—she had met one and another who asked after her mother and spoke lovingly of Lavrans: they had better times when he lived here. Aasmund’s mother, Lavrans’ stepmother, lived on the manor in a house by herself; she was not so very old, but sickly and failing. Lavrans had but seldom spoken of her at home. Once when Kristin asked him if he had had a hard stepmother, her father answered: “She never did much to me of either good or ill.” + 

Kristin felt for her father’s hand, and he pressed hers: + 

“You will be happy soon enough, my daughter, with the good Sisters⁠—you will have other things to think of besides longing to be home with us⁠—” + 

They sailed so near by the town that the smell of tar and salt fish was borne out to them from the wharves. Gyrid named all the churches, the traders’ quarters and the open places which ran up from the water’s edge⁠—Kristin remembered nothing from the time she was here before but the great heavy towers of St. Halvard’s church. They sailed westward past the whole town and laid to at the convent pier. + 

Kristin walked between her father and her uncle through a cluster of warehouses, and came out upon a road which led up through the fields. Simon came after, leading Gyrid by the hand. The serving-folk stayed behind to help some men from the convent load the baggage upon a cart. + 

Nonneseter and the whole Leiran quarter lay within the boundaries of the town grazing-grounds, but there were but a few clusters of houses here and there along the roadside. The larks were trilling over their heads in the pale-blue sky, and the small yellow flowers of the coltsfoot were thickly sprinkled over the wan clay slopes, but along by the fences the roots of the grass were green. + 

When they were through the gate and were come into the cloister, all the nuns came marching two by two towards them from the church, while song and music streamed out after them through the open door. + 

Ill at ease, Kristin watched the many black-robed women with white linen wimples about their faces. She curtsied low, and the men bowed with their hats held close to their breasts. After the nuns came a flock of young maidens⁠—some of them but children⁠—in gowns of undyed wadmal, their waists bound with belts of twined black and white, and their hair braided tightly back from their faces with cords of the same black and white. Without thinking, Kristin put on a bold and forward look as the young maids passed, for she felt bashful, and was afraid they must think she looked countrified and foolish. + 

The convent was so glorious that she was quite overcome. All the buildings round the inner court were of grey stone; on the north side the main wall of the church stood up high above the other houses; it had two tiers of roofs and towers at the west end. The court itself was laid with stone flags, and round the whole there ran a covered way whose roof was borne on pillars fairly wrought. In the midst of the court stood a stone statue of the Mater Misericordiae, spreading her cloak over some kneeling figures. + 

Then a lay-sister came and prayed them to go with her to the Abbess’ parlour. The Lady Groa Guttormsdatter was a tall and stoutly-made old woman⁠—she would have been comely had she not had so many hairs about her mouth. Her voice was deep like a man’s. But her bearing was gentle and kindly⁠—she called to mind that she had known Lavrans’ father and mother, and asked after his wife and his other children. Last she spoke to Kristin in friendly wise: + 

“I have heard good report of you, and you look to be wise and well nurtured⁠—sure I am you will give us no cause for miscontent. I have heard that you are plighted to this good and wellborn man, Simon Andressön, whom I see here⁠—it seems to us that ’twas wise counsel of your father and your husband to be, to grant you leave to live here awhile in the Virgin Mary’s house, that you may learn to obey and serve before you are called to rule and to command. Now would I have you lay to heart this counsel: that you learn to find joy in prayer and the worship of God, that you may use yourself in all your doings to remember your Creator, God’s gentle Mother, and all the Saints who have given us the best patterns of strength, uprightness, faithfulness and all the virtues you must show forth in guiding your people and your goods and nurturing your children. And you will learn in this house, too, to take good heed of time, for here every hour has its use and its task also. Many young maids and women love all too well to lie abed late of a morning, and sit long at table of an evening in idle talk⁠—yet look not you as you were one of these. Yet may you learn much in the year you are here that may profit you both here on earth and in our heavenly home.” + 

Kristin curtsied and kissed her hand. After that Lady Groa bade Kristin go with a monstrously fat old nun, whom she called Sister Potentia, over to the nuns’ refectory. The men and Gyrid she asked to dine with her in another house. + 

The refectory was a great and fair room with a stone floor and pointed windows with glass panes. There was a doorway into another room, where, Kristin could see, there must be glass windows too, for the sun shone in. + 

The Sisters were already seated at the table waiting for their food⁠—the elder nuns upon a cushioned stone-bench along the wall under the windows; the younger Sisters and the bareheaded maidens in light-hued wadmal dresses sat upon a wooden bench on the outer side of the board. In the next room a board was laid too; this was for the commoners and the lay-servants; there were a few old men amongst them. These folk did not wear the convent habit, but were none the less clad soberly in dark raiment. + 

Sister Potentia showed Kristin to a seat on the outer bench, but went and placed herself near to the Abbess’ high-seat at the end of the board⁠—the high-seat was empty today. + 

All rose, both in this room and in the side room, while the Sisters said grace. After that a fair, young nun went and stood at a lectern placed in the doorway between the two chambers. And while the lay-sisters in the greater room, and two of the youngest nuns in the side room, bore in food and drink, the nun read in a high and sweet voice, and without stopping or tripping at a single word, the story of St. Theodora and St. Didymus. + 

At first Kristin was thinking most of minding her table-manners, for she saw all the Sisters and the young maids bore them as seemly and ate as nicely as though they had been sitting at the finest feast. There was abundance of the best food and drink, but all helped themselves modestly, and dipped but the very tips of their fingers into the dishes; no one spilled the broth either upon the cloths or upon their garments, and all cut up the meat so small that they did not soil their mouths, and ate with so much care that not a sound was to be heard. + 

Kristin grew hot with fear that she might not seem as well-behaved as the others; she was feeling ill at ease, too, in her bright dress in the midst of all these women in black and white⁠—she fancied that they were all looking at her. So when she had to eat a fat piece of breast of mutton, and was holding it by the bone with two fingers, while cutting morsels off with her right hand, and taking care to handle the knife lightly and neatly⁠—suddenly the whole slipped from her fingers; her slice of bread and the meat flew on to the cloth, and the knife fell clattering on the stone flags. + 

The noise sounded fearfully in the quiet room. Kristin flushed red as fire and would have bent to pick up the knife, but a lay-sister came noiselessly in her sandals and gathered up the things. + 

But Kristin could eat no more. She found, too, that she had cut one of her fingers, and she was afraid of bleeding upon the cloth; so she sat with her hand wrapped in a corner of her skirt, and thought of how she was staining the goodly light-blue dress she had gotten for the journey to Oslo⁠—and she did not dare to raise her eyes from her lap. + 

Howbeit, in a little she began to listen more to what the nun was reading. When the ruler found he could not shake the steadfastness of the maid, Theodora⁠—she would neither make offerings to the false gods nor let herself be given in marriage⁠—he bade them lead her to a brothel. Yet while on the way thither he exhorted her to think of her free born kindred and her honoured father and mother, upon whom everlasting shame must now be brought, and gave his word she should be let live in peace and stay a maid, if she would but join the service of a heathen goddess, whom they called Diana. + 

Theodora answered fearlessly: “Chastity is like a lamp, but love of God is the flame; were I to serve the devilwoman whom you call Diana, my chastity were no more worth than a rusty lamp without flame or oil. Thou callest me freeborn, but we are all born bondsmen, since our first parents sold us to the devil; Christ has bought me free, and I am bound to serve him, so that I cannot wed me with his foes. He will guard his dove; but should he even suffer you to break my body, that is the temple of his Holy Spirit, it shall not be counted to me for shame if so be that I consent not to betray what is His into the hands of his enemies.” + 

Kristin’s heart began to throb, for this in some way reminded her of her meeting with Bentein⁠—she was smitten by the thought that this perhaps was her sin⁠—she had not for a moment thought of God nor prayed for His help. And now Sister Cecilia read further of St. Didymus. He was a Christian knight, but heretofore he had kept his faith hidden from all save a few friends. He went now to the house where the maid was; he gave money to the woman who owned the house, and thus was the first to be let in to Theodora. She fled into a corner like a frightened hare, but Didymus hailed her as his sister and as his Lord’s bride and said he was come to save her. Then he spake with her a while, saying: was it not meet that a brother should wage his life for his sister’s honour? And at last she did as he bade her, changed clothes with him, and let herself be clad in Didymus’ coat of mail; he pulled the hat down over her eyes and drew the cape up about her chin, and bade her go out with her face hidden, like a youth who is abashed at having been in such a place. + 

Kristin thought of Arne, and was scarce able to hold back her tears. She gazed straight before her with wet eyes while the nun was reading to the end⁠—how Didymus was led to the place of execution, and how Theodora came hastening down from the mountains, cast herself at the headsman’s feet and begged that she might die in his stead. And now the holy man and maid strove together who should first win the crown; and both were beheaded on the one day. This was the eight and twentieth day of April in the year 304 after the birth of Christ, in Antioch, as was written by St. Ambrosius. + 

When they rose from the table, Sister Potentia came and patted Kristin kindly on the cheek: “Aye, you are longing for your mother, I can well believe.” And on that Kristin’s tears began to fall. But the nun made as though she did not see them, and led Kristin to the hostel where she was to dwell. + 

It was in one of the stone houses by the cloisters; a goodly room with glass windows and a big fireplace in the short wall at the far end. Along one main-wall stood six bedsteads, and along the other all the maidens’ chests. + 

Kristin wished they would let her sleep with one of the little girls, but Sister Potentia called a fat, fair-haired, grown maiden: “Here is Ingebjörg Filippusdatter, who is to be your bedfellow⁠—you must see now and learn to know each other.” And with that she went out. + 

Ingebjörg took Kristin at once by the hand and began to talk. She was not very tall, and was much too fat, above all in her face⁠—her cheeks were so plump that her eyes looked quite small. But her skin was clear, red and white, and her hair was yellow as gold, and so curly that her thick plaits twisted and twined together like strands of rope, and small locks kept ever slipping from under her snood. + 

She began straightway to question Kristin about many things, but never waited for an answer; instead she talked about herself, reckoned out the whole of her kindred in all its branches⁠—they were naught but fine and exceeding rich folk. She was betrothed, too, to a rich and mighty man, Einar Einarssön of Aganæs⁠—but he was far too old, and twice widowed; this was her greatest sorrow, she said. Yet could Kristin not mark that she took it much to heart. Then she talked a little of Simon Darre⁠—’twas a marvel how closely she had looked him over in the short moment when they were passing in the cloisters. After that she had a mind to look into Kristin’s chest⁠—but first she opened her own and brought forth all her clothes. While they were ransacking their chests, Sister Cecilia came in⁠—she rebuked them and said that this was no seemly Sunday pastime. This made Kristin unhappy again⁠—she had never been taken to task by any but her mother, and that was not the same as being chid by a stranger. + 

Ingebjörg was not abashed. After they were come to bed in the evening, she lay chattering until Kristin fell asleep. Two elder lay-sisters slept in a corner of the room; they were to see that the maidens did not take their shifts off at night⁠—for it was against the rules for the girls to undress entirely⁠—and to see that they were up in time for matins in the church. But else they did not trouble themselves to keep order in the hostel, and made as though they marked it not when the maids were lying talking, or eating the dainties which they had hidden in their chests. + 

When Kristin was awakened next morning, Ingebjörg was in the midst of a long tale already, so that Kristin almost wondered whether the other had been talking the whole night through. + 

II + 

The foreign merchants who lay in Oslo during the summer and trafficked there, came to the town in the spring about Holy Rood Day, which is ten days before the Halvards-wake Fair. To this folks streamed in from all the parishes between Mjösen and the Swedish marches, so that the town swarmed with people in the first weeks of May. This was the best time to buy from the strangers, before they had sold too many of their wares. + 

Sister Potentia had the care of the marketing for Nonneseter, and she had promised Ingebjörg and Kristin that they should go with her down to the town the day before the Halvards-wake. But about midday some of Sister Potentia’s kin came to the convent to see her; and so she could not go that day. Then Ingebjörg begged and prayed till at last she let them go alone⁠—though it was against the rules. An old peasant who was a commoner of the convent was sent with them as escort⁠—Haakon was his name. + 

Kristin had been three weeks now at Nonneseter, and in all that time she had not set foot outside the convent grounds and gardens. She wondered to see how springlike it was outside. The little woods out in the fields were pale-green; the wood anemones grew thick as a carpet round the light-coloured tree stems; white fair-weather clouds came sailing up over the islands in the fjord, and the water lay fresh and blue, slightly ruffled here and there by the light flaws of wind. + 

Ingebjörg skipped about, plucked bunches of leaves from the trees and smelt them, and peeped round after the folk they met; till Haakon chid her⁠—were these seemly goings-on for a wellborn maid, and in the convent habit too? The maidens were made to walk just behind him, hand in hand, quietly and seemly; but Ingebjörg used her eyes and her tongue all the same⁠—Haakon was somewhat deaf. Kristin, too, was wearing the novices’ garb now⁠—an undyed, light-grey wadmal dress, woollen belt and headband, and a plain, dark-blue cloak over all, with a hood turned up so that the plaited hair was quite hid. Haakon strode in front with a stout brass-knobbed staff in his hand. He was dressed in a long black gown, had a leaden Agnus Dei hanging on his breast and an image of St. Christopher in his hat⁠—his white hair and beard were so well brushed that they shone like silver in the sunshine. + 

The upper part of the town between the Nunsbeck and the bishop’s palace was a quiet neighbourhood; there were here neither shops nor taverns; most of the dwelling-places belonged to great folk from the parishes around, and the houses turned dark, windowless, timber gables to the street. But on this day whole crowds of people were roaming about the roads even up here, and the serving-folk stood loitering about the courtyard gates gossiping with the passersby. + 

When they were come out near the bishop’s palace, there was a great crush upon the place in front of Halvard’s Church and the Olav-cloister⁠—booths had been set up on the grassy slopes, and there were showmen making trained dogs jump through barrel-hoops. But Haakon would not have the maids stand and look at these things, and he would not let Kristin go into the church⁠—he said ’twould be better worth her seeing on the great Feast-day itself. + 

As they came down over the open space by St. Clement’s Church Haakon took them by the hands, for here was the greatest press of folk coming from the wharves or out from the alleys between the traders’ yards. The maidens were bound for the Mickle Yard, where the shoemakers plied their trade. For Ingebjörg had found the clothes Kristin had brought from home very good and sightly, but she said the shoes she had with her from the Dale were not fit to wear for best. And when Kristin had seen the shoes from the outland Ingebjörg had in her chest⁠—more pairs than one⁠—she felt she could not rest until she too had bought some like them. + 

The Mickle Yard was one of the largest in Oslo; it stretched from the wharves up to the Souters’ Alley, with more than forty houses round two great courts. And now they had set up booths with wadmal roofs in the courts as well. Above the roofs of these tents there rose a statue of St. Crispinus. Within the courts was a great throng of folk buying and selling, women running between the kitchens with pots and pails, children getting in the way of folks’ feet, horses being led in and out of the stables, and serving-men carrying packages to and from the warehouses. From the balconies of the lofts above, where the finest wares were sold, shoemakers and their apprentices shouted to the two maids and dangled small gaily-coloured or gold-embroidered shoes before them. + 

But Ingebjörg made her way toward the loft where Didrek the shoemaker sat; he was a German, but had a Norse wife and owned a house in the Mickle Yard. + 

The old man was standing bargaining with an esquire wearing a traveller’s cloak, and a sword at his belt; but Ingebjörg went forward unabashed, bowed and said: + 

“Good sir, will you not suffer us of your courtesy to have speech with Didrek first; we must be home in our convent by vespers; you, perchance, have no such great haste?” + 

The esquire bowed and stepped aside. Didrek nudged Ingebjörg with his elbow and asked laughing whether they danced so much in the convent that she had worn out already all the shoon she had of him the year before. Ingebjörg nudged him again and said they were still unworn, thank heaven, but here was this other maid⁠—and she pulled Kristin forward. Then Didrek and his lad bore forth a box into the balcony; and out of it he brought forth shoes, each pair finer than the last. They had Kristin sit down upon a chest that he might try them on her⁠—there were white shoes and brown and red and green and blue, shoes with painted wooden heels and shoes without heels, shoes with buckles and shoes with silken laces in them, shoes in leather of two or three hues. Kristin felt she would fain have had them all. But they cost so dear she was quite dismayed⁠—not one pair cost less than a cow at home. Her father had given her a purse with a mark of silver in counted money when he left⁠—that was for pocket money, and Kristin had deemed it great riches. But she soon saw that Ingebjörg thought it no great store to go a marketing with. + 

Ingebjörg, too, must try on some shoes for the jest of it; that cost no money, said Didrek laughing. She did buy one pair of leaf-green shoes with red heels⁠—she said she must have them on trust, but then Didrek knew her and her folks. + 

Kristin thought, indeed, that Didrek liked this none too well, and that he was vexed too, that the tall esquire in the travelling coat had left the loft⁠—much time had been taken up with the trying-on. So she chose for herself a pair of heel-less shoes of thin purple-blue leather, broidered with silver and with rose-red stones. But she liked not the green silk laces in them. Didrek said he could change these, and took the maids with him into a room at the back of the loft. Here he had coffers full of silk ribbons and small silver buckles⁠—’twas against the law, strictly, for shoemakers to trade in these things⁠—and the ribbons, too, were many of them too broad and the buckles too big for footgear. + 

They felt they had to buy one or two of the smaller things, and when they had drunk a cup of sweet wine with Didrek and he had packed the things they had bought into a wadmal cloth, the hour was grown somewhat late, and Kristin’s purse much lighter. + 

When they had come to the Ostre Stræte again the sunlight was turned golden and, by reason of the traffic in the town, the dust hung over the street in a bright haze. The evening was warm and fair, and folk were coming down from Eikaberg with great armfuls of green branches wherewith to deck their houses for the holy day. And now the whim took Ingebjörg that they should go out to the Gjeita bridge⁠—at fair-times there was wont to be so much merrymaking in the fields on the further side of the river, both jugglers and fiddlers⁠—nay, Ingebjörg had heard there was come a whole shipful of outlandish beasts that were being shown in booths down by the waterside. + 

Haakon had had a pot or two of German beer at the Mickle Yard, and was now easy and mild of mood; so when the maidens took him by the arm and begged him sweetly, he gave way at last, and the three went out towards Eikaberg. + 

Beyond the stream there were but a few small dwelling-places scattered about the green slopes between the river and the steep hillside. They went past the Minorite monastery, and Kristin’s heart sank with shame as she bethought her how she had meant to give most of her silver for the good of Arne’s soul. But she had had no mind to speak of it to the priest at Nonneseter; she feared to be asked questions⁠—she had thought that she could maybe come out to the barefoot friars and find if by chance Brother Edvin were in the cloister now. She was fain to meet him again⁠—but she knew not, either, what would be the most seemly way to get speech with one of the monks and tell him her desire. And now she had so little money she knew not whether she could buy a mass⁠—maybe she must be content to offer a thick wax-candle. + 

Of a sudden they heard a fearful yell from countless throats down by the shore⁠—a storm seemed to sweep over the press of human-beings down there⁠—and now the whole mass rushed towards them shrieking and shouting. All seemed wild with terror, and some of the runners-by cried out to Haakon and the maids that the pards were loose⁠— + 

They set out running back to the bridge, and heard folk shout to one another that a booth had fallen down and two pards had broken loose⁠—some spoke of a serpent, too⁠— + 

The nearer they came to the bridge, the worse became the crush. Just in front of them a woman dropped a little child out of her arms⁠—Haakon stood astride the little one to shield it⁠—soon after they caught sight of him far away with the child in his arms, and then they lost him. + 

At the narrow bridge the press of people was so great that the maids were pushed right out into a field. They saw folks run down to the riverbank; young men jumped in and swam, but elder folk sprang into the boats that lay there, and these were overladen in a trice. + 

Kristin tried to make Ingebjörg hear⁠—she cried out to her that they should run up to the Minorite cloister⁠—they could see the Grey Friars come running out from it, striving to gather in the terrified people. Kristin was not so frightened as the other girl⁠—they saw nothing, either, of the wild beasts⁠—but Ingebjörg had quite lost her wits. And now, when there was a fresh uproar in the throng, and it was driven back by a whole troop of men from the nearest dwellings who had armed themselves and forced their way back over the bridge, some riding and some running, and Ingebjörg nigh coming under the feet of a horse⁠—she gave a scream and set off running for the woods. Kristin had never thought the girl could have run so fast⁠—it made her think of a hunted pig⁠—She ran after her, so that they two, at least, should not be parted. + 

They were deep in the woods before Kristin could get Ingebjörg to stop⁠—they were on a little path which seemed to lead down toward the road to Trælaborg. They stood still for a little to get their breath again; Ingebjörg was snivelling and weeping, and said she dared not go back alone through the town and all the way out to the convent. + 

Nor did Kristin deem that this would be well, with the streets in such commotion; she thought they must try to find a house where they might hire a lad to take them home. Ingebjörg thought there was a bridle-path to Trælaborg further down by the shore, and along it there lay some houses, she knew. So they followed the path downward, away from the town. + 

Fearful and uneasy as they both were, it seemed to them they had gone far ere at last they came to a farmstead lying off in a field. In the courtyard there they found a band of men sitting drinking at a board under some ash trees, while a woman came and went, bearing out tankards to them. She looked wonderingly and sourly at the two maids in convent habit, and none of the men seemed to have a mind to go with them when Kristin told their need. At last, though, two young men stood up and said they would bring the girls to Nonneseter, if Kristin would give them a silver ducat. + 

She heard by their speech that they were not Norse, but she thought they seemed honest folk enough. ’Twas a shameless sum they asked, she thought, but Ingebjörg was beside herself with fright and she saw not how they could go home alone so late; and so she struck the bargain. + 

No sooner were they come to the forest path than the men drew closer to them and began to talk. Kristin liked this but ill, but she would not show she was afraid; so she answered them quietly, told of the pards and asked the men where they were from. She spied about her, too, and made as though she looked each moment to meet the serving-men they had had with them⁠—she talked as though there had been a whole band. As they went on the men spoke less and less⁠—nor did she understand much of their speech. + 

After a while she became aware that they were not going the same way she had come with Ingebjörg⁠—the course their path took was not the same; ’twas more northerly⁠—and she deemed they had already gone much too far. + 

Deep within her there smouldered a fear she dared not let herself think upon⁠—but it strengthened her strangely to have Ingebjörg with her, for the girl was so foolish that Kristin knew she must trust in herself alone to find a way out for them both. Under her cloak, she managed by stealth to pull out the cross with the holy relic she had had of her father; she clasped it in her hand, praying fervently in her heart that they might soon meet someone, and in all ways sought to gather all her courage and to make no sign. + 

Just after this she saw that the path came out on to a road and there was a clearing in the forest. The town and the bay lay far below. The men had led them astray, whether wilfully or because they knew not the paths⁠—they were high up on the mountainside and far north of Gjeita bridge, which she could see below; the road they had now met seemed to lead thither. + 

Thereupon she stopped, drew forth her purse and made to count out ten silver pennies into her hand. + 

“Now, good fellows,” said she, “we need you not any more to guide us; for we know the way from here. We thank you for your pains, and here is the wage we bargained for. God be with you, good friends.” + 

The men looked at one another so foolishly, that Kristin was near smiling. Then one said with an ugly grin that the road down to the bridge was exceeding lonely; ’twas not wise for them to go alone. + 

“None, surely, are such nithings or such fools that they would seek to stop two maids, and they in the convent habit,” answered Kristin. “We would fain go our own way alone now⁠—” and she held out the money. + 

The man caught her by the wrist, thrust his face close up to hers, and said somewhat of “kuss” and “beutel”⁠—Kristin made out he was saying they might go in peace if she but gave him a kiss and her purse. + 

She remembered Bentein’s face close to hers like this, and such a fear came on her for a moment that she grew faint and sick. But she pressed her lips together, and called in her heart upon God and the Virgin Mary⁠—and in the same instant she thought she heard hoof-falls on the path from the north. + 

She struck the man in the face with her purse so that he staggered⁠—and then she pushed him in the breast with all her strength so that he tumbled off the path and down into the wood. The other German gripped her from behind, tore the purse from her hand and her chain from her neck so that it broke⁠—she was near falling, but clutched the man and tried to get her cross from him again. He struggled to get free⁠—the robbers, too, had now heard folk coming⁠—Ingebjörg screamed with all her might, and the riders on the path came galloping forward at full speed. They burst out of the thicket⁠—three of them⁠—and Ingebjörg ran shrieking to meet them as they sprang from their horses. Kristin knew one for the esquire of Didrek’s loft; he drew his sword, seized the German she was struggling with by the back of the neck, and threshed him with the flat of his blade. His men ran after the other, caught him and beat him to their hearts’ content. + 

Kristin leaned against the face of the rock; she was trembling now that all was over, but what she felt most was marvel that her prayer had brought such speedy help. Then she caught sight of Ingebjörg, who had thrown back her hood, hung her cape loosely over her shoulders and was in the act of bringing her heavy, shining plaits of hair forward into sight upon her breast. At this sight Kristin burst out a-laughing⁠—her strength left her and she had to hold on to a tree to keep her feet, for ’twas as though the marrow of her bones was turned to water, she felt so weak; and so she trembled and laughed and cried. + 

The esquire came forward and laid a hand warily upon her shoulder: + 

“You were more frightened, I see, than you would show,” said he, and his voice was kindly and gentle. “But now you must take a hold on yourself⁠—you bore you so bravely while yet there was peril⁠—” + 

Kristin could only look up at him and nod. He had fine, bright eyes set in a narrow, pale-brown face, and coal-black hair clipped somewhat short over the forehead and behind the ears. + 

Ingebjörg had her hair in order now; she came and thanked the stranger with many fair words. He stood there still with a hand on Kristin’s shoulder while he answered her comrade. + 

“We must take these birds along,” said he to his men, who stood holding the two Germans⁠—they were from a Rostock ship, they said⁠—“we must have them along with us to the town that they may be sent to the black hole. But first must we take these two maids home to the convent. You can find some thongs, I trow, to bind them with⁠—” + 

“Mean you the maids, Erlend?” asked one of the men. They were young, stout, well-appointed yeomen, and were in high feather from the tussle. + 

Their master frowned and seemed about to answer sharply, but Kristin laid her hand upon his sleeve: + 

“Let them go, dear sir!” She shuddered a little. “Loth would we be, in truth, both my sister and I, this matter should be talked of.” + 

The stranger looked down at her⁠—he bit his lip and nodded, as though he understood her. Then he gave each of the captives a blow on the nape with the flat of his sword which sent them sprawling forwards. “Run for it then,” he said, kicking them, and both scrambled up and took to their heels as fast as they could. Then he turned again to the maidens and asked if they would please to ride. + 

Ingebjörg let herself be lifted into Erlend’s saddle, but it was soon plain that she could not keep her seat⁠—she slid down again at once. He looked at Kristin doubtfully, and she said that she was used to ride on a man’s saddle. + 

He took hold of her below the knees and lifted her up. A sweet and happy thrill ran through her to feel how carefully he held her from him, as though afraid to come near her⁠—at home no one ever minded how tight they held her when they helped her on to a horse. She felt marvellously honoured and uplifted⁠— + 

The knight⁠—as Ingebjörg called him, though he had but silver spurs⁠—now offered that maiden his hand, and his men sprang to their saddles. Ingebjörg would have it that they should ride round the town to the northcard, below the Ryenberg and Martestokke, and not through the streets. First she gave as a reason that Sir Erlend and his men were fully armed⁠—were they not? The knight answered gravely that the ban on carrying arms was not over strict at any time⁠—for travellers at least⁠—and now everyone in the town was out on a wild beast hunt⁠—Then she said she was fearful of the pards. Kristin saw full well that Ingebjörg was fain to go by the longest and loneliest road, that she might have the more talk with Erlend. + 

“This is the second time this evening that we hinder you, good sir,” said she, and Erlend answered soberly: + 

“ ’Tis no matter, I am bound no further than to Gerdarud tonight⁠—and ’tis light the whole night long.” + 

It liked Kristin well that he jested not, nor bantered them, but talked to her as though she were his like or even more than his like. She thought of Simon; she had not met other young men of courtly breeding. But ’twas true, this man seemed older than Simon⁠— + 

They rode down into the valley below the Ryenberg hills and up along the beck. The path was narrow, and the young bushes swung wet, heavily-scented branches against her⁠—it was a little darker down here, and the air was cool and the leaves all dewy along the beck-path. + 

They went slowly, and the horses’ hoofs sounded muffled on the damp, grass-grown path. She rocked gently in the saddle; behind her she heard Ingebjörg’s chatter and the stranger’s deep, quiet voice. He said little and answered as if his mind wandered⁠—it sounded almost as if his mood were like her own, she thought⁠—she felt strangely drowsy, yet safe and content now that all the day’s chances were safely over. + 

It was like waking to come out of the woods, on to the green slopes under the Martestokke hills. The sun was gone down and the town and the bay lay below them in a clear, pale light⁠—above the Aker ridges there was a light-yellow strip edging the pale-blue sky. In the evening hush, sounds were borne to them from far off as they came out of the cool depths of the wood⁠—a cartwheel creaked somewhere upon a road, dogs on the farms bayed at each other across the valley. And from the woods behind them birds trilled and sang full-throated, now the sun was down. + 

Smoke was in the air from the fires on lands under clearance, and out in a field there was the red flare of a bonfire; against the great ruddy flame the clearness of the night seemed a kind of darkness. + 

They were riding between the fences of the convent-fields when the stranger spoke to her again. He asked her what she thought best; should he go with her to the gate and ask for speech of the Lady Groa, so that he might tell her how this thing had come about. But Ingebjörg would have it that they should steal in through the church; then maybe they might slip into the convent without anyone knowing they had been away so much too long⁠—it might be her kinsfolks’ visit had made Sister Potentia forget them. + 

The open place before the west door of the church was empty and still, and it came not into Kristin’s thoughts to wonder at this, though there was wont to be much life there of an evening with folks from the neighbourhood who came to the nuns’ church, and round about were houses wherein lay-servants and commoners dwelt. They said farewell to Erlend here. Kristin stood and stroked his horse; it was black and had a comely head and soft eyes⁠—she thought it like Morvin, whom she had been wont to ride at home when she was a child. + 

“What is your horse’s name, sir?” she asked, as it turned its head from her and snuffed at its master’s breast. + 

“Bayard,” said he, looking at her over the horse’s neck. “You ask my horse’s name, but not mine?” + 

“I would be fain to know your name, sir,” she replied, and bent her head a little. + 

“I am called Erlend Nikulaussön,” said he. + 

“Then, Erlend Nikulaussön, have thanks for your good service this night,” said Kristin and proffered him her hand. + 

Of a sudden she flushed red, and half withdrew her hand from his. + 

“Lady Aashild Gautesdatter of Dovre, is she your kinswoman?” she asked. + 

To her wonder she saw that he too blushed⁠—he dropped her hand suddenly and answered: + 

“She is my mother’s sister. And I am Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby.” He looked at her so strangely that she became still more abashed, but she mastered herself and said: + 

“ ’Tis true I should have thanked you with better words, Erlend Nikulaussön; but I know not what I can say to you⁠—” + 

He bowed before her, and she felt that now she must bid him goodbye, though she would fain have spoken more with him. In the church-door she turned, and as she saw that Erlend still stood beside his horse, she waved her hand to him in farewell. + 

The convent was in a hubbub, and all within in great dismay. Haakon had sent word home by a horseman, while he himself went seeking the maids in the town; and folks had been sent from the convent to help him. The nuns had heard the wild beasts had killed and eaten up two children down in the town. This, to be sure, was a lie, and the pard⁠—there was only one⁠—had been caught before vespers by some men from the King’s palace. + 

Kristin stood with bent head and kept silence while the Abbess and Sister Potentia poured out their wrath upon the two maidens. She felt as though something were asleep within her. Ingebjörg wept and began to make excuse⁠—they had gone out with Sister Potentia’s leave, with fitting attendance, and, sure, they were not to blame for what had happened after⁠— + 

But Lady Groa said they might now stay in the church till the hour of midnight struck, that they might strive to turn their thoughts to the things of the spirit and might thank God who had saved their lives and honour. “God hath now manifested clearly to you the truth about the world,” said she; “wild beasts and the servants of the devil threaten his children there at every footstep, and there is no salvation except ye hold fast to him with prayer and supplication.” + 

She gave them each a lighted candle and bade them go with Sister Cecilia Baardsdatter, who was often alone in the church praying the whole night long. + 

Kristin put her candle upon St. Lawrence’s altar and knelt on the praying-stool. She fixed her gaze on the flame while she said over the Paternoster and the Ave Maria softly. The sheen of the candle seemed little by little to enfold her and to shut out all that was outside her and the light. She felt her heart open and overflow with thankfulness and praise and love of God and His gentle Mother⁠—they came so near to her. She had always known They saw her, but tonight she felt that it was so. She saw the world as in a vision; a great dark room whereinto fell a sunbeam; the motes were dancing in and out between the darkness and the light, and she felt that now she had at last slipped into the sunbeam. + 

She felt she would gladly have stayed forever in this dark still church⁠—with the few small spots of light like golden stars in the night, the sweet stale scent of incense and the warm smell of the burning wax. And she at rest within her own star. + 

It was as if some great joy were at an end, when Sister Cecilia came gliding to her and touched her shoulder. Bending before the altars, the three women went out of the little south door into the convent close. + 

Ingebjörg was so sleepy that she went to bed without a word. Kristin was glad⁠—she had been loth to have her good thoughts broken in on. And she was glad, too, that they must keep on their shifts at night⁠—Ingebjörg was so fat and had been so over-hot. + 

She lay awake long, but the deep flood of sweetness that she had felt lifting her up as she knelt in the church would not come again. Yet she felt the warmth of it within her still, she thanked God with all her heart, and thought she felt her spirit strengthened while she prayed for her father and mother and sisters and for Arne Gyrdsön’s soul. + 

Father, she thought⁠—she longed so much for him, for all they had been to one another before Simon Darre came into their lives. There welled up in her a new tenderness for him⁠—there was as it were a foretaste of mother’s love and care in her love for her father this night; dimly she felt that there was so much in life that he had missed. She called to mind the old, black wooden church at Gerdarud⁠—she had seen there this last Easter the graves of her three little brothers and of her grandmother, her father’s own mother, Kristin Sigurdsdatter, who died when she brought him into the world⁠— + 

What could Erlend Nikulaussön have to do at Gerdarud⁠—she could not think. + 

She had no knowledge that she had thought much of him that evening, but the whole time the thought of his dark, narrow face and his quiet voice had hung somewhere in the dusk outside the glow of light that enfolded her spirit. + 

When she awoke the next morning, the sun was shining into the dormitory, and Ingebjörg told her how Lady Groa herself had bidden the lay-sisters not to wake them for matins. She had said that when they woke they might go over to the kitchen-house and get some food. Kristin grew warm with gladness at the Abbess’ kindness⁠—it seemed as if the whole world had been good to her. + 

III + 

The farmers’ guild of Aker had St. Margaret for their patroness, and they began their festival each year on the twentieth of July, the day of St. Margaret’s Mass. On that day the guild-brothers and sisters, with their children, their guests and their serving-folk, gathered at Aker’s church and heard mass at St. Margaret’s altar there; after that they wended their way to the hall of the guild, which lay near the Hofvin hospital⁠—there they were wont to hold a drinking-feast lasting five days. + 

But since both Aker’s church and the Hofvin spital belonged to Nonneseter, and as, besides, many of the Aker farmers were tenants of the convent, it had come to be the custom that the Abbess and some of the elder Sisters should honour the guild by coming to the feasting on the first day. And those of the young maids who were at the convent only to learn, and were not to take the veil, had leave to go with them and to dance in the evening; therefore at this feast they wore their own clothes and not the convent habit. + 

And so there was great stir and bustle in the novices’ sleeping rooms on the eve of St. Margaret’s Mass; the maids who were to go to the guild feast ransacking their chests and making ready their finery, while the others, less fortunate, went about something moodily and looked on. Some had set small pots in the fireplace and were boiling water to make their skin white and soft; others were making a brew to be smeared on the hair⁠—then they parted the hair into strands and twisted them tightly round strips of leather, and this gave them curling, wavy tresses. + 

Ingebjörg brought out all the finery she had, but could not think what she should wear⁠—come what might, not her best leaf-green velvet dress; that was too good and too costly for such a peasant rout. But a little, thin sister who was not to go with them⁠—Helga was her name; she had been vowed to the convent by her father and mother while still a child⁠—took Kristin aside and whispered: she was sure Ingebjörg would wear the green dress and her pink silk shift too. + 

“You have ever been kind to me, Kristin,” said Helga. “It beseems me little to meddle in such doings⁠—but I will tell you none the less. The knight who brought you home that evening in the spring⁠—I have seen and heard Ingebjörg talking with him since⁠—they spoke together in the church, and he has tarried for her up in the hollow when she hath gone to Ingunn at the commoners’ house. But ’tis you he asks for, and Ingebjörg has promised him to bring you there along with her. But I wager you have not heard aught of this before!” + 

“True it is that Ingebjörg has said naught of this,” said Kristin. She pursed up her mouth that the other might not see the smile that would come out. So this was Ingebjörg’s way. “ ’Tis like she knows I am not of such as run to trysts with strange men round house-corners and behind fences,” said she proudly. + 

“Then I might have spared myself the pains of bringing you tidings whereof ’twould have been but seemly I should say no word,” said Helga, wounded, and they parted. + 

But the whole evening Kristin was put to it not to smile when anyone was looking at her. + 

Next morning Ingebjörg went dallying about in her shift, till Kristin saw she meant not to dress before she herself was ready. + 

Kristin said naught, but laughed as she went to her chest and took out her golden-yellow silken shift. She had never worn it before, and it felt so soft and cool as it slipped down over her body. It was broidered with goodly work, in silver and blue and brown silk, about the neck and down upon the breast, as much as should be seen above the low-cut gown. There were sleeves to match, too. She drew on her linen hose, and laced up the small, purple-blue shoes which Haakon, by good luck, had saved that day of commotion. Ingebjörg gazed at her⁠—then Kristin said laughing: + 

“My father ever taught me never to show disdain of those beneath us⁠—but ’tis like you are too grand to deck yourself in your best for poor tenants and peasant-folk⁠—” + 

Red as a berry, Ingebjörg slipped her woollen smock down over her white hips and hurried on the pink silk shift.⁠—Kristin threw over her own head her best velvet gown⁠—it was violet-blue, deeply cut out at the bosom, with long slashed sleeves flowing well-nigh to the ground. She fastened the gilt belt about her waist, and hung her grey squirrel cape over her shoulders. Then she spread her masses of yellow hair out over her shoulders and back and fitted the golden fillet, chased with small roses, upon her brow. + 

She saw that Helga stood watching them. Then she took from her chest a great silver clasp. It was that she had on her cloak the night Bentein met her on the highway, and she had never cared to wear it since. She went to Helga and said in a low voice: + 

“I know ’twas your wish to show me goodwill last night; think me not unthankful⁠—” and with that she gave her the clasp. + 

Ingebjörg was a fine sight, too, when she stood fully decked in her green gown, with a red silk cloak over her shoulders and her fair, curly hair waving behind her. They had ended by striving to outdress each other, thought Kristin, and she laughed. + 

The morning was cool and fresh with dew as the procession went forth from Nonneseter and wound its way westward toward Frysja. The haymaking was near at an end here on the lowlands, but along the fences grew bluebells and yellow crowsfoot in clumps; in the fields the barley was in ear and bent its heads in pale silvery waves just tinged with pink. Here and there, where the path was narrow and led through the fields, the corn all but met about folks’ knees. + 

Haakon walked at the head, bearing the convent’s banner with the Virgin Mary’s picture upon the blue silken cloth. After him walked the servants and the commoners, and then came the Lady Groa and four old sisters on horseback, while behind these came the young maidens on foot; their many-hued holiday attire flaunted and shone in the sunlight. Some of the commoners’ womenfolk and a few armed serving-men closed the train. + 

They sang as they went over the bright fields, and the folk they met at the byways stood aside and gave them reverent greeting. All round, out on the fields, they could see small groups of men coming walking and riding, for folks were drawing toward the church from every house and every farm. Soon they heard behind them the sound of hymns chanted in men’s deep voices, and the banner of the Hovedö monastery rose above a hillock⁠—the red silk shone in the sun, swaying and bending to the step of the bearer. + 

The mighty, metal voice of the bells rang out above the neighing and screaming of stallions as the procession climbed the last slope to the church. Kristin had never seen so many horses at one time⁠—a heaving, restless sea of horses’ backs round about the green before the church-door. Upon the sward stood and sat and lay folk dressed in all their best⁠—but all rose in reverence as the Virgin’s flag from Nonneseter was borne in amongst them, and all bowed deeply before the Lady Groa. + 

It seemed as though more folk had come than the church could hold, but for those from the convent room had been kept in front near the altar. Straightway after them the Cistercian monks from Hovedö marched in and went up into the choir⁠—and forthwith song burst from the throats of men and boys and filled the church. + 

Soon after the mass had begun, when the service brought all to their feet, Kristin caught sight of Erlend Nikulaussön. He was tall, and his head rose above those about him⁠—she saw his face from the side. He had a high, steep and narrow forehead, and a large, straight nose⁠—it jutted, triangle-like, from his face, and was strangely thin about the fine, quivering nostrils⁠—something about it reminded Kristin of a restless, high-strung stallion. His face was not as comely as she had thought it⁠—the long-drawn lines running down to his small, weak, yet well-formed mouth gave it as ’twere a touch of joylessness⁠—aye, but yet, he was comely. + 

He turned his head and saw her. She knew not how long they stood thus, looking into each other’s eyes. From that time she thought of naught but the end of the mass; she waited, intent on what would then befall. + 

There was some pressing and thronging as the folks made their way out from the overcrowded church. Ingebjörg held Kristin back till they were at the rear of the throng; she gained her point⁠—they were quite cut off from the nuns, who went out first⁠—the two girls were among the last in coming to the offertory-box and out of the church. + 

Erlend stood without, just by the door, beside the priest from Gerdarud and a stoutish, red-faced man, splendid in blue velvet. Erlend himself was clad in silk, but of a sober hue⁠—a long coat of brown, figured with black, and a black cloak with a pattern of small yellow hawks inwoven. + 

They greeted each other and crossed the green together to where the men’s horses stood tethered. While they spoke of the fine weather, the goodly mass and the great crowd of folk that were mustered, the fat, ruddy knight⁠—he bore golden spurs and was named Sir Munan Baardsön⁠—took Ingebjörg by the hand; ’twas plain he was mightily taken with the maid. Erlend and Kristin fell behind⁠—they were silent as they walked. + 

There was a great to-do upon the church-green as folk began to ride away⁠—horses jostled one another, people shouted⁠—some angry, others laughing. Many sat in pairs upon the horses; men had their wives behind them, or their children in front upon the saddle; youths swung themselves up beside a friend. They could see the church banners, the nuns and the priests far down the hill already. + 

Sir Munan rode by; Ingebjörg sat in front of him, his arm about her. Both of them called out and waved. Then Erlend said: + 

“My serving-men are both with me⁠—they could ride one horse and you have Haftor’s⁠—if you would rather have it so?” + 

Kristin flushed as she replied: “We are so far behind the others already⁠—I see not your serving-men hereabouts, and⁠—” Then she broke into a laugh, and Erlend smiled. + 

He sprang to the saddle and helped her to a seat behind him. At home Kristin had often sat thus sidewise behind her father, after she had grown too big to ride astride the horse. Still she felt a little bashful and none too safe as she laid a hand upon Erlend’s shoulder; the other she put on the horse’s back to steady herself. They rode slowly down towards the bridge. + 

In a while Kristin thought she must speak, since he was silent, so she said: + 

“We looked not, sir, to meet you here today.” + 

“Looked you not to meet me?” asked Erlend, turning his head. “Did not Ingebjörg Filippusdatter bear you my greeting then?” + 

“No,” said Kristin. “I heard naught of any greeting⁠—she hath not named you once since you came to our help last May,” said she, guilefully. She was not sorry that Ingebjörg’s falseness should come to light. + 

Erlend did not look back again, but she could hear by his voice that he was smiling when he asked again: + 

“But the little dark one⁠—the novice⁠—I mind not her name⁠—her I even fee’d to bear you my greeting.” + 

Kristin blushed, but she had to laugh too: “Aye, ’tis but Helga’s due I should say that she earned her fee,” she said. + 

Erlend moved his head a little⁠—his neck almost touched her hand. Kristin shifted her hand at once further out on his shoulder. Somewhat uneasily she thought, maybe she had been more bold than was fitting, seeing she had come to this feast after a man had, in a manner, made tryst with her there. + 

Soon after Erlend asked: + 

“Will you dance with me tonight, Kristin?” + 

“I know not, sir,” answered the maid. + 

“You think, mayhap, ’tis not seemly?” he asked, and, as she did not answer, he said again: “It may well be it is not so. But I thought now maybe you might deem you would be none the worse if you took my hand in the dance tonight. But indeed ’tis eight years since I stood up to dance.” + 

“How may that be, sir?” asked Kristin. “Mayhap you are wedded?” But then it came into her head that had he been a wedded man, to have made tryst with her thus would have been no fair deed of him. On that she tried to mend her speech, saying: “Maybe, you have lost your betrothed maid or your wife?” + 

Erlend turned quickly and looked on her with strange eyes: + 

“Hath not Lady Aashild⁠—? Why grew you so red when you heard who I was that evening,” he asked a little after. + 

Kristin flushed red once more, but did not answer; then Erlend asked again: + 

“I would fain know what my mother’s sister said to you of me.” + 

“Naught else,” said Kristin quickly, “but in your praise. She said you were so comely and so great of kin that⁠—she said that beside such as you and her kin we were of no such great account⁠—my folk and I⁠—” + 

“Doth she still talk thus, living the life she lives,” said Erlend, and laughed bitterly. “Aye, aye⁠—if it comfort her⁠—Said she naught else of me?” + 

“What should she have said?” asked Kristin⁠—she knew not why she was grown so strangely heavyhearted. + 

“Oh, she might have said”⁠—he spoke in a low voice, looking down, “she might have said that I had been under the Church’s ban, and had to pay dear for peace and atonement⁠—” + 

Kristin was silent a long time. Then she said softly: + 

“There is many a man who is not master of his own fortunes⁠—so have I heard said. ’Tis little I have seen of the world⁠—but I will never believe of you, Erlend, that ’twas for any⁠—dishonourable⁠—deed.” + 

“May God reward you for those words, Kristin,” said Erlend, and bent his head and kissed her wrist so vehemently that the horse gave a bound beneath them. When Erlend had it in hand again, he said earnestly: “Dance with me tonight then, Kristin. Afterwards I will tell how things are with me⁠—will tell you all⁠—but tonight we will be happy together?” + 

Kristin answered: “Aye,” and they rode a while in silence. + 

But ere long Erlend began to ask of Lady Aashild, and Kristin told all she knew of her; she praised her much. + 

“Then all doors are not barred against Björn and Aashild?” asked Erlend. + 

Kristin said they were thought much of, and that her father and many with him deemed that most of the tales about these two were untrue. + 

“How liked you my kinsman, Munan Baardsön?” asked Erlend, laughing slyly. + 

“I looked not much upon him,” said Kristin, “and methought, too, he was not much to look on.” + 

“Knew you not,” asked Erlend, “that he is her son?” + 

“Son to Lady Aashild!” said Kristin, in great wonder. + 

“Aye, her children could not take their mother’s fair looks, though they took all else,” said Erlend. + 

“I have never known her first husband’s name,” said Kristin. + 

“They were two brothers who wedded two sisters,” said Erlend. “Baard and Nikulaus Munansön. My father was the elder, my mother was his second wife, but he had no children by his first. Baard, whom Aashild wedded, was not young either, nor, I trow, did they ever live happily together⁠—aye, I was a little child when all this befell, they hid from me as much as they could⁠—But she fled the land with Sir Björn and married him against the will of her kin⁠—when Baard was dead. Then folk would have had the wedding set aside⁠—they made out that Björn had sought her bed while her first husband was still living and that they had plotted together to put away my father’s brother. ’Tis clear they could not bring this home to them, since they had to leave them together in wedlock. But to make amends, they had to forfeit all their estate⁠—Björn had killed their sister’s son too⁠—my mother’s and Aashild’s, I mean⁠—” + 

Kristin’s heart beat hard. At home her father and mother had kept strict watch that no unclean talk should come to the ears of their children or of young folk⁠—but still things had happened in their own parish and Kristin had heard of them⁠—a man had lived in adultery with a wedded woman. That was whoredom, one of the worst of sins; ’twas said they plotted the husband’s death, and that brought with it outlawry and the Church’s ban. Lavrans had said no woman was bound to stay with her husband, if he had had to do with another’s wife; the state of a child gotten in adultery could never be mended, not even though its father and mother were free to wed afterward. A man might bring into his family and make his heir his child by any wanton or strolling beggar woman, but not the child of his adultery⁠—not if its mother came to be a knight’s lady⁠—She thought of the misliking she had ever felt for Sir Björn with his bleached face and fat, yet shrunken body. She could not think how Lady Aashild could be so good and yielding at all times to the man who had led her away into such shame; how such a gracious woman could have let herself be beguiled by him. He was not even good to her; he let her toil and moil with all the farm work; Björn did naught but drink beer. Yet Aashild was ever mild and gentle when she spoke with her husband. Kristin wondered if her father could know all this, since he had asked Sir Björn to their home. Now she came to think, too, it seemed strange Erlend should think fit to tell such tales of his near kin. But like enough he deemed she knew of it already. + 

“I would like well,” said Erlend in a while, “to visit her, Moster Aashild, some day⁠—when I journey northwards. Is he comely still, Björn, my kinsman?” + 

“No,” said Kristin. “He looks like hay that has lain the winter through upon the fields.” + 

“Aye, aye, it tells upon a man, I trow,” said Erlend, with the same bitter smile. “Never have I seen so fair a man⁠—’tis twenty years since, I was but a lad then⁠—but his like have I never seen⁠—” + 

A little after they came to the hospital. It was an exceeding great and fine place, with many houses both of stone and of wood⁠—houses for the sick, almshouses, hostels for travellers, a chapel and a house for the priest. There was great bustle in the courtyard, for food was being made ready in the kitchen of the hospital for the guild feast, and the poor and sick too, that were dwelling in the place, were to be feasted on the best this day. + 

The hall of the guild was beyond the garden of the hospital, and folks took their way thither through the herb-garden, for this was of great renown. Lady Groa had had brought hither plants that no one had heard of in Norway before, and moreover all plants that else folks were used to grow in gardens, throve better in her herbaries, both flowers and potherbs and healing herbs. She was a most learned woman in all such matters and had herself put into the Norse tongue the herbals of the Salernitan school⁠—Lady Groa had been more than ever kind to Kristin since she had marked that the maid knew somewhat of herb-lore and was fain to know yet more of it. + 

So Kristin named for Erlend what grew in the beds on either side the grassy path they walked on. In the midday sun there was a warm and spicy scent of dill and celery, garlic and roses, southernwood and wallflower. Beyond the shadeless, baking herb-garden the fruit orchards looked cool and enticing⁠—red cherries gleamed amid the dark leafy tops, and the apple trees drooped their branches heavy with green fruit. + 

About the garden was a hedge of sweet briar. There were some flowers on it still⁠—they looked the same as other briar roses, but in the sun the leaves smelt of wine and apples. Folk plucked sprays to deck themselves as they went past. Kristin, too, took some roses and hung them on her temples, fixed under her golden fillet. One she kept in her hand⁠—After a time Erlend took it, saying no word. A while he bore it in his hand as they walked, then fastened it with the brooch upon his breast⁠—he looked awkward and bashful as he did it, and was so clumsy that he pricked his fingers till they bled. + 

Broad tables were spread in the loft-room of the guild’s hall⁠—two by the main walls, for the men and the women; and two smaller boards out on the floor, where children and young folk sat side by side. + 

At the women’s board Lady Groa was in the high-seat, the nuns and the chief of the married women sat on the inner bench along the wall, and the unwedded women on the outer benches, the maids from Nonneseter at the upper end. Kristin knew that Erlend was watching her, but she durst not turn her head even once, either when they rose or when they sat down. Only when they got up at last to hear the priest read the names of the dead guild-brothers and sisters, she stole a hasty glance at the men’s table⁠—she caught a glimpse of him where he stood by the wall, behind the candles burning on the board. He was looking at her. + 

The meal lasted long, with all the toasts in honour of God, the Virgin Mary, and St. Margaret and St. Olav and St. Halvard, and prayers and song between. + 

Kristin saw through the open door that the sun was gone; sounds of fiddling and song came in from the green without, and all the young folks had left the tables already when Lady Groa said to the convent maidens that they might go now and play themselves for a time if they listed. + 

Three red bonfires were burning upon the green; around them moved the many-coloured chains of dancers. The fiddlers sat aloft on heaped-up chests and scraped their fiddles⁠—they played and sang a different tune in every ring; there were too many folk for one dance. It was nearly dark already⁠—northward the wooded ridge stood out coal-black against the yellow-green sky. + 

Under the loft-balcony folk were sitting drinking. Some men sprang forward, as soon as the six maids from Nonneseter came down the steps. Munan Baardsön flew to meet Ingebjörg and went off with her, and Kristin was caught by the wrist⁠—Erlend, she knew his hand already. He pressed her hand in his so that their rings grated on one another and bruised the flesh. + 

He drew her with him to the outermost bonfire. Many children were dancing there; Kristin gave her other hand to a twelve-year old lad, and Erlend had a little, half-grown maid on his other side. + 

No one was singing in the ring just then⁠—they were swaying in and out to the tune of the fiddle as they moved round. Then someone shouted that Sivord the Dane should sing them a new dance. A tall, fair-haired man with huge fists stepped out in front of the chain and struck up his ballad: + 

Fair goes the dance at Munkholm + 

On silver sand. + 

There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön⁠— + 

Holds the Queen’s own hand. + 

Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön? + 

The fiddlers knew not the tune, they thrummed their strings a little, and the Dane sang alone⁠—he had a strong, tuneful voice. + 

“Mind you, Queen of the Danemen, + 

That summer fair, + 

They led you out of Sweden, + 

To Denmark here? + 

“They led you out of Sweden, + 

To Denmark here, + 

All with a crown of the red gold + 

And many a tear. + 

“All with a crown of the red gold + 

And tear-filled eyne⁠— + 

—Mind you, Queen of the Danemen, + 

You first were mine?” + 

The fiddles struck in again, the dancers hummed the new-learned tune and joined in the burden. + 

“And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön, + 

Sworn man to me, + 

Then shall you hang tomorrow + 

On the gallows tree!” + 

But ’twas Ivar Sir Alfsön, + 

All unafraid + 

He leaped into the gold-bark + 

In harness clad. + 

“God send to you, oh Dane-Queen, + 

So many a good night, + 

As in the high heavens + 

Are stars alight. + 

“God send to you, oh Dane-King, + 

So many ill years + 

As be leaves on the linden⁠— + 

Or the hind hath hairs.” + 

Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön? + 

It was far on in the night, and the fires were but heaps of embers growing more and more black. Kristin and Erlend stood hand in hand under the trees by the garden fence. Behind them the noise of the revellers was hushed⁠—a few young lads were hopping round the glowing mounds singing softly, but the fiddlers had sought their resting-places and most of the people were gone. One or two wives went round seeking their husbands, who were lying somewhere out of doors overcome by the beer. + 

“Where think you I can have laid my cloak?” whispered Kristin. Erlend put his arm about her waist and drew his mantle round them both. Close pressed to one another they went into the herb-garden. + 

A lingering breath of the day’s warm spicy scents, deadened and damp with the chill of the dew, met them in there. The night was very dark, the sky overcast, with murky grey clouds close down upon the treetops. But they could tell that there were other folks in the garden. Once Erlend pressed the maiden close to him and asked in a whisper: + 

“Are you not afraid, Kristin?” + 

In her mind she caught a faint glimpse of the world outside this night⁠—and knew that this was madness. But a blessed strengthlessness was upon her. She leaned closer to the man and whispered softly⁠—she herself knew not what. + 

They came to the end of the path; a stone wall divided them from the woods. Erlend helped her up. As she jumped down on the other side, he caught her and held her lifted in his arms a moment before he set her on the grass. + 

She stood with upturned face to take his kiss. He held her head between his hands⁠—it was so sweet to her to feel his fingers sink into her hair⁠—she felt she must repay him, and so she clasped his head and sought to kiss him, as he had kissed her. + 

When he put his hands upon her breast, she felt as though he drew her heart from out her bosom; he parted the folds of silk ever so little and laid a kiss betwixt them⁠—it sent a glow into her inmost soul. + 

“You I could never harm,” whispered Erlend. “You should never shed a tear through fault of mine. Never had I dreamed a maid might be so good as you, my Kristin⁠—” + 

He drew her down into the grass beneath the bushes; they sat with their backs against the wall. Kristin said naught, but when he ceased from caressing her, she put up her hand and touched his face. + 

In a while Erlend asked: “Are you not weary, my dear one?” And when Kristin nestled in to his breast, he folded his arms around her and whispered: “Sleep, sleep, Kristin, here in my arms⁠—” + 

She slipped deeper and deeper into darkness and warmth and happiness upon his breast. + 

When she came to herself again, she was lying outstretched in the grass with her cheek upon the soft brown silk above his knees. Erlend was sitting as before with his back to the stone wall, his face looked grey in the grey twilight, but his wide opened eyes were marvellously clear and fair. She saw he had wrapped his cloak all about her⁠—her feet were so warm and snug with the fur lining around them. + 

“Now have you slept in my lap,” said he smiling faintly. “May God bless you, Kristin⁠—you slept as safe as a child in its mother’s arms⁠—” + 

“Have you not slept, Sir Erlend?” asked Kristin, and he smiled down into her fresh-opened eyes: + 

“Maybe the night will come when you and I may lie down to sleep together⁠—I know not what you will think when you have weighed all things.⁠—I have watched by you tonight⁠—there is still so much betwixt us two that ’tis more than if there had lain a naked sword between you and me. Tell me if you will hold me dear, when this night is past?” + 

“I will hold you dear, Sir Erlend,” said Kristin, “I will hold you dear, so long as you will⁠—and thereafter I will love none other⁠—” + 

“Then,” said Erlend slowly, “may God forsake me if any maid or woman, come to my arms ere I may make you mine in law and honour. Say you this too,” he prayed. Kristin said: + 

“May God forsake me if I take any other man to my arms so long as I live on earth.” + 

“We must go now,” said Erlend a little after, “before folk waken.” + 

They passed along without the wall among the bushes. + 

“Have you bethought you,” asked Erlend, “what further must be done in this?” + 

“ ’Tis for you to say what we must do, Erlend,” answered Kristin. + 

“Your father,” he asked in a little, “they say at Gerdarud he is a mild and a righteous man. Think you he will be so exceeding loth to go back from what he hath agreed with Andres Darre?” + 

“Father has said so often, he would never force us, his daughters,” said Kristin. “The chief thing is that our lands and Simon’s lie so fitly together. But I trow father would not that I should miss all my gladness in this world for the sake of that.” A fear stirred within her that so simple as this perhaps it might not prove to be⁠—but she fought it down. + 

“Then maybe ’twill be less hard than I deemed in the night,” said Erlend. “God help me, Kristin⁠—methinks I cannot lose you now⁠—unless I win you now, never can I be glad again.” + 

They parted among the trees, and in the dawning light Kristin found her way to the guest-chamber where the women from Nonneseter were to lie. All the beds were full, but she threw a cloak upon some straw on the floor and laid her down in all her clothes. + 

When she awoke, it was far on in the day. Ingebjörg Filippusdatter was sitting on a bench near by stitching down an edge of fur, that had been torn loose on her cloak. She was full of talk as ever. + 

“Were you with Erlend Nikulaussön the whole night?” she asked. “ ’Twere well you went warily with that lad, Kristin⁠—how think you Simon Andressön would like it if you came to be dear friends with him?” + 

Kristin found a hand-basin and began to wash herself. + 

“And your betrothed⁠—think you he would like that you danced with Dumpy Munan last night? Surely we must dance with him who chooses us out on such a night of merrymaking⁠—and Lady Groa had given us leave.” + 

Ingebjörg pshawed: + 

“Einar Einarssön and Sir Munan are friends⁠—and besides he is wedded and old. Ugly he is to boot for that matter⁠—but likable and hath becoming ways⁠—see what he gave me for a remembrance of last night,” and she held forth a gold clasp which Kristin had seen in Sir Munan’s hat the day before. “But this Erlend⁠—’tis true he was freed of the ban at Easter last year, but they say Eline Ormsdatter has been with him at Husaby since⁠—Sir Munan says Erlend hath fled to Sira Jon at Gerdarud, and he deems ’tis because he cannot trust himself not to fall back into sin, if he meet her again⁠—” + 

Kristin crossed over to the other⁠—her face was white. + 

“Knew you not this?” said Ingebjörg. “That he lured a woman from her husband somewhere in Haalogaland in the North⁠—and held her with him at his manor in despite of the King’s command and the Archbishop’s ban⁠—they had two children together⁠—and he was driven to fly to Sweden and hath been forced to pay in forfeit so much of his lands and goods Sir Munan says he will be a poor man in the end unless he mend his ways the sooner.” + 

“Think not but that I know all this,” said Kristin with a set face. “But ’tis known the matter is ended now.” + 

“Aye, but as to that Sir Munan said, there had been an end between them so many times before,” said Ingebjörg pensively. “But all these things can be nothing to you⁠—you that are to wed Simon Darre. But a comely man is Erlend Nikulaussön, sure enough.” + 

The company from Nonneseter was to set out for home that same day after nones. Kristin had promised Erlend to meet him by the wall where they had sat the night before, if she could but find a way to come. + 

He was lying face downwards in the grass with his head upon his hands. As soon as he saw her, he sprang to his feet and held out both his hands, as she was about jumping from the wall. + 

Kristin took them, and the two stood a little, hand in hand. Then said Kristin: + 

“Why told you me that of Sir Björn and Lady Aashild yesterday?” + 

“I can see you know it all,” said Erlend and let go her hands suddenly. “What think you of me now, Kristin? + 

“I was eighteen then,” he went on vehemently, “ ’tis ten years since that the King, my kinsman, sent me with the mission to Vargöyhus, and we stayed the winter at Steigen⁠—she was wife to the Lagmand, Sigurd Saksulvsön⁠—I thought pity of her, for he was old and ugly beyond belief⁠—I know not how it came to pass⁠—aye, but I loved her too. I bade Sigurd crave what amends he would; I would fain have done right by him⁠—he is a good and doughty man in many ways⁠—but he would have it that all must go by law; he took the matter to the Thing⁠—I was to be branded for whoredom with the wife of him whose guest I had been, you understand⁠— + 

“Then it came to my father’s ears and then to King Haakon’s⁠—he⁠—he drove me from his court. And if you must know the whole⁠—there is naught more now betwixt Eline and me save the children, and she cares not much for them. They are in Österdal, upon a farm I owned there; I have given it to Orm, the boy⁠—but she will not stay with them. Doubtless she reckons that Sigurd cannot live forever⁠—but I know not what she would be at. + 

“Sigurd took her back again⁠—but she says she fared like a dog and a bondwoman in his house⁠—so she set a tryst with me at Nidaros. ’Twas little better for me at Husaby with my father. I sold all I could lay hands on, and fled with her to Holland⁠—Count Jacob stood my friend. Could I do aught else⁠—she was great with my child. I knew many a man had lived even so with another’s wife and had got off cheap enough⁠—if he were rich that is. But so it is with King Haakon, he is hardest upon his own kin. We were away from one another for a year, but then my father died and then she came back. Then there were other troubles. My tenants denied me rent and would have no speech with my bailiffs because I lay under ban⁠—I, on my side, dealt harshly with them, and so they brought suit against me for robbery; but I had not the money to pay my household withal; and you can see I was too young to meet these troubles wisely, and my kinsfolk would not help me⁠—save Munan⁠—he did all his wife would let him⁠— + 

“Aye, now you know it, Kristin: I have lost much both of lands and goods and of honour. True it is; you would be better served if you held fast to Simon Andressön.” + 

Kristin put her arms about his neck: + 

“We will abide by what we swore to each other yester-night, Erlend⁠—if so be you think as I do.” + 

Erlend drew her close to him, kissed her and said: + 

“You will see too, trust me, that all things will be changed with me now⁠—for none in the world has power on me now but you. Oh, my thoughts were many last night, as you slept upon my lap, my fairest one. So much power the devil cannot have over a man that I should ever work you care and woe⁠—you, my dearest life⁠—” + 

IV + 

At the time he dwelt at Skog, Lavrans Björgulfsön had made gifts of land to Gerdarud church, that masses for the souls of his father and mother might be said on their death-days. Björgulf Ketilsön’s day was the thirteenth of August, and Lavrans had settled with his brother that this year Aasmund should bring Kristin out to Skog that she might be at the mass. + 

She went in fear that something should come in the way, so that her uncle would not keep his promise⁠—she thought she had marked that Aasmund did not care overmuch about her. But the day before the mass was to be, Aasmund Björgulfsön came to the convent to fetch his brother’s daughter. Kristin was told to clothe herself in lay garb, but simply and in dark garments. There had been some carping at the Sisters of Nonneseter for going about too much without the convent walls; therefore the bishop had given order that the maidens who were not to take the veil must wear naught like to the habit of the order when they went visiting their kinsfolk⁠—so that laymen could not mistake them for novices or nuns. + 

Kristin’s heart was full of gladness as she rode along the highway with her uncle, and Aasmund grew more friendly and merry with her when he saw the maid was not so tongue-tied after all, with folk. Otherwise Aasmund was somewhat moody and downcast; he said it looked as though there would be a call to arms in the autumn and that the King would lead an army into Sweden to avenge the slaying of his son-in-law and the husband of his niece. Kristin had heard of the murder of the Swedish Dukes, and thought it a most foul deed⁠—yet all these questions of state seemed far away from her. No one spoke much of such things at home in the Dale; she remembered, too, that her father had been to the war against Duke Eirik at Ragnhildarholm and Konungahella. Then Aasmund told her of all that had come and gone between the King and the Dukes. Kristin understood but little of this, but she gave careful heed to all her uncle told of the making and breaking of the betrothals of the King’s daughters. It gave her comfort to think ’twas not everywhere as it was at home in her countryside, that a betrothal once fixed by word of mouth was held to bind nigh as fast as a wedding. Then she took courage to tell of her adventure on the evening before Halvard-wake, and asked her uncle if he knew Erlend of Husaby. Aasmund spoke well of Erlend⁠—said, he had guided his affairs unwisely, but his father and the King were most to blame; they had borne themselves as though the young lad were a very limb of the devil only because he had fallen into this misfortune. The King was over-pious in such matters, and Sir Nikulaus was angry because Erlend had lost much good land, so they had thundered about whoredom and hell fire⁠—“and there must be a bit of the daredevil in every likely lad,” said Aasmund Björgulfsön. “And the woman was most fair. But you have no call now to look Erlend’s way, so trouble yourself no more about his doings.” + 

Erlend came not to the mass, as he had promised Kristin he would, and she thought about this more than of God’s word. She felt no sorrow that this was so⁠—she had only that strange new feeling that she was cut off from all the ties that she had felt binding on her before. + 

She tried to take comfort⁠—like enough Erlend deemed it wisest that no one in whose charge she was should come to know of their friendship at this time. She could understand herself that ’twas wise. But her heart had longed so for him, and she wept when she had gone to rest in the loft-room where she was to sleep with Aasmund’s little daughters. + 

The day after, she went up into the wood with the youngest of her uncle’s children, a little maid of six years. When they were come to the pastures among the woods a little way off, Erlend came running after them. Kristin knew it was he before she had seen who was coming. + 

“I have sat up here on the hill spying down into the courtyard the whole day,” said he. “I thought surely you would find a chance to come out⁠—” + 

“Think you I came out to meet you then?” said Kristin, laughing. “And are you not afraid to beat about my uncle’s woods with dogs and bow?” + 

“Your uncle gave me leave to take my pastime hunting here,” said Erlend. “And the dogs are Aasmund’s⁠—they found me out this morning.” He patted them and lifted the little girl up in his arms. + 

“You know me, Ragndid? But say not you have spoken with me, and you can have this”⁠—and he took out a bunch of raisins and gave them to the child. “I had brought them for you,” he said to Kristin. “Think you this child can hold her tongue?” + 

They talked fast and laughed together. Erlend was dressed in a short close-fitting brown jacket and had a small red silk cap pulled down over his black hair⁠—he looked so young; he laughed and played with the child; but sometimes he would take Kristin’s hand, and press it till it hurt her. + 

He spoke of the rumours of war and was glad: “ ’Twill be easier for me to win back the King’s friendship,” said he, “and then will all things be easy,” he said vehemently. + 

At last they sat down in a meadow up among the woods. Erlend had the child on his lap; Kristin sat by his side; under cover of the grass he played with her fingers. He pressed into her hand three gold rings bound together by a cord: + 

“By and by,” he whispered, “you shall have as many as will go on your fingers⁠—” + 

“I shall wait for you here on this field each day about this time, as long as you are at Skog,” he said, as they parted. “And you must come if you can.” + 

The next day Aasmund Björgulfsön set out with his wife and children to the manor of Gyrid’s kin in Hadeland. They had been scared by the talk of war; the folk about Oslo still went in terror since Duke Eirik’s harrying of that countryside some years before. Aasmund’s old mother was so fearful, she was minded to seek shelter in Nonneseter⁠—besides, she was too weak to travel with the others. So Kristin was to stay at Skog with the old woman⁠—she called her grandmother⁠—till Aasmund came back from Hadeland. + 

About the midday hour, when the folk on the farm were resting, Kristin went to the loft-room where she slept. She had brought some clothes with her in a sheepskin bag, and now she changed her garments, humming to herself the while. + 

Her father had given her a dress of thick cotton stuff from the East, sky blue with a close pattern of red flowers; this she put on. She brushed and combed out her hair and bound it back from her face with a red silk ribbon, wound a red silk belt tightly about her waist, and put Erlend’s rings upon her fingers; all the time she wondered if he would think her fair. + 

The two dogs that had been with Erlend in the forest had slept in the loft-room overnight⁠—she called them to go with her now. She stole out round the houses and took the same path as the day before up through the hill-pastures. + 

The field amid the forest lay lonely and silent in the burning midday sun; the pine woods that shut it in on all sides gave out a hot strong scent. The sun stung, and the blue sky seemed strangely near and close down upon the treetops. + 

Kristin sat down in the shade in the borders of the wood. She was not vexed that Erlend was not there; she was sure he would come, and it gave her an odd gladness to sit there alone a little and to be the first. + 

She listened to the low hum of tiny life above the yellow, scorched grass, pulled a few dry, spicy-scented flowers that she could reach without moving more than her hand, and rolled them between her fingers and smelt them⁠—she sat with wide-open eyes sunk in a kind of drowse. + 

She did not move when she heard a horse in the woods. The dogs growled and the hair on their necks bristled⁠—then they bounded up over the meadow, barking and wagging their tails. Erlend sprang from his horse at the edge of the forest, let it go with a clap on its flank and ran down towards her with the dogs jumping about him. He caught their muzzles in his hands and came to her leading the two elk-grey, wolflike beasts. Kristin smiled and held out her hand without getting up. + 

Once, while she was looking at the dark head that lay in her lap, between her hands, something bygone flashed on her mind. It stood out, clear yet distant, as a homestead far away on a mountain slope may start to sight of a sudden, from out dark clouds, when a sunbeam strikes it on a stormy day. And it was as though there welled up in her heart all the tenderness Arne Gyrdsön had once begged for, while, as yet, she did not understand his words. With timid passion, she drew the man up to her and laid his head upon her breast, kissing him as if afraid he should be taken from her. And when she saw his head upon her arm, she felt as though she clasped a child⁠—she hid his eyes with one of her hands and showered little kisses upon his mouth and cheek. + 

The sunshine had gone from the meadow⁠—the leaden colour above the treetops had thickened to dark-blue and spread over the whole sky; little, coppery flashes like fire-tinged smoke flickered within the clouds. Bayard came down to them, neighed loudly once, and then stood stock still, staring before him. Soon after came the first flash of lightning, and the thunder followed close, not far away. + 

Erlend got up and took hold of the horse. An old barn stood at the lowest end of the meadow; they went thither, and he tied Bayard to some woodwork just inside the door. At the back of the barn lay some hay; Erlend spread his cloak out, and they seated themselves with the dogs at their feet. + 

And now the rain came down like a sheet before the doorway. It hissed in the trees and lashed the ground⁠—soon they had to move further in, away from the drips from the roof. Each time it lightened and thundered, Erlend whispered: + 

“Are you not afraid, Kristin⁠—?” + 

“A little⁠—” she whispered back, and drew closer to him. + 

They knew not how long they had sat⁠—the storm had soon passed over⁠—it thundered far away, but the sun shone on the wet grass outside the door, and the sparkling drops fell more and more rarely from the roof. The sweet smell of the hay in the barn grew stronger. + 

“Now must I go,” said Kristin, and Erlend answered: “Aye, ’tis like you must.” He took her foot in his hand: “You will be wet⁠—you must ride and I must walk⁠—out of the woods⁠—” and he looked at her so strangely. + 

Kristin shook⁠—it must be because her heart beat so, she thought⁠—her hands were cold and clammy. As he kissed her vehemently she weakly tried to push him from her. Erlend lifted his face a moment⁠—she thought of a man who had been given food at the convent one day⁠—he had kissed the bread they gave him. She sank back upon the hay.⁠ ⁠… + 

She sat upright when Erlend lifted his head from her arms. He raised himself suddenly upon his elbow: + 

“Look not so⁠—Kristin!” + 

His voice sent a new, wild pang into Kristin’s soul⁠—he was not glad⁠—he was unhappy too⁠—! + 

“Kristin, Kristin! Think you I lured you out here to me in the woods meaning this⁠—to make you mine by force⁠—?” he asked in a little. + 

She stroked his hair and did not look at him. + 

“ ’Twas not force, I trow⁠—you had let me go as I came, had I begged you⁠—” said she, in a low voice. + 

“I know not,” he answered and hid his face in her lap⁠— + 

“Think you that I would betray you?” asked he vehemently. “Kristin⁠—I swear to you by my Christian faith⁠—may God forsake me in my last hour, if I keep not faith with you till the day of my death⁠—” + 

She could say naught, she only stroked his hair again and again. + 

“ ’Tis time I went home, is it not?” she asked at length, and she seemed to wait in deadly terror for his answer. + 

“Maybe so,” he answered dully. He got up quickly, went to the horse, and began to loosen the reins. + 

Then she, too, got up. Slowly, wearily, and with crushing pain it came home to her⁠—she knew not what she had hoped he might do⁠—set her upon his horse, maybe, and carry her off with him so she might be spared from going back amongst other people. It was as though her whole body ached with wonder⁠—that this ill thing was what was sung in all the songs. And since Erlend had wrought her this, she felt herself grown so wholly his, she knew not how she should live away from him any more. She was to go from him now, but she could not understand that it should be so. + 

Down through the woods he went on foot, leading the horse. He held her hand in his, but they found no words to say. + 

When they had come so far that they could see the houses at Skog, he bade her farewell. + 

“Kristin⁠—be not so sorrowful⁠—the day will come or ever you know it, when you will be my wedded wife⁠—” + 

But her heart sank as he spoke: + 

“Must you go away, then?” she asked, dismayed. + 

“As soon as you are gone from Skog,” said he, and his voice already rang more bright. “If there be no war, I will speak to Munan⁠—he has long urged me that I should wed⁠—he will go with me and speak for me to your father.” + 

Kristin bent her head⁠—at each word he said, she felt the time that lay before grow longer and more hard to think of⁠—the convent, Jörundgaard⁠—she seemed to float upon a stream which bore her far from it all. + 

“Sleep you alone in the loft-room, now your kinsfolk are gone?” asked Erlend. “Then will I come and speak with you tonight⁠—will you let me in?” + 

“Aye,” said Kristin low. And so they parted. + 

The rest of the day she sat with her father’s mother, and after supper she took the old lady to her bed. Then she went up to the loft-room, where she was to lie. There was a little window in the room; Kristin sat herself down on the chest that stood below it⁠—she had no mind to go to bed. + 

She had long to wait. It was quite dark without when she heard the soft steps upon the balcony. He knocked upon the door with his cloak about his knuckles, and Kristin got up, drew the bolt, and let Erlend in. + 

She marked how glad he was, when she flung her arms about his neck and clung to him. + 

“I have been fearing you would be angry with me,” he said. + 

“You must not grieve for our sin,” he said sometime after. “ ’Tis not a deadly sin. God’s law is not like to the law of the land in this.⁠—Gunnulv, my brother, once made this matter plain to me⁠—if two vow to have and hold each other fast for all time, and thereafter lie together, then they are wedded before God and may not break their troths without great sin. I can give you the words in Latin when they come to my mind⁠—I knew them once.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Kristin wondered a little why Erlend’s brother should have said this⁠—but she thrust from her the hateful fear that it might have been said of Erlend and another⁠—and sought to find comfort in his words. + 

They sat together on the chest, he with his arm about her, and now Kristin felt that ’twas well with her once more and she was safe⁠—beside him was the only spot now where she could feel safe and sheltered. + 

At times Erlend spoke much and cheerfully⁠—then he would be silent for long while he sat caressing her. Without knowing it Kristin gathered up out of all he said each little thing that could make him fairer and dearer to her, and lessen his blame in all she knew of him that was not good. + 

Erlend’s father, Sir Nikulaus, had been so old before he had children, he had not patience enough nor strength enough left to rear them up himself; both the sons had grown up in the house of Sir Baard Petersön at Hestnæs. Erlend had no sisters and no brother save Gunnulv; he was one year younger and was a priest at Christ’s Church in Nidaros. “He is dearest to me of all mankind save only you.” + 

Kristin asked if Gunnulv were like him, but Erlend laughed and said they were much unlike, both in mind and body. Now Gunnulv was in foreign lands studying⁠—he had been away these three years, but had sent letters home twice, the last a year ago, when he thought to go from St. Geneviève’s in Paris and make his way to Rome. “He will be glad, Gunnulv, when he comes home and finds me wed,” said Erlend. + 

Then he spoke of the great heritage he had had from his father and mother⁠—Kristin saw he scarce knew himself how things stood with him now. She knew somewhat of her father’s dealings in land⁠—Erlend had dealt in his the other way about, sold and scattered and wasted and pawned, worst of all in the last years when he had been striving to free him of his paramour, thinking that, this done, his sinful life might in time be forgotten and his kin stand by him once more; he had thought he might some day come to be Warden of half the Orkdöla country, as his father had been before him. + 

“But now do I scarce know what the end will be,” said he. “Maybe I shall sit at last on a mountain croft like Björn Gunnarsön, and bear out the dung on my back as did the thralls of old, because I have no horse.” + 

“God help you,” said Kristin, laughing. “Then I must come to you for sure⁠—I trow I know more of farm work and country ways than you.” + 

“I can scarce think you have borne out the dung-basket,” said he, laughing too. + 

“No; but I have seen how they spread the dung out⁠—and sown corn have I, well nigh every year at home. ’Twas my father’s wont to plough himself the fields nearest the farm, and he let me sow the first piece that I might bring good fortune⁠—” the thought sent a pang through her heart, so she said quickly: “And a woman you must have to bake, and brew the small beer, and wash your one shirt, and milk⁠—and you must hire a cow or two from the rich farmer near by⁠—” + 

“Oh, God be thanked that I hear you laugh a little once more!” said Erlend and caught her up so that she lay on his arms like a child. + 

Each of the six nights which passed ere Aasmund Björgulfsön came home, Erlend was in the loft-room with Kristin. + 

The last night he seemed as unhappy as she; he said many times they must not be parted from one another a day longer than needful. At last he said very low: + 

“Now should things go so ill that I cannot come back hither to Oslo before winter⁠—and if it so falls out you need help of friends⁠—fear not to turn to Sira Jon here at Gerdarud; we are friends from childhood up; and Munan Baardsön, too, you may safely trust.” + 

Kristin could only nod. She knew he spoke of what she had thought on each single day; but Erlend said no more of it. So she, too, said naught, and would not show how heavy of heart she was. + 

On the other nights he had gone from her when the night grew late, but this last evening he begged hard that he might lie and sleep by her an hour. Kristin was fearful, but Erlend said haughtily: “Be sure that were I found here in your bower, I am well able to answer for myself.” She herself, too, was fain to keep him by her yet a little while, and she had not strength enough to deny him aught. + 

But she feared that they might sleep too long. So most of the night she sat leaning against the head of the bed, dozing a little at times, and scarce knowing herself when he caressed her and when she only dreamed it. Her one hand she held upon his breast, where she could feel the beating of his heart beneath, and her face was turned to the window that she might see the dawn without. + 

At length she had to wake him. She threw on some clothes and went out with him upon the balcony⁠—he clambered over the railing on the side that faced on to another house near by. Now he was gone from her sight⁠—the corner hid him. Kristin went in again and crept into her bed; and now she quite gave way and fell to weeping for the first time since Erlend had made her all his own. + 

V + 

At Nonneseter the days went by as before. Kristin’s time was passed between the dormitory and the church, the weaving-room, the book-hall and the refectory. The nuns and the convent folk gathered in the potherbs and the fruits from the herb-garden and the orchard; Holy Cross Day came in the autumn with its procession, then there was the fast before Michaelmas. Kristin wondered⁠—none seemed to mark any change in her. But she had ever been quiet when amongst strangers, and Ingebjörg Filippusdatter, who was by her night and day, was well able to chatter for them both. + 

Thus no one marked that her thoughts were far away from all around her. Erlend’s paramour⁠—she said to herself, she was Erlend’s paramour now. It seemed now as though she had dreamed it all⁠—the eve of St. Margaret’s Mass, that hour in the barn, the nights in her bower at Skog⁠—either she had dreamed it, or else all about her now was a dream. But one day she must waken, one day it must all come out. Not for a moment did she think aught else than that she bore Erlend’s child within her. + 

But what would happen to her when this came to light, she could not well think. Would she be put into the black hole, or be sent home? She saw dim pictures of her father and mother far away. Then she shut her eyes, dizzy and sick, bowed in fancy beneath the coming storm and tried to harden herself to bear it, since she thought it must end by sweeping her forever into Erlend’s arms⁠—the only place where now she felt she had a home. + 

Thus was there in this strained waiting as much of hope as terror, as much of sweetness as of torment. She was unhappy⁠—but she felt her love for Erlend as it were a flower planted within her⁠—and, spite of her unhappiness, it put forth fresher and richer blooms each day. That last night when he had slept by her side she had felt, as a faint and fleeting bliss, that there awaited her a joy and happiness in his arms such as she had not yet known⁠—she thrilled now at the thought of it; it came to her like warm, spicy breaths from sun-heated gardens. Wayside brat⁠—Inga had flung the word at her⁠—she opened her arms to it and pressed it to her bosom. Wayside brat was the name they gave to the child begotten in secret in woods or fields. She felt the sunshine and the smell of the pines in the forest pasture. Each new, creeping tremor, each sudden pulse-beat in her body she took as a reminder from the unborn babe that now she was come out into new paths⁠—and were they never so hard to follow to the end, she was sure they must lead to Erlend at the last. + 

She sat betwixt Ingebjörg and Sister Astrid and sewed at the great tapestry of knights and birds amidst leafy tendrils. And as she sewed she thought of how she should fly when the time was come and it could no longer be hidden. She saw herself walking along the highways, clothed like a poor woman; all she owned of gold and silver she bore within a bundle in her hand. She bought herself shelter on a farm somewhere in a far away countryside⁠—she went as a serving-wench, bore the water-carrier’s yoke upon her neck, worked in the byres, baked and washed, and was cursed because she would not tell who was the child’s father. Then Erlend came and found her. + 

Sometimes she dreamed that he came too late. She lay snow-white and fair in the poor peasant’s bed. Erlend stooped as he came in at the door; he had on the long black cloak he had used to wear when he came to her by night at Skog. The woman led him forward to where she lay, he sank down and took her cold hands, his eyes were sad as death⁠—dost thou lie here, my one delight⁠—? Bent with sorrow he went out with his tender son clasped to his breast, in the folds of his cloak⁠—nay, she thought not in good sooth that it would so fall out; she had no mind to die, Erlend should have no such sorrow⁠—But her heart was so heavy it did her good to dream these dreams⁠— + 

Then for a moment it stood out cold and clear as ice before her⁠—the child, that was no dream, that must be faced; she must answer one day for what she had done⁠—and it seemed as if her heart stood still with terror. + 

But after a little time had gone by, she came to think ’twas not so sure after all she was with child. She understood not herself why she was not glad⁠—it was as though she had lain and wept beneath a warm covering, and now must get up in the cold. A month went by⁠—then two; now she was sure that she had been spared this ill-hap⁠—and, empty and chill of soul, she felt yet unhappier than before. In her heart there dawned a little bitterness toward Erlend. Advent drew near, and she had heard neither from or of him; she knew not where he was. + 

And now she felt she could not bear this fear and doubt⁠—it was as though a bond betwixt them had snapped; now she was afraid indeed⁠—might it not so befall that she should never see him more? All she had been safely linked to once, she was parted from now⁠—and the new tie that bound her to her lover was such a frail one. She never thought that he would mean to play her false⁠—but there was so much that might happen⁠—She knew not how she could go on any longer day after day, suffering the tormenting doubt of this time of waiting. + 

Now and then she thought of her father and mother and sisters⁠—she longed for them, but as for something she had lost forever. + 

And sometimes in church, and elsewhere too, she would feel a great yearning to take part in all that this meant, the communion of mankind with God. It had ever been a part of her life; now she stood outside with her unconfessed sin. + 

She told herself that this cutting adrift from home and kin and church was but for a time. Erlend must take her by the hand and lead her back into it all. When her father had given consent to their love, she could go to him as of yore; when she and Erlend were wed, they could confess and do penance for their transgression. + 

She began to seek for tokens that other folk were not without sin any more than they. She hearkened more to talebearing, and marked all the little things about her which showed that not even the Sisters in the convent here were altogether godly and unworldly. These were only little things⁠—under Lady Groa’s rule Nonneseter to the world was a pattern of what a godly sisterhood should be. Zealous in their devotions, diligent, full of care for the poor and sick, were the nuns. Their aloofness from the world was not so strict but that the Sisters both had visits from their friends and kin in the parlour, and themselves were given leave to visit these in the town when aught was afoot; but no nun had brought shame upon the house by her life all the years of Lady Groa’s rule. + 

But Kristin had now an ear alive to all the little jars within the convent walls⁠—little wranglings and spites and vanities. Save in the nursing of the sick, none of the Sisters would help with the rough housework⁠—all were minded to be women of learning or skilled in some craft; the one strove to outdo the other, and the Sisters who had no turn for learning or the nobler crafts, lost heart and mooned through the hours as though but half awake. + 

Lady Groa herself was wise as well as learned; she kept a wakeful eye on her spiritual daughters’ way of life and their diligence, but she troubled herself little about their souls’ health. She had been kind and friendly to Kristin at all times⁠—she seemed to like her better than the other young girls, but that was because Kristin was apt at books and needlework, diligent and sparing of words. Lady Groa never looked for an answer from any of the Sisters; but on the other hand she was ever glad to speak with men. They came and went in her parlour⁠—tenant farmers and bailiffs of the convent, Preaching Friars from the Bishop, stewards of estates on Hovedö with whom she was at law. She had her hands full with the oversight of the convent’s great estates, with the keeping of accounts, sending out church vestments, and taking in books to be copied and sending them away again. Not the most evil-minded of men could find aught unseemly in Lady Groa’s way of life. But she liked only to talk of such things as women seldom know about. + 

The prior, who dwelt in a house by himself, northward of the church, seemed to have no more will of his own than the Abbess’ writing reed or her scourge. Sister Potentia looked after most things within the house; and she thought most of keeping such order as she had seen in the far-famed German convent where she had passed her noviciate. She had been called Sigrid Ragnvaldsdatter before, but had taken a new name when she took the habit of the order, for this was much the use in other lands; it was she, too, who had thought of making the maidens, who were at Nonneseter as pupils, and for a time only, wear novice’s dress. + 

Sister Cecilia Baardsdatter was not as the other nuns. She went about quietly, with downcast eyes, answered always gently and humbly, was serving maid to all, did for choice all the roughest work, fasted much more than she need⁠—as much as Lady Groa would let her⁠—and knelt by the hour in the church after evensong or went thither before matins. + 

But one evening, after she had been all day at the beck with two lay sisters washing clothes, she suddenly burst into a loud sobbing at the supper table. She cast herself upon the stone floor, crept among the Sisters on hands and knees, beat her breast, and with burning cheeks and streaming tears begged them all to forgive her. She was the worst sinner of them all⁠—she had been hard as stone with pride all her days; pride, and not meekness or thankfulness for Jesus’ redeeming death, had held her up, when she had been tempted in the world; she had fled thither not because she loved a man’s soul, but because she loved her own vainglory. She had served her sisters out of pride, vanity had she drunken from her water cup, self-righteousness had she spread thick upon her dry bread, while the other Sisters were drinking their beer and eating their bread-slices with butter. + 

Of all this Kristin understood no more than that not even Cecilia Baardsdatter was truly godly at heart. An unlit tallow candle that has hung from the roof and grown foul with soot and cobweb⁠—to this she herself likened her unloving chastity. + 

Lady Groa went herself and lifted up the sobbing woman. Sternly she said, that for this disorder Cecilia should as a punishment move from the Sisters’ dormitory into the Abbess’s own bed, and lie there till she was free of this fever. + 

“And thereafter, Sister Cecilia, shall you sit in my seat for the space of a week; we will seek counsel of you in spiritual things and give you such honour for your godly life, that you may have your fill of the homage of sinful mankind. Thus may you judge if it be worth so much striving, and thereafter choose whether you will live by the rules, as do we others, or keep on in exercises that no one demands of you. Then can you ponder whether you will do for love of God, that he may look down upon you in His mercy, all those things which you say you have done that we should look up to you.” + 

And so was it done. Sister Cecilia lay in the Abbess’s room for fourteen days; she had a high fever, and Lady Groa herself tended her. When she got up again, she had to sit for a week at the side of the Abbess in the high seat both in the church and in the convent, and all waited on her⁠—she wept all the time as though she were being beaten with whips. But afterward she was much calmer and happier. She lived much as before, but she blushed like a bride if anyone looked at her, whether she was sweeping the floor or going alone to the church. + 

None the less did this matter of Sister Cecilia awake in Kristin a great longing for peace and atonement with all wherefrom she had come to feel herself cast out. She thought of Brother Edvin, and one day she took courage and begged leave of Lady Groa to go out to the barefoot friars and visit a friend she knew there. + 

She marked that Lady Groa misliked this⁠—there was scant friendship between the Minorites and the other cloisters in the bishopric. And the Abbess was no better pleased when she heard who was Kristin’s friend. She said this Brother Edvin was an unstable man of God⁠—he was ever wandering about the country and seeking leave to pay begging visits to strange bishoprics. The common folk in many places held him to be a holy man, but he did not seem to understand that a Franciscan’s first duty was obedience to those set over him. He had shriven freebooters and outlaws, baptised their children, chanted them to their graves without asking leave⁠—yet, doubtless, he had sinned as much through ignorance as in despite, and he had borne meekly the penances laid upon him on account of these things. He was borne with too because he was skilled in his handicraft⁠—but even in working at this, he had fallen out with his craft-fellows; the master-limners of the Bishop of Bergen would not suffer him to come and work in the bishopric there. + 

Kristin made bold to ask where he had come from, this monk with the un-Norse name. Lady Groa was in the mood for talking; she told how he had been born here in Oslo, but his father was an Englishman, Rikard Platemaster, who had wedded a farmer’s daughter from the Skogheim Hundred, and had taken up his abode in the town⁠—two of Edvin’s brothers were armourers of good repute in Oslo. But this eldest of the Platemaster’s sons had been a restless spirit all his days. ’Twas true he had felt a call to the life of the cloister from childhood up; he had joined the Cistercians at Hovedö as soon as he was old enough. They sent him to a monastery in France to be trained⁠—for his gifts were good; while still there he had managed to get leave to pass from the Cistercian into the Minorite order. And at the time the unruly friars began building their church eastward in the fields in despite of the Bishop’s command, Brother Edvin had been one of the worst and most stiff-necked of them all⁠—nay, he had half killed with his hammer one of the men the Bishop sent to stop the work. + 

It was a long time now since anyone had spoken so much with Kristin at one time, so when Lady Groa said that now she might go, the young girl bent and kissed the Abbess’s hand, fervently and reverently; and as she did so, tears came into her eyes. And Lady Groa, who saw she was weeping, thought it was from sorrow⁠—and so she said: maybe she might after all let her go out one day to see Brother Edvin. + 

And a few days later she was told some of the convent folk had an errand to the King’s palace, and they could take her out along with them to the Brothers in the fields. + 

Brother Edvin was at home. Kristin had not thought she could have been so glad to see anyone, except it had been Erlend. The old man sat and stroked her hand while they talked together⁠—in thanks for her coming. No, he had not been in her part of the country since the night he lay at Jörundgaard, but he had heard she was to wed and he wished her all good fortune. Then Kristin begged that he would go over to the church with her. + 

They had to go out of the monastery and round to the main door; Brother Edvin durst not take her through the courtyard. He seemed altogether exceeding downcast, and fearful of doing aught that might offend. He had grown very old, thought Kristin. + 

And when she had laid upon the altar her offering for the officiant monk who was in the church, and afterward asked Edvin if he would confess her, he grew very frightened. He dared not, he said, he had been strictly forbidden to hear confession. + 

“Aye, maybe you have heard of it,” said he. “So it was that I felt I could not deny to those poor unfortunates the gifts which God had given me of his free grace. But, ’tis true, I should have enjoined on them to seek forgiveness in the right place⁠—aye, aye⁠—And you, Kristin⁠—you are in duty bound to confess to your own prior.” + 

“Nay, but this is a thing I cannot confess to the prior of the convent,” said Kristin. + 

“Think you it can profit you aught to confess to me what you would hide from your true father confessor,” said the monk more severely. + 

“If so be you cannot confess me,” said Kristin, “at least you can let me speak with you and ask your counsel about what lies upon my soul.” + 

The monk looked about him. The church was empty at the moment. Then he sat himself down on a chest which stood in a corner: “You must remember that I cannot absolve you, but I will counsel you, and keep silence as though you had told me in confession.” + 

Kristin stood up before him and said: + 

“It is this: I cannot be Simon Darre’s wife.” + 

“Therein you know well that I can counsel no otherwise than would your own prior,” said Brother Edvin. “To undutiful children God gives no happiness, and your father had looked only to your welfare⁠—that you know full well.” + 

“I know not what your counsel will be, when you have heard me to the end,” answered Kristin. “Thus stands it now with us: Simon is too good to gnaw the bare branch from which another man has broken the blossom.” + 

She looked the monk straight in the face. But when she met his eyes and marked how the dry, wrinkled, old face changed, grew full of sorrow and dismay⁠—something seemed to snap within her, tears, started to her eyes, and she would have cast herself upon her knees. But Edvin stopped her hurriedly: + 

“Nay, nay, sit here upon the chest by me⁠—confess you I cannot.” He drew aside and made room for her. + 

She went on weeping; he stroked her hand, and said gently: + 

“Mind you that morning, Kristin, I first saw you there on the stairway in the Hamar church⁠—? I heard a tale once, when I was in foreign lands, of a monk, who could not believe that God loved all us wretched sinners⁠—Then came an angel and touched his eyes, and he beheld a stone in the bottom of the sea, and under the stone there lived a blind, white, naked creature; and he gazed at it until he came to love it, for it was so frail and weak. When I saw you sitting there, so little and so frail, within the great stone house, methought it was but reason that God should love such as you. Fair and pure you were, and, yet did you need a helper and a protector. Methought I saw the whole church, with you in it, lying in the hollow of God’s hand.” + 

Kristin said low: + 

“We have bound ourselves one to the other with the dearest oaths⁠—and I have heard that in the eyes of God such a pact hallows our coming together as much as if our fathers and mothers had given us one to the other.” + 

The monk answered sadly: + 

“I see well, Kristin, someone who knew it not to the full has spoken to you of the canonical law. You could not bind yourself by oath to this man without sinning against your father and mother; them had God set over you before you met him. And is it not sorrow and a shame for his kin too, if they learn that he has lured astray the daughter of a man who has borne his shield with honour at all seasons⁠—betrothed, too, to another? I hear by your words, you deem you have not sinned so greatly⁠—yet dare you not confess this thing to your appointed priest. And if so be you think you are as good as wed to this man, wherefore set you not on your head the linen coif of wedlock, but go still with flowing hair amidst the young maids with whom you can have no great fellowship any more⁠—for now must the chief of your thoughts be with other things than they have in mind?” + 

“I know not what they have in their minds,” said Kristin wearily. “True it is that all my thoughts are with the man I long for. Were it not for my father and mother, I would gladly bind up my hair this day⁠—little would I care if I were called wanton, if only I might be called his.” + 

“Know you if this man means so to deal toward you, that you may be called his with honour some day?” asked Brother Edvin. + 

Then Kristin told of all that had passed between Erlend Nikulaussön and herself. And while she spoke she seemed not even to call to mind that she had ever doubted the outcome of it all. + 

“See you not, Brother Edvin,” she began again, “we could not help ourselves. God help me, if I were to meet him without here, when I go from you, and should he pray me to go with him, I would go. I wot well, too, I have seen now there be other folk who have sinned as well as we⁠—When I was a girl at home ’twas past my understanding how aught could win such power over the souls of men that they could forget the fear of sin; but so much have I learnt now: if the wrongs men do through lust and anger cannot be atoned for, then must heaven be an empty place. They tell of you, even, that you, too, once struck a man in wrath⁠—” + 

“ ’Tis true,” said the monk, “God’s mercy alone have I to thank that I am not called manslayer. ’Tis many years agone⁠—I was a young man then, and methought I could not endure the wrong the Bishop would have put upon us poor friars. King Haakon⁠—he was Duke then⁠—had given us the ground for our house, but we were so poor we had to work upon our church ourselves⁠—with some few workmen who gave their help more for heavenly reward than for what we could pay them. Maybe ’twas sinful pride in us beggar monks to wish to build our church so fair and goodly⁠—but we were happy as children in the fields, and sang songs of praise while we hewed and built and toiled. Brother Ranulv⁠—God rest his soul⁠—was masterbuilder⁠—he was a right skilful stonecutter; nay, I trow the man had been granted skill in all knowledge and all arts by God himself. I was a carver of stone panels in those days; I had but just finished one of St. Clara, whom the angels were bearing to the church of St. Francis in the dawn of Christmas day⁠—a most fair panel it had proved, and all of us joyed in it greatly⁠—then the hellish miscreants tore down the walls, and a stone fell and crushed my panels⁠—I struck at a man with my hammer, I could not contain me⁠— + 

“Aye, now you smile, my Kristin. But see you not, that ’tis not well with you now, since you would rather hear such tales of other folks’ frailties than of the life and deeds of good men, who might serve you as a pattern⁠—? + 

“ ’Tis no easy matter to give you counsel,” he said, when it was time for her to go. “For were you to do what were most right, you would bring sorrow to your father and mother and shame to all your kin. But you must see to it that you free yourself from the troth you plighted to Simon Andressön⁠—and then must you wait in patience for the lot God may send you, make in your heart what amends you can⁠—and let not this Erlend tempt you to sin again, but pray him lovingly to seek atonement with your kin and with God. + 

“From your sin I cannot free you,” said Brother Edvin, as they parted, “but pray for you I will with all my might.⁠ ⁠…” + 

He laid his thin, old hands upon her head and prayed, in farewell, that God might bless her and give her peace. + 

VI + 

Afterward, there was much in what Brother Edvin had said to her that Kristin could not call to mind. But she left him with a mind strangely clear and peaceful. + 

Hitherto she had striven with a dull, secret fear and tried to brave it out; telling herself she had not sinned so deeply. Now she felt Edvin had shown her plainly and clearly, that she had sinned indeed; such and such was her sin, and she must take it upon her and try to bear it meekly and well. She strove to think of Erlend without impatience⁠—either because he did not send word of himself or because she must want his caresses. She would only be faithful and full of love for him. + 

She thought of her father and mother, and vowed to herself that she would requite them for all their love, once they had got over the sorrow she must bring upon them by breaking with the Dyfrin folk. And well-nigh most of all, she thought of Brother Edvin’s words of how she must not seek comfort in looking on others’ faults; she felt she grew humble and kind, and now she saw at once how easy it was for her to win folks’ friendship. Then was she comforted by the thought that after all ’twas not so hard to come to a good understanding with people⁠—and so it seemed to her it surely could not be so hard for her and Erlend either. + 

Until the day she gave her word to Erlend, she had always striven earnestly to do what was right and good⁠—but she had done all at the bidding of others. Now she felt she had grown from maid to woman. ’Twas not only by reason of the fervent secret caresses she had taken and given, not only that she had passed from her father’s ward and was now under Erlend’s will. For Edvin had laid upon her the burden of answering for her own life, aye and for Erlend’s too. And she was willing to bear it well and bravely. Thus she went about among the nuns at Yuletide; and throughout the goodly rites and the joy and peace of the holy time, though she felt herself unworthy, yet she took comfort in thinking that the time would soon come when she could set herself right again. + 

But the second day of the new year, Sir Andres Darre with his wife and all five children came, all unlooked for, to the convent. They were come to keep the last days of Yuletide with their friends and kindred in the town, and they asked that Kristin might have leave to be with them in their lodging for a short space. + 

“For methought, my daughter,” said Lady Angerd, “you would scarce be loth to see a few new faces for a time.” + 

The Dyfrin folk dwelt in a goodly house that stood in a dwelling place near the bishop’s palace⁠—Sir Andres’ cousin owned it. There was a great hall where the serving-folk slept, and a fine loft-room with a fireplace of masonry and three good beds; in the one Sir Andres and Lady Angerd slept with their youngest son, Gudmund, who was yet a child; in another slept Kristin and their two daughters, Astrid and Sigrid, and in the third Simon and his eldest brother Gyrd Andressön. + 

All Sir Andres’ children were comely; Simon the least so, yet he too was reckoned to be well-favoured. And Kristin marked still more than when she was at Dyfrin the year before, that both his father and mother and his four brothers and sisters hearkened most to Simon and did all he would have them. They all loved each other dearly, but all agreed, without grudging or envy, in setting Simon foremost amongst them. + 

Here these good folk lived a merry, carefree life. They visited the churches and made their offerings every day, came together with their friends and drank in their company each evening, while the young folk had full leave to play and dance. All showed Kristin the greatest kindness, and none seemed to mark how little glad she was. + 

Of an evening, when the light had been put out in the loft-room, and all had sought their beds, Simon was wont to get up and go to where the maidens lay. He would sit a while on the edge of the bed; his talk was mostly to his sisters, but in the dark he would let his hand rest on Kristin’s bosom⁠—while she lay there hot with wrath. + 

Now that her sense of such things was keener, she understood well that there were many things Simon was both too proud and too shy to say to her, since he saw she had no mind to such talk from him. And she felt strangely bitter and angry with him, for it seemed to her as though he would fain be a better man than he who had made her his own⁠—even though Simon knew not there was such a one. + 

But one night, when they had been dancing at another house, Astrid and Sigrid were left behind there to sleep with a playmate. When, late at night, the Dyfrin folk had gone to rest in their loft-room, Simon came to Kristin’s bed and climbed up into it; he laid himself down above the fur cover. + 

Kristin pulled the coverlid up to her chin and crossed her arms firmly upon her breast. In a little Simon tried to put his hand upon her bosom. She felt the silken broidery on his wristband, and knew he had not taken off any of his clothes. + 

“You are just as bashful in the dark as in the light, Kristin,” said Simon, laughing a little. “Surely you can at least let me have one hand to hold,” he said, and Kristin gave him the tips of her fingers. + 

“Think you not we should have somewhat to talk of, when it so falls out that we can be alone a little while?” said he; and Kristin thought, now was the time for her to speak. So she answered: “Yes.” But after that she could not utter a word. + 

“May I come under the fur,” he begged again. “ ’Tis cold in the room now⁠—” And he slipped in between the fur coverlid and the woollen blanket she had next her. He bent one arm round the bed head, but so that he did not touch her. Thus they lay a while. + 

“You are not over-easy to woo, i’ faith,” said Simon soon after, with a resigned laugh. “Now I pledge you my word, I will not so much as kiss you, if you would not I should. But surely you can speak to me at least?” + 

Kristin wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, but still she was silent. + 

“Nay, if you are not lying there trembling!” went on Simon. “Surely it cannot be that you have aught against me, Kristin?” + 

She felt she could not lie to Simon, so she said “No,”⁠—but nothing more. + 

Simon lay a while longer; he tried to get her into talk with him. But at last he laughed again, and said: + 

“I see well you think I should be content with hearing that you have naught against me⁠—for tonight⁠—and be glad to boot. ’Tis a parlous thing, so proud as you are⁠—yet one kiss must you give me; then will I go my way and not plague you any more⁠—” + 

He took the kiss, then sat up and put his feet to the floor. Kristin thought, now must she say to him what she had to say⁠—but he was away already by his own bed, and she heard him undress. + 

The day after Lady Angerd was not so friendly to Kristin as was her wont. The girl saw that the Lady must have heard somewhat the night before, and that she deemed her son’s betrothed had not borne her toward him as she held was fitting. + 

Late that afternoon Simon spoke of a friend’s horse he was minded to take in barter for one of his own. He asked Kristin if she would go with him to look at it. She was nothing loth; and they went out into the town together. + 

The weather was fresh and fair. It had snowed a little overnight, but now the sun was shining, and it was freezing so that the snow crackled under their feet. Kristin felt ’twas good to be out and walk in the cold air, and when Simon brought out the horse to show her, she talked of it with him gaily enough; she knew something of horses, she had been so much with her father. And this was a comely beast⁠—a mouse-grey stallion with a black stripe down the back and a clipped mane, well-shapen and lively, but something small and slightly built. + 

“He would scarce hold out under a full-armed man for long,” said Kristin. + 

“Indeed, no; nor did I mean him for such a rider,” said Simon. + 

He led the horse out into the home field behind the house, made it trot and walk, mounted to try its paces, and would have Kristin ride it too. Thus they stayed together a good while out on the snowy field. + 

At last, as Kristin stood giving the horse bread out of her hand, while Simon leant with his arm over its back, he said all at once: + 

“Methinks, Kristin, you and my mother are none too loving one with another.” + 

“I have not meant to be unloving to your mother,” said she, “but I find not much to say to Lady Angerd.” + 

“Nor seems it you find much to say to me either,” said Simon. “I would not force myself upon you, Kristin, before the time comes⁠—but things cannot go on as now, when I can never come to speech with you.” + 

“I have never been one for much speaking,” said Kristin. “I know it myself; and I look not you should think it so great a loss, if what is betwixt us two should come to naught.” + 

“You know well what my thoughts are in that matter,” said Simon, looking at her. + 

Kristin flushed red as blood. And it gave her a pang that she could not mislike the fashion of Simon Darre’s wooing. After a while he said: + 

“Is it Arne Gyrdsön, Kristin, you feel you cannot forget?” Kristin but gazed at him; Simon went on, and his voice was gentle and kind: “Never would I blame you for that⁠—you had grown up like brother and sister, and scarce a year is gone by. But be well assured, for your comfort, that I have your good at heart⁠—” + 

Kristin’s face had grown deathly white. Neither of them spoke again as they went back through the town in the twilight. At the end of the street, in the blue-green sky, rode the new moon’s sickle with a bright star within its horn. + 

A year, thought Kristin; and she could not think when she had last given a thought to Arne. She grew afraid⁠—maybe she was a wanton, wicked woman⁠—but one year since she had seen him on his bier in the wake room, and had thought she should never be glad again in this life⁠—she moaned within herself for terror of her own heart’s inconstancy and of the fleeting changefulness of all things. Erlend! Erlend!⁠—could he forget her⁠—and yet it seemed to her ’twould be worse, if at any time she should forget him. + 

Sir Andres went with his children to the great Yuletide feast at the King’s palace. Kristin saw all the pomp and show of the festival⁠—they came, too, into the hall where sat King Haakon and the Lady Isabel Bruce, King Eirik’s widow. Sir Andres went forward and did homage to the King, while his children and Kristin stood somewhat behind. She thought of all Lady Aashild had told her; she called to mind that the King was near of kin to Erlend, their fathers’ mothers were sisters⁠—and she was Erlend’s light o’ love, she had no right to stand here, least of all amid these good and worthy folk, Sir Andres’ children. + 

Then all at once she saw Erlend Nikulaussön⁠—he had stepped forward in front of Queen Isabel, and stood with bowed head, and with his hand upon his breast, while she spoke a few words to him; he had on the brown silk clothes that he had worn at the guild feast. Kristin stepped behind Sir Andres’ daughters. + 

When, some time after, Lady Angerd led her daughters up before the Queen, Kristin could not see him anywhere, but indeed she dared not lift her eyes from the floor. She wondered whether he was standing somewhere in the hall, she thought she could feel his eyes upon her⁠—but she thought, too, that all folks looked at her as though they must know she was a liar, standing there with the golden garland on her outspread hair. + 

He was not in the hall where the young folk were feasted and where they danced when the tables had been taken away; this evening it was Simon with whom Kristin must dance. + 

Along one of the longer walls stood a fixed table, and thither the King’s men bore ale and mead and wine the whole night long. Once when Simon drew her thither and drank to her, she saw Erlend standing near, behind Simon’s back. He looked at her, and Kristin’s hand shook when she took the beaker from Simon’s hand and set it to her lips. Erlend whispered vehemently to the man who was with him⁠—a tall, comely man, well on in years and somewhat stout, who shook his head impatiently and looked as he were vexed. Soon after Simon led her back to the dance. + 

She knew not how long this dancing lasted⁠—the music seemed as though ’twould never end, and each moment was long and evil to her with longing and unrest. At last it was over, and Simon drew her to the drinking board again. + 

A friend came forward to speak to him, and led him away a few steps, to a group of young men. And Erlend stood before her. + 

“I have so much I would fain say to you,” he whispered, “I know not what to say first⁠—in Jesus’ name, Kristin, what ails you?” he asked quickly, for he saw her face grow white as chalk. + 

She could not see him clearly; it seemed as though there were running water between their two faces. He took a goblet from the table, drank from it and handed it to her. Kristin felt as though ’twas all too heavy for her, or as though her arm had been cut off at the shoulder; do as she would, she could not lift the cup to her mouth. + 

“Is it so, then, that you will drink with your betrothed, but not with me?” asked Erlend softly⁠—but Kristin dropped the goblet from her hand and sank forward into his arms. + 

When she awoke she was lying on a bench with her head in a strange maiden’s lap⁠—someone was standing by her side, striking the palms of her hands, and she had water on her face. + 

She sat up. Somewhere in the ring about her she saw Erlend’s face, white and drawn. Her own body felt weak, as though all her bones had melted away, and her head seemed as it were large and hollow⁠—but somewhere within it shone one clear, desperate thought⁠—she must speak with Erlend. + 

She said to Simon Darre⁠—he stood near by: + 

“ ’Twas too hot for me, I trow⁠—so many tapers are burning here⁠—and I am little used to drink so much wine⁠—” + 

“Are you well again now?” asked Simon. “You frightened folks. Mayhap you would have me take you home now?” + 

“We must wait, surely, till your father and mother go,” said Kristin calmly. “But sit down here⁠—I can dance no more.” She touched the cushion at her side⁠—then she held out her other hand to Erlend: + 

“Sit you here, Erlend Nikulaussön; I had no time to speak my greetings to an end. ’Twas but of late Ingebjörg said she deemed you had clean forgotten her.” + 

She saw it was far harder for him to keep calm than for her⁠—and it was all she could do to keep back the little tender smile, which would gather round her lips. + 

“You must bear the maid my thanks for thinking of me still,” he stammered. “Almost I was afraid she had forgotten me.” + 

Kristin paused a little. She knew not what she should say, which might seem to come from the flighty Ingebjörg and yet might tell Erlend her meaning. Then there welled up in her the bitterness of all these months of helpless waiting, and she said: + 

“Dear Erlend, can you think that we maidens could forget the man who defended our honour so gallantly⁠—” + 

She saw his face change as though she had struck him⁠—and at once she was sorry; then Simon asked what this was they spoke of. Kristin told him of Ingebjörg’s and her adventure in the Eikaberg woods. She marked that Simon liked the tale but little. Then she begged him to go and ask of Lady Angerd, whether they should not soon go home; ’twas true that she was weary. When he was gone, she looked at Erlend. + 

“ ’Tis strange,” said he in a low voice, “you are so quick-witted⁠—I had scarce believed it of you.” + 

“Think you not I have had to learn to hide and be secret?” said she gloomily. + 

Erlend’s breath came heavily; he was still very pale. + 

“ ’Tis so then?” he whispered. “Yet did you promise me to turn to my friends if this should come to pass. God knows, I have thought of you each day, in dread that the worst might have befallen⁠—” + 

“I know well what you mean by the worst,” said Kristin shortly. “That you have no need to fear. To me what seemed the worst was that you would not send me one word of greeting⁠—can you not understand that I am living there amongst the nuns⁠—like a stranger bird⁠—?” She stopped⁠—for she felt that the tears were coming. + 

“Is it therefore you are with the Dyfrin folk now?” he asked. Then such grief came upon her that she could make no answer. + 

She saw Lady Angerd and Simon come through the doorway. Erlend’s hand lay upon his knee, near her, and she could not take it. + 

“I must have speech with you,” said he eagerly, “we have not said a word to one another we should have said⁠—” + 

“Come to mass in the Maria Church at Epiphany,” said Kristin quickly, as she rose and went to meet the others. + 

Lady Angerd showed herself most loving and careful of Kristin on the way home, and herself helped her to bed. With Simon she had no talk until the day after. Then he said: + 

“How comes it that you bear messages betwixt this Erlend and Ingebjörg Filippusdatter? ’Tis not fit you should meddle in the matter, if there be hidden dealings between them!” + 

“Most like there is naught in it,” said Kristin. “She is but a chatterer.” + 

“Methinks too,” said Simon, “you should have taken warning by what’s past, and not trusted yourself out in the wildwood paths alone with that magpie.” But Kristin reminded him hotly, that it was not their fault they had strayed and lost themselves. Simon said no more. + 

The next day the Dyfrin folks took her back to the convent, before they themselves left for home. + 

Erlend came to evensong in the convent church every evening for a week without Kristin getting a chance to change a word with him. She felt as she thought a hawk must feel sitting chained to its perch with its hood over its eyes. Every word that had passed between them at their last meeting made her unhappy too⁠—it should never have been like that. It was of no use to say to herself: it had come upon them so suddenly, they had hardly known what they said. + 

But one afternoon in the twilight there came to the parlour a comely woman, who looked like a townsman’s wife. She asked for Kristin Lavransdatter, and said she was the wife of a mercer and her husband had come from Denmark of late with some fine cloaks; Aasmund Björgulfsön had a mind to give one to his brother’s daughter, and the maid was to go with her and choose for herself. + 

Kristin was given leave to go with the woman. She thought it was unlike her uncle to wish to give her a costly gift, and strange that he should send an unknown woman to fetch her. The woman was sparing of her words at first, and said little in answer to Kristin’s questions, but when they were come down to the town, she said of a sudden: + 

“I will not play you false, fair child that you are⁠—I will tell you all this thing as it is, and you must do as you deem best. ’Twas not your uncle who sent me, but a man⁠—maybe you can guess his name, and if you cannot, then you shall not come with me. I have no husband⁠—I make a living for myself and mine by keeping a house of call and selling beer; for such a one it boots not to be too much afraid either of sin or of the watchmen⁠—but I will not lend my house for you to be betrayed inside my doors.” + 

Kristin stood still, flushing red. She was strangely sore and ashamed for Erlend’s sake. The woman said: + 

“I will go back with you to the convent, Kristin⁠—but you must give me somewhat for my trouble⁠—the knight promised me a great reward; but I, too, was fair once, and I, too, was betrayed. And ’twould not be amiss if you should name me in your prayers tonight⁠—they call me Brynhild Fluga.” + 

Kristin drew a ring off her finger and gave it to the woman: + 

“ ’Tis fairly done of you, Brynhild⁠—but if the man be my kinsman Erlend Nikulaussön, then have I naught to fear; he would have me to make peace betwixt him and my uncle. You may set your mind at ease⁠—but I thank you none the less that you would have warned me.” + 

Brynhild Fluga turned away to hide a smile. + 

She led Kristin by the alleys behind St. Clement’s Church northward towards the river. Here a few small dwelling-places stood by themselves along the riverbank. They went towards one of them, along a path between fences, and here Erlend came to meet them. He looked about him on all sides, then took off his cloak, wrapped it about Kristin, and pulled the hood over her face. + 

“What think you of this device,” he asked, quickly and low. “Think you ’tis a great wrong I do?⁠—yet needs must I speak with you.” + 

“It boots but little now, I trow, to think what is right and what is wrong,” said Kristin. + 

“Speak not so,” begged Erlend. “I bear the blame⁠—Kristin, every day and every night have I longed for you,” he whispered close to her. + 

A shudder passed through her as she met his eyes for a moment. She felt it as guilt in her, when he looked so at her, that she had thought of anything but her love for him. + 

Brynhild Fluga had gone on before. Erlend asked, when they were come into the courtyard: + 

“Would you that we should go into the living-room, or shall we talk up in the loft-room?” + 

“As you will,” answered Kristin; and they mounted to the loft-room. + 

The moment he had barred the door behind them she was in his arms⁠— + 

She knew not how long she had lain folded thus in his arms, when Erlend said: + 

“Now must we say what has to be said, my Kristin⁠—I scarce dare let you stay here longer.” + 

“I dare stay here all night long if you would have me stay,” she whispered. + 

Erlend pressed his cheek to hers. + 

“Then were I not your friend. ’Tis bad enough as it is, but you shall not lose your good name for my sake.” + 

Kristin did not answer⁠—but a soreness stirred within her; how could he speak thus⁠—he who had lured her here to Brynhild Fluga’s house; she knew not why, but she felt it was no honest place. And he had looked that all should go as it had gone, of that she was sure. + 

“I have thought at times,” said Erlend again, “that if there be no other way, I must bear you off by force⁠—into Sweden. Lady Ingebjörg welcomed me kindly in the autumn and was mindful of our kinship. But now do I suffer for my sins⁠—I have fled the land before, as you know⁠—and I would not they should name you as the like of that other.” + 

“Take me home with you to Husaby,” said Kristin low. “I cannot bear to be parted from you, and to live on among the maids at the convent. Both your kin and mine would surely hearken to reason, and let us come together and be reconciled with them⁠—” + 

Erlend clasped her to him and groaned: + 

“I cannot bring you to Husaby, Kristin.” + 

“Why can you not?” she asked softly. + 

“Eline came thither in the autumn,” said he after a moment. “I cannot move her to leave the place,” he went on hotly, “not unless I bear her to the sledge by force and drive away with her. And that methought I could not do⁠—she has brought both our children home with her.” + 

Kristin felt herself sinking, sinking. In a voice breaking with fear, she said: + 

“I deemed you were parted from her.” + 

“So deemed I, too,” answered Erlend shortly. “But she must have heard in Österdal, where she was, that I had thoughts of marriage. You saw the man with me at the Yuletide feast⁠—’twas my foster-father, Baard Petersön of Hestnæs. I went to him when I came from Sweden; I went to my kinsman Heming Alvsön in Saltviken, too; I talked with both about my wish to wed, and begged their help. Eline must have come to hear of it⁠— + 

“I bade her ask what she would for herself and the children⁠—but Sigurd, her husband⁠—they look not that he should live the winter out⁠—and then none could deny us if we would live together⁠— + 

“I lay in the stable with Haftor and Ulf, and Eline lay in the hall in my bed. I trow my men had a rare jest to laugh at behind my back⁠—” + 

Kristin could not say a word. A little after, Erlend spoke again: + 

“See you, the day we pledge each other at our espousals, she must understand that all is over between her and me⁠—she has no power over me any more⁠— + 

“But ’tis hard for the children. I had not seen them for a year⁠—they are fair children⁠—and little can I do to give them a happy lot. ’Twould not have helped them greatly had I been able to wed their mother.” + 

Tears began to roll down over Kristin’s cheeks. Then Erlend said: + 

“Heard you what I said but now, that I had talked with my kinsfolk? Aye, they were glad enough that I was minded to wed. Then I said ’twas you I would have and none other.” + 

“And they liked not that?” asked Kristin at length, forlornly. + 

“See you not?” said Erlend gloomily, “they could say but one thing⁠—they cannot and they will not ride with me to your father, until this bargain ’twixt you and Simon Andressön is undone again. It has made it none the easier for us, Kristin, that you have spent your Yuletide with the Dyfrin folk.” + 

Kristin gave way altogether and wept noiselessly. She had felt ever that there was something of wrong and dishonour in her love, and now she knew the fault was hers. + 

She shook with the cold when she got up soon after, and Erlend wrapped her in both the cloaks. It was quite dark now without, and Erlend went with her as far as St. Clement’s Church; then Brynhild brought her the rest of the way to Nonneseter. + 

VII + 

A week later Brynhild Fluga came with the word that the cloak was ready, and Kristin went with her and met Erlend in the loft-room as before. + 

When they parted, he gave her a cloak: “So that you may have something to show in the convent,” said he. It was of blue velvet with red silk inwoven, and Erlend bade her mark that ’twas of the same hues as the dress she had worn that day in the woods. Kristin wondered it should make her so glad that he said this⁠—she thought he had never given her greater happiness than when he had said these words. + 

But now they could no longer make use of this way of meeting, and it was not easy to find a new one. But Erlend came often to vespers at the convent church, and sometimes Kristin would make herself an errand after the service up to the commoners’ houses; and then they would snatch a few words together by stealth up by the fences in the murk of the winter evening. + 

Then Kristin thought of asking leave of Sister Potentia to visit some old, crippled women, alms-folk of the convent, who dwelt in a cottage standing in one of the fields. Behind the cottage was an outhouse where the women kept a cow; Kristin offered to tend it for them; and while she was there Erlend would join her and she would let him in. + 

She wondered a little to mark that, glad as Erlend was to be with her, it seemed to rankle in his mind that she could devise such a plan. + 

“ ’Twas no good day for you when you came to know me,” said he one evening. “Now have you learnt to follow the ways of deceit.” + 

“You ought not to blame me,” answered Kristin sadly. + 

“ ’Tis not you I blame,” said Erlend quickly, with a shamed look. + 

“I had not thought myself,” went on Kristin, “that ’twould come so easy to me to lie. But one can do what one must do.” + 

“Nay, ’tis not so at all times,” said Erlend as before. “Mind you not last winter, when you could not bring yourself to tell your betrothed that you would not have him?” + 

To this Kristin answered naught, but only stroked his face. + 

She never felt so strongly how dear Erlend was to her, as when he said things like this that made her grieve or wonder. She was glad when she could take upon herself the blame for all that was shameful and wrong in their love. Had she found courage to speak to Simon as she should have done, they might have been a long way now on the road to have all put in order. Erlend had done all he could when he had spoken of their wedding to his kinsmen. She said this to herself when the days in the convent grew long and evil⁠—Erlend had wished to make all things right and good again. With little tender smiles she thought of him as he drew a picture of their wedding for her⁠—she should ride to church in silks and velvet, she should be led to the bridal bed with the high golden crown on her flowing hair⁠—“your lovely, lovely hair,” he said, drawing her plaits through his hand. + 

“Yet can it not be the same to you as though I had never been yours,” said Kristin musingly, once when he talked thus. + 

Then he clasped her to him wildly: + 

“Can I call to mind the first time I drank in Yuletide think you, or the first time I saw the hills at home turn green when winter was gone? Aye, well do I mind the first time you were mine, and each time since⁠—but to have you for my own is like keeping Yule and hunting birds on green hillsides forever⁠—” + 

Happily she nestled to him. Not that she ever thought for a moment it would turn out as Erlend was so sure it would⁠—Kristin felt that before long a day of judgment must come upon them. It could not be that things should go well for them in the end.⁠ ⁠… But she was not so much afraid⁠—she was much more afraid Erlend might have to go northward before it all came to light, and she be left behind, parted from him. He was over at the castle at Akersnes now; Munan Baardsön was posted there while the bodyguard was at Tunsberg, where the King lay grievously sick. But sometime Erlend must go home and see to his possessions. That she was afraid of his going home to Husaby because Eline sat there waiting for him, she would not own even to herself; and neither would she own that she was less afraid to be taken in sin along with Erlend, than of standing forth alone and telling Simon and her father what was in her heart. + 

Almost she could have wished for punishment to come upon her, and that soon. For now she had no other thought than of Erlend; she longed for him in the day and dreamed of him at night; she could not feel remorse, but she took comfort in thinking the day would come when she would have to pay dear for all they had snatched by stealth. And in the short evening hours she could be with Erlend in the almswomen’s cowshed, she threw herself into his arms with as much passion as if she knew she had paid with her soul already that she might be his. + 

But time went on, and it seemed as though Erlend might have the good fortune he had counted on. Kristin never marked that any in the convent mistrusted her. Ingebjörg, indeed, had found out that she met Erlend, but Kristin saw the other never dreamed ’twas aught else than a little passing sport. That a maid of good kindred, promised in marriage, should dare wish to break the bargain her kinsfolk had made, such a thought would never come to Ingebjörg, Kristin saw. And once more a pang of terror shot through her⁠—it might be ’twas a quite unheard of thing, this she had taken in hand. And at this thought she wished again that discovery might come, and all be at an end. + 

Easter came. Kristin knew not how the winter had gone; every day she had not seen Erlend had been long as an evil year, and the long evil days had linked themselves together into weeks without end; but now it was spring and Easter was come, she felt ’twas no time since the Yuletide feast. She begged Erlend not to seek her till the Holy Week was gone by; and he yielded to her in this, as he did to all her wishes, thought Kristin. It was as much her own blame as his that they had sinned together in not keeping the Lenten fast. But Easter she was resolved they should keep. Yet it was misery not to see him. Maybe he would have to go soon; he had said naught of it, but she knew that now the King lay dying, and mayhap this might bring some turn in Erlend’s fortunes, she thought. + 

Thus things stood with her, when one of the first days after Easter word was brought her to go down to the parlour to her betrothed. + 

As soon as he came toward her and held out his hand, she felt there was somewhat amiss⁠—his face was not as it was wont to be; his small, grey eyes did not laugh, they did not smile when he smiled. And Kristin could not help seeing it became him well to be a little less merry. He looked well, too, in a kind of travelling dress⁠—a long blue, close-fitting outer garment men called kothardi, and a brown shoulder-cape with a hood, which was thrown back now; the cold air had given his light-brown hair a yet stronger curl. + 

They sat and talked for a while. Simon had been at Formo through Lent, and had gone over to Jörundgaard almost daily. They were well there; Ulvhild as well as they dared look that she should be; Ramborg was at home now, she was a fair child and lively. + 

“ ’Twill be over one of these days⁠—the year you were to be here at Nonneseter,” said Simon. “By this the folks at your home will have begun to make ready for our betrothal feast⁠—yours and mine.” + 

Kristin said naught, and Simon went on: + 

“I said to Lavrans, I would ride hither to Oslo and speak to you of this.” + 

Kristin looked down and said low: + 

“I, too, would fain speak with you of that matter, Simon⁠—alone.” + 

“I saw well myself that we must speak of it alone,” answered Simon, “and I was about to ask even now that you would pray Lady Groa to let us go together into the garden for a little.” + 

Kristin rose quickly and slipped from the room without a sound. Soon after she came back followed by one of the nuns with a key. + 

There was a door leading from the parlour out into an herb-garden that lay behind the most westerly of the convent buildings. The nun unlocked the door and they stepped out into a mist so thick they could see but a few paces in among the trees. The nearest stems were coal-black; the moisture stood in beads on every twig and bough. A little fresh snow lay melting upon the wet mould, but under the bushes some white and yellow lily plants were blooming already, and a fresh, cool smell rose from the violet leaves. + 

Simon led her to the nearest bench. He sat a little bent forward with his elbows resting upon his knees. Then he looked up at her with a strange little smile: + 

“Almost I think I know what you would say to me,” said he. “There is another man, who is more to you than I⁠—” + 

“It is so,” answered Kristin faintly. + 

“Methinks I know his name too,” said Simon, in a harder tone. “It is Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby?” + 

After a while Kristin asked in a low voice: + 

“It has come to your ears, then?” + 

Simon was a little slow in answering. + 

“You can scarce think I could be so dull as not to see somewhat when we were together at Yule? I could say naught then, for my father and mother were with us. But this it is that has brought me hither alone this time. I know not whether it be wise of me to touch upon it⁠—but methought we must talk of these things before we are given to one another. + 

“⁠—But so it is now, that when I came hither yesterday⁠—I met my kinsman, Master Öistein. And he spoke of you. He said you two had passed across the churchyard of St. Clement’s one evening, and with you was a woman they call Brynhild Fluga. I swore a great oath that he must have been amiss! And if you say it is untrue, I shall believe your word.” + 

“The priest saw aright,” answered Kristin defiantly. “You foreswore yourself, Simon.” + 

He sat a little ere he asked: + 

“Know you who this Brynhild Fluga is, Kristin?” As she shook her head, he said: “Munan Baardsön set her up in a house here in the town, when he wedded⁠—she carries on unlawful dealings in wine⁠—and other things⁠—” + 

“You know her?” asked Kristin mockingly. + 

“I was never meant to be a monk or a priest,” said Simon reddening. “But I can say at least that I have wronged no maid and no man’s wedded wife. See you not yourself that ’tis no honourable man’s deed to bring you out to go about at night in such company⁠—?” + 

“Erlend did not draw me on,” said Kristin, red with anger, “nor has he promised me aught. I set my heart on him without his doing aught to tempt me⁠—from the first time I saw him, he was dearer to me than all other men.” + 

Simon sat playing with his dagger, throwing it from one hand to the other. + 

“These are strange words to hear from a man’s betrothed maiden,” said he. “Things promise well for us two now, Kristin.” + 

Kristin drew a deep breath: + 

“You would be ill served should you take me for your wife now, Simon.” + 

“Aye, God Almighty knows that so it seems indeed,” said Simon Andressön. + 

“Then I dare hope,” said Kristin meekly and timidly, “that you will uphold me, so that Sir Andres and my father may let this bargain about us be undone?” + 

“Do you so?” said Simon. He was silent for a little. “God knows whether you rightly understand what you say.” + 

“That do I,” said Kristin. “I know the law is such that none may force a maid to marriage against her will; else can she take her plea before the Thing⁠—” + 

“I trow ’tis before the bishop,” said Simon, with something of a grim smile. “True it is, I have had no cause to search out how the law stands in such things. And I wot well you believe not either that ’twill come to that pass. You know well enough that I will not hold you to your word, if your heart is too much set against it. But can you not understand⁠—’tis two years now since our marriage was agreed, and you have said no word against it till now, when all is ready for the betrothal and the wedding. Have you thought what it will mean, if you come forth now and seek to break the bond, Kristin?” + 

“But you want not me either,” said Kristin. + 

“Aye, but I do,” answered Simon curtly. “If you think otherwise, you must even think better of it⁠—” + 

“Erlend Nikulaussön and I have vowed to each other by our Christian faith,” said she, trembling, “that if we cannot come together in wedlock, then neither of us will have wife or husband all our days⁠—” + 

Simon was silent a good while. Then he said with effort: + 

“Then I know not, Kristin, what you meant when you said Erlend had neither drawn you on nor promised you aught⁠—he has lured you to set yourself against the counsel of all your kin. Have you thought what kind of husband you will get, if you wed a man who took another’s wife to be his paramour⁠—and now would take for wife another man’s betrothed maiden⁠—?” + 

Kristin gulped down her tears; she whispered thickly: + 

“This you say but to hurt me.” + 

“Think you I would wish to hurt you?” asked Simon in a low voice. + 

“ ’Tis not as it would have been, had you⁠—” said Kristin falteringly. “You were not asked either, Simon⁠—’twas your father and my father who made the pact. It had been otherwise had you chosen me yourself⁠—” + 

Simon struck his dagger into the bench so that it stood upright. A little after he drew it out again, and tried to slip it back into its sheath, but it would not go down, the point was bent. Then he sat passing it from hand to hand as before. + 

“You know yourself,” said he in a low tone, and with a shaking voice, “you know that you lie, if you would have it that I did not⁠—. You know well enough, what I would have spoken of with you⁠—many times⁠—when you met me so that I had not been a man, had I been able to say it⁠—after that⁠—not if they had tried to drag it out of me with redhot pincers.⁠ ⁠… + 

“⁠—First I thought ’twas yonder dead lad. I thought I must leave you in peace awhile⁠—you knew me not⁠—I deemed ’twould have been a wrong to trouble you so soon after. Now I see you did not need so long a time to forget⁠—now⁠—now⁠—now⁠—” + 

“No,” said Kristin quietly. “I know it, Simon. Now I cannot look that you should be my friend any longer.” + 

“Friend⁠—!” Simon gave a short, strange laugh. “Do you need my friendship now, then?” + 

Kristin grew red. + 

“You are a man,” said she softly. “And old enough now⁠—you can choose yourself whom you will wed.” + 

Simon looked at her sharply. Then he laughed as before. + 

“I understand. You would have me say ’tis I who⁠—. I am to take the blame for the breaking of our bond? + 

“If so be that your mind is fixed⁠—if you have the will and the boldness to try to carry through your purpose⁠—then I will do it,” he said low. “At home with all my own folks and before all your kin⁠—save one. To your father you must tell the truth, even as it is. If you would have it so, I will bear your message to him, and spare you, in giving it, in so far as I can⁠—but Lavrans Björgulfsön shall know that never, with my will, would I go back from one word that I have spoken to him.” + 

Kristin clutched the edge of the bench with both hands; this was harder for her to bear than all else that Simon Darre had said. Pale and fearful, she stole a glance at him. + 

Simon rose. + 

“Now must we go in,” said he. “Methinks we are nigh frozen, both of us, and the sister is sitting waiting with the key. I will give you a week to think upon the matter⁠—I have business in the town here. I shall come hither and speak with you when I am ready to go, but you will scarce care to see aught of me meanwhile.” + 

VIII + 

Kristin said to herself: now that, at least, is over. But she felt broken with weariness and sick for Erlend’s arms. + 

She lay awake most of the night, and she resolved to do what she never dared think of before⁠—send word to Erlend. It was not easy to find anyone who could go such an errand for her. The lay-sisters never went out alone, nor did she know of any of them she thought would be willing; the men who did the farm work were elder folk and but seldom came near the dwellings of the nuns, save to speak with the Abbess herself. There was only Olav. He was a half-grown lad, who worked in the gardens; he had been Lady Groa’s foster-son from the time when he was found, a newborn babe, upon the church steps one morning. Folk said one of the lay-sisters was his mother; she was to have been a nun; but after she had been kept in the dark cell for six months⁠—for grave disobedience, as ’twas said⁠—and it was about that time the child was found⁠—she had been given the lay-sisters’ habit and had worked in the farmyard ever since. Kristin had often thought of Sister Ingrid’s fate throughout these months, but she had had few chances to speak with her. It was venturesome to trust to Olav⁠—he was but a child, and Lady Groa and all the nuns were wont to chat and jest with him, when they saw the boy. But Kristin deemed it mattered little what risks she took now. And a day or two later, when Olav was for the town one morning, Kristin sent word by him to Akersnes, that Erlend must find some way whereby they might meet alone. + 

That same afternoon Erlend’s own man, Ulf, came to the grille. He said he was Aasmund Björgulfsön’s man, and was to pray, on his master’s behalf, that his brother’s daughter might go down to the town for a little, for Aasmund had not time to come to Nonneseter. Kristin thought this device must surely fail⁠—but when Sister Potentia asked if she knew the bearer of the message, she said, “Yes.” So she went with Ulf to Brynhild Fluga’s house. + 

Erlend awaited her in the loft-room⁠—he was uneasy and anxious, and she knew at once, ’twas that he was afraid again of what he seemed to fear the most. + 

Always it cut her to the soul he should feel such a haunting dread that she might be with child⁠—when yet they could not keep apart. Harassed as she was this evening, she said this to him⁠—hotly enough. Erlend’s face flushed darkly, and he laid his head down upon her shoulder. + 

“You are right,” said he. “I must try to let you be, Kristin⁠—not to put your happiness in such jeopardy. If you will⁠—” + 

She threw her arms around him and laughed, but he caught her round the waist, forced her down upon a bench, and seated himself on the farther side of the board. When she stretched her hand over to him, he covered the palm with vehement kisses. + 

“I have tried more than you,” said he with passion. “You know not, how much I deem it means for both of us, that we should be wed with all honour.” + 

“Then you should not have made me yours,” said Kristin. + 

Erlend hid his face in his hands. + 

“Aye, would to God I had not done you that wrong,” he said. + 

“Neither you nor I wish that,” said Kristin, laughing boldly. “And if I may but be forgiven and make my peace at last with my kindred and with God, then shall I not sorrow overmuch though I must wear the woman’s hood when I am wed. Aye, and often it seems to me, I could do without peace even, if only I may be with you.” + 

“You shall bring honour with you into my house once more,” said Erlend, “not I drag you down into dishonour.” + 

Kristin shook her head. Then she said: + 

“ ’Tis like you will be glad then, when you hear that I have talked with Simon Andressön⁠—and he will not hold me to the pact that was made for us by our fathers before I met you.” + 

At once Erlend was wild with joy, and Kristin was made to tell him all. Yet she told not of the scornful words Simon had spoken of Erlend, though she said that before Lavrans he would not take the blame upon himself. + 

“ ’Tis but reason,” said Erlend shortly. “They like each other well, your father and he? Aye, me he will like less, I trow⁠—Lavrans.” + 

Kristin took these words as a sign that Erlend felt with her she had still a hard road to travel ere yet they reached their journey’s end; and she was thankful to him for it. But he did not come back to this matter; he was glad above measure, saying he had feared so that she would not have courage to speak with Simon. + 

“You like him after a fashion, I mark well,” said he. + 

“Can it be aught to you,” asked Kristin,“⁠—after all that has come and gone between you and me, that I can see that Simon is an honest man and a stout?” + 

“Had you never met me,” said Erlend, “you might well have had good days with him, Kristin. Why laugh you?” + 

“Oh, I did but call to mind somewhat Lady Aashild said once,” answered Kristin. “I was but a child then⁠—but ’twas somewhat about good days falling to wise folk, but the best days of all to those who dare be unwise.” + 

“God bless my kinswoman, if she taught you that,” said Erlend and took her upon his knee. “ ’Tis strange, Kristin, never have I marked that you were afraid.” + 

“Have you never marked it?” she asked, as she nestled close to him. + 

He seated her on the bedside and drew off her shoes, but then drew her back again to the table. + 

“Oh, my Kristin⁠—now at last it looks as if bright days might come for us two. Methinks I had never dealt with you as I have done,” he said stroking and stroking her hair, “had it not been that each time I saw you, I thought ever ’twas not reason that they should give so fine and fair a wife to me.⁠—Sit you down here and drink to me,” he begged. + 

A moment after came a knock on the door⁠—it sounded like the stroke of a sword hilt. + 

“Open, Erlend Nikulaussön, if you are within!” + 

“ ’Tis Simon Darre,” said Kristin, in a low voice. + 

“Open, man, in the devil’s name⁠—if you be a man!” shouted Simon and beat on the door again. + 

Erlend went to the bed and took his sword down from the peg in the wall. He looked round, at a loss what to do: “There is nowhere here you can hide⁠—” + 

“ ’Twould scarce make things better if I hid,” said Kristin. She had risen to her feet; she spoke very quietly, but Erlend saw that she was trembling. “You must open,” she said in the same tone. Simon hammered on the door again. + 

Erlend went and drew the bolt. Simon stepped in; he had a drawn sword in his hand, but he thrust it back into its sheath at once. + 

For a while the three stood in silence. Kristin trembled; but yet, in this first moment, she felt a strange, sweet thrill⁠—from deep within her something rose, scenting the combat between two men⁠—she drew a deep breath; here was an end to these endless months of dumb waiting and longing and dread. She looked from one to the other, pale and with shining eyes⁠—then the strain within her broke in a chill, unfathomable despair. There was more of cold scorn than of rage or jealousy in Simon Darre’s eyes and she saw that Erlend, behind his defiant bearing, burned with shame. It dawned upon her, how other men would think of him, who had let her come to him in such a place, and she saw ’twas as though he had had to suffer a blow in the face; she knew he burned to draw his sword and fall upon Simon. + 

“Why have you come hither, Simon?” she cried aloud in dread. + 

Both men turned towards her. + 

“To fetch you home,” said Simon. “Here you cannot be⁠—” + 

“ ’Tis not for you, any more, to lay commands on Kristin Lavransdatter,” said Erlend fiercely, “she is mine now⁠—” + 

“I doubt not she is,” said Simon savagely, “and a fair bridal bower have you brought her to⁠—” He stood a little, panting; then he mastered his voice and spoke quietly: “But so it is that I am her betrothed still⁠—till her father can come for her. And for so long I mean to guard with edge and point so much of her honour as can be saved⁠—in others’ eyes⁠—” + 

“What need of you to guard her; I can⁠—” he flushed red as blood under Simon’s eyes. Then, flying out: “Think you I will suffer threats from a boy like you,” he cried, laying his hand on his sword-hilt. + 

Simon clapped both hands behind him. + 

“I am not such a coward as to be afraid you should deem me afraid,” said he as before. “I will fight you, Erlend Nikulaussön, you may stake your soul upon that, if, within due time, you have not made suit for Kristin to her father⁠—” + 

“That will I never do at your bidding, Simon Andressön,” said Erlend angrily; the blood rushed into his face again. + 

“Nay⁠—do you it to set right the wrong you have done so young a maid,” answered Simon, unmoved, “ ’twill be better so for Kristin.” + 

Kristin gave a loud cry, in pain at Erlend’s pain. She stamped upon the floor: + 

“Go, then, Simon, go⁠—what have you to do with our affairs?” + 

“I told you but now,” said Simon. “You must bear with me till your father has loosed you and me from each other.” + 

Kristin broke down utterly. + 

“Go, go, I will follow straightway⁠—. Jesus! why do you torture me so, Simon?⁠—you know you deem not yourself I am worthy that you should trouble about me⁠—” + 

“ ’Tis not for your sake I do it,” answered Simon. “Erlend⁠—will you not tell her to go with me?” + 

Erlend’s face quivered. He touched her on the shoulder: + 

“You must go, Kristin. Simon Darre and I will speak of this at another time⁠—” + 

Kristin got up obediently and fastened her cloak about her. Her shoes stood by the bedside⁠—She remembered them, but she could not put them on under Simon’s eyes. + 

Outside, the fog had come down again. Kristin flew along, with head bent and hands clutched tight in the folds of her cloak. Her throat was bursting with tears⁠—wildly she longed for some place where she could be alone, and sob and sob. The worst, the worst was still before her; but she had proved a new thing this evening, and she writhed under it⁠—she had proved how it felt to see the man to whom she had given herself humbled. + 

Simon was at her elbow as she hurried through the lanes, over the common lands and across the open places, where the houses had vanished and there was naught but fog to be seen. Once when she stumbled over something, he caught her arm and kept her from falling: + 

“No need to run so fast,” said he. “Folk are staring after us.⁠—How you are trembling!” he said more gently. Kristin held her peace and walked on. + 

She slipped in the mud of the street, her feet were wet through and icy cold⁠—the hose she had on were of leather, but they were thin; she felt they were giving way, and the mud was oozing through to her naked feet. + 

They came to the bridge over the convent beck, and went more slowly up the slopes on the other side. + 

“Kristin,” said Simon of a sudden, “your father must never come to know of this.” + 

“How knew you that I was⁠—there?” asked Kristin. + 

“I came to speak with you,” answered Simon shortly. “Then they told me of this man of your uncle’s coming. I knew Aasmund was in Hadeland. You two are not over cunning at making up tales.⁠—Heard you what I said but now?” + 

“Aye,” said Kristin. “It was I who sent word to Erlend that we should meet at Fluga’s house; I knew the woman⁠—” + 

“Then shame upon you! But, oh, you could not know what she is⁠—and he⁠—Do you hear,” said Simon harshly, “if so be it can be hidden, you must hide from Lavrans what you have thrown away. And if you cannot hide it, then you must strive to spare him the worst of the shame.” + 

“You are ever so marvellous careful for my father,” said Kristin, trembling. She strove to speak defiantly, but her voice was ready to break with sobs. + 

Simon walked on a little. Then he stopped⁠—she caught a glimpse of his face, as they stood there alone together in the midst of the fog. He had never looked like this before. + 

“I have seen it well, each time I was at your home,” said he, “how little you understood, you his womenfolk, what a man Lavrans is. Knows not how to rule you, says yonder Trond Gjesling⁠—and ’twere like he should trouble himself with such work⁠—he who was born to rule over men. He was made for a leader, aye, and one whom men would have followed⁠—gladly. These are no times for such men as he⁠—my father knew him at Baagahus⁠—But, as things are, he has lived his life up there in the Dale, as he were little else but a farmer⁠—He was married off all too young⁠—and your mother, with her heavy mood, was not the one to make it lighter for him to live that life. So it is that he has many friends⁠—but think you there is one who is his fellow? His sons were taken from him⁠—’twas you, his daughters, who were to build up his race after him⁠—must he live now to see the day when one is without health and the other without honour⁠—?” + 

Kristin pressed her hands tightly over her heart⁠—she felt she must hold it in to make herself as hard as she had need to be. + 

“Why say you this?” she whispered after a time. “It cannot be that you would ever wish to wed me now⁠—” + 

“That⁠—would I⁠—not,” said Simon unsteadily. “God help me, Kristin⁠—I think of you that evening in the loft-room at Finsbrekken.⁠—But may the foul fiend fly away with me living the day I trust a maiden’s eyes again! + 

“⁠—Promise me, that you will not see Erlend before your father comes,” said he when they stood at the gate. + 

“That will I not promise,” answered Kristin. + 

“Then he shall promise,” said Simon. + 

“I will not see him,” said Kristin quickly. + 

“The little dog I sent you once,” said Simon before they parted, “him you can let your sisters have⁠—they are grown so fond of him⁠—if you mislike not too much to see him in the house. + 

“⁠—I ride north tomorrow early,” said he, and then he took her hand in farewell, while the sister who kept the door looked on. + 

Simon Darre walked downward towards the town. He flung out a clenched fist as he strode along, talked half aloud, and swore out into the fog. He swore to himself that he grieved not over her. Kristin⁠—’twas as though he had deemed a thing pure gold⁠—and when he saw it close at hand, it was naught but brass and tin. White as a snow flake had she knelt and thrust her hand into the flame⁠—that was last year; this year she was drinking wine with an outcast ribald in Fluga’s loft-room. The devil, no! ’Twas for Lavrans Björgulfsön he grieved, sitting up there on Jörundgaard believing⁠—full surely never had it come into Lavrans’ mind that he could be so betrayed by his own. And now he himself was to bear the tidings, and help to lie to that man⁠—it was for this that his heart burned with sorrow and wrath. + 

Kristin had not meant to keep her promise to Simon Darre, but, as it befell, she spoke but a few words with Erlend⁠—one evening up on the road. + 

She stood and held his hand, strangely meek, while he spoke of what had befallen in Brynhild’s loft-room at their last meeting. With Simon Andressön he would talk another time. “Had we fought there, ’twould have been all over the town,” said Erlend hotly. “And that he too knew full well⁠—this Simon.” + 

Kristin saw how this thing had galled him. She, too, had thought of it unceasingly ever since⁠—there was no hiding the truth, Erlend came out of this business with even less honour than she herself. And she felt that now indeed they were one flesh⁠—that she must answer for all he did, even though she might mislike his deeds, and that she would feel it in her own flesh when so much as Erlend’s skin was scratched. + 

Three weeks later Lavrans Björgulfsön came to Oslo to fetch his daughter. + 

Kristin was afraid, and she was sore of heart as she went to the parlour to meet her father. What first struck her, when she saw him standing there speaking to Sister Potentia, was that he did not look as she remembered him. Maybe he was but little changed since they parted a year ago⁠—but she had seen him all her years at home as the young, lusty, comely man she had been so proud to have for father when she was little. Each winter, and each summer that passed over their heads up there at home, had doubtless marked him with the marks of growing age, as they had unfolded her into a full-grown young woman⁠—but she had not seen it. She had not seen that his hair was fading here and there and had taken on a tinge of rusty red near the temples⁠—as yellow hair does when ’tis turning grey. His cheeks had shrunken and grown longer so that the muscles ran in harder lines down to the mouth; his youthful white and red had faded to one weather-beaten shade. His back was not bowed⁠—but yet his shoulder-blades had an unaccustomed curve beneath his cloak. His step was light and firm, as he came toward her with outstretched hand, but yet ’twas not the old brisk and supple motion. Doubtless, all these things had been there last year, only she had not seen them. Perhaps there had been added a little touch⁠—of sadness⁠—which made her see them now. She burst into weeping. + 

Lavrans put his arm about her shoulder and laid his hand against her cheek. + 

“Come, come, be still now, child,” he said gently. + 

“Are you angry with me, father?” she asked low. + 

“Surely you must know that I am,” he answered⁠—but he went on stroking her cheek. “Yet so much, too, you sure must know, that you have no need to be afraid of me,” said he sadly. “Nay, now must you be still, Kristin; are you not ashamed to bear you in such childish wise.” For she was weeping so that she had to seat herself upon the bench. “We will not speak of these things here, where folk go out and in,” said he, and he sat himself down by her side and took her hand. “Will you not ask after your mother then⁠—and your sisters⁠—?” + 

“What does my mother say of this?” asked his daughter. + 

“Oh, that you can have no need to ask⁠—but we will not talk of it now,” he said again. “Else she is well⁠—” and he set to telling this and that of the happenings at home on the farm, till Kristin grew quieter little by little. + 

But it seemed to her that the strain did but grow worse because her father said naught of her breach of troth. He gave her money to deal out among the poor of the convent and to make gifts to her fellow-pupils. He himself gave rich gifts to the cloister and the Sisters; and no one in Nonneseter knew aught else than that Kristin was now to go home for her betrothal and her wedding. They both ate the last meal at Lady Groa’s board in the Abbess’s room, and the Lady spoke of Kristin with high praise. + 

But all this came to an end at last. She had said her last farewell to the Sisters and her friends at the convent gate; Lavrans led her to her horse and lifted her into the saddle. ’Twas so strange to ride with her father and the men from Jörundgaard down to the bridge, along this road, down which she had stolen in the dark; wonderful, too, it seemed to ride through the streets of Oslo freely and in honour. She thought of their splendid wedding train, that Erlend had talked of so often⁠—her heart grew heavy; ’twould have been easier had he carried her away with him. There was yet such a long time before her in which she must live one life in secret and another openly before folks. But then her eye fell on her father’s grave, ageing face, and she tried to think, that after all Erlend was right. + 

There were a few other travellers in the inn. At eventide they all supped together in a little hearth-room, where there were two beds only; Lavrans and Kristin were to sleep there, for they were the first in rank among the guests. Therefore, when the night drew on a little, the others bade them a friendly good night as they broke up and went to seek their sleeping places. Kristin thought how it was she who had stolen to Brynhild Fluga’s loft-room to Erlend’s arms⁠—sick with sorrow and with fear that she might never more be his, she thought, no, there was no place for her any more amongst these others. + 

Her father was sitting on the farther bench, looking at her. + 

“We are not to go to Skog this time?” asked Kristin, to break the silence. + 

“No,” answered Lavrans. “I have had enough for some time with what your mother’s brother made me listen to⁠—because I would not constrain you,” he added, as she looked up at him questioningly. + 

“And, truly, I would have made you keep your word,” said he a little after, “had it not been that Simon said he would not have an unwilling wife.” + 

“I have never given my word to Simon,” said Kristin quickly. “You have ever said before, that you would never force me into wedlock⁠—” + 

“ ’Twould not have been force if I had held you to a bargain that had been published long since and was known to all men,” answered Lavrans. “These two winters past you two have borne the name of handfasted folk, and you have said naught against it, nor shown yourself unwilling, till now your wedding-day was fixed. If you would plead that the business was put off last year, so that you have not yet given Simon your troth, then that I call not upright dealing.” + 

Kristin stood gazing down into the fire. + 

“I know not which will seem the worse,” went on her father, “that it be said that you have cast off Simon, or that he has cast off you. Sir Andres sent me word⁠—” Lavrans flushed red as he said it, “⁠—he was wroth with the lad, and bade me crave such amends as I should think fit. I had to say what was true⁠—I know not if aught else had been better⁠—that, should there be amends to make, ’twas rather for us to make them. We are shamed either way.” + 

“I cannot think there is such great shame,” said Kristin low. “Since Simon and I are of one mind.” + 

“Of one mind?” repeated Lavrans. “He did not hide from me that he was unhappy, but he said, after you had spoken together, he deemed naught but misfortune could come of it if he held you to the pact.⁠—But now must you tell me how this has come over you.” + 

“Has Simon said naught?” asked Kristin. + 

“It seemed as though he thought,” said her father, “that you have given your love to another man. Now must you tell me how this is, Kristin.” + 

Kristin thought for a little. + 

“God knows,” said she in a low voice, “I see well, Simon might be good enough for me, and maybe too good. But ’tis true that I came to know another man; and then I knew I would never have one happy hour more in all my life were I to live it out with Simon⁠—not if all the gold in England were his to give⁠—I would rather have the other if he owned no more than a single cow.” + 

“You look not that I should give you to a serving-man, I trow?” said her father. + 

“He is as well born as I, and better,” answered Kristin. “I meant but this⁠—he has enough both of lands and goods, but I would rather sleep with him on the bare straw than with another man in a silken bed⁠—” + 

Her father was silent for a while. + 

“ ’Tis one thing, Kristin, that I will not force you to take a man that likes you not⁠—though God and St. Olav alone know what you can have against the man I had promised you to. But ’tis another thing whether the man you have set your heart upon is such as I can wed you to. You are young yet, and not over wise⁠—and to cast his eyes upon a maid who is promised to another⁠—’tis not the wont of an upright man⁠—” + 

“No man can rule himself in that matter,” broke in Kristin. + 

“Aye, but he can. But so much you can understand, I trow: I will not do such offence to the Dyfrin folk as to betroth you to another the moment you have turned your back on Simon⁠—and least of all to a man who might be more high in rank or richer.⁠—You must say who this man is,” he said after a little. + 

Kristin pressed her hands together and breathed deeply. Then she said very slowly: + 

“I cannot, father. Thus it stands, that should I not get this man, then you can take me back to the convent and never take me from it again⁠—I shall not live long there, I trow. But it would not be seemly that I should name his name, ere yet I know he bears as good a will toward me as I have to him. You⁠—you must not force me to say who he is, before⁠—before ’tis seen whether⁠—whether he is minded to make suit for me through his kin.” + 

Lavrans was a long time silent. He could not but be pleased that his daughter took the matter thus; he said at length: + 

“So be it, then. ’Tis but reason that you would fain keep back his name, if you know not more of his purposes.” + 

“Now must you to bed, Kristin,” he said a little after. He came and kissed her: + 

“You have wrought sorrow and pain to many by this waywardness of yours, my daughter⁠—but this you know, that your good lies next my heart⁠—God help me, ’twould be so, I fear me, whatever you might do⁠—He and His gentle Mother will surely help us, so that this may be turned to the best⁠—Go now, and see that you sleep well.” + 

After he had lain down, Lavrans thought he heard a little sound of weeping from the bed by the other wall, where his daughter lay. But he made as though he slept. He had not the heart to say to her that he feared the old talk about her and Arne and Bentein would be brought up again now, but it weighed heavily upon him that ’twas but little he could do to save the child’s good name from being besmirched behind his back. And the worst was that he must deem much of the mischief had been wrought by her own thoughtlessness. + 