Yet all men said that had not that sorrowful mishap befallen, Ulvhild

had been many times more comely than her sister. She had the fairest and

sweetest face, white and red as lilies and roses; and light-yellow hair,

soft as silk, which waved and clung about her slender throat and small

shoulders. Her eyes were like those of her Gjesling kin; they were deep

set, under straight, dark brows, and were clear as water and grey-blue;

but her glance was mild, not sharp like theirs. Then too, the child’s

voice was so clear and lovely that it was a joy to hearken to her,

whether she spoke or sang. She was most apt at book-learning and all

kinds of string-instruments and draughts, but had little mind to work

with her hands, for her back soon grew weary.

There seemed little hope, indeed, this fair child should ever have full

use of her limbs. It is true she had mended a little after her father

and mother had been to Nidaros with her to St. Olav’s shrine. Lavrans

and Ragnfrid had gone thither on foot, without man or serving-maid to

attend them; they bore the child between them on a litter the whole way.

After the journey Ulvhild grew so far well that she could walk a little

with a crutch. But they could not hope that she should grow well enough

to be wedded, and so it was like that, when the time came, she must be

given to a cloister with all the wealth that should fall to her.

They never spoke of this, and Ulvhild herself scarce knew how much

unlike she was to other children. She was very fond of finery and pretty

clothes, and her father and mother had not the heart to deny her

anything; so Ragnfrid stitched and sewed for her and decked her out like

any king’s child. Once some pedlars passing through the parish lay

overnight at Laugarbru; and Ulvhild got a sight of their wares there.

They had some amber coloured silk-stuff, and she set her heart on having

a shift of it. Lavrans was not wont to deal with such folk, who went

around against the law, selling wares from the market-towns in the

country parishes; but now he bought the whole bale at once. He gave

Kristin some of the stuff, too, for a bridal shift, and she was sewing

on it this summer. Until now all the shifts she owned had been of wool,

or of linen for best wear. But now Ulvhild had a shift of silk for feast

days and a Sunday shift of linen with silk let in above.

Lavrans Björgulfsön owned Laugarbru too now, and Tordis and Jon were in

charge there. With them was Lavrans’ and Ragnfrid’s youngest daughter,

Ramborg, whom Tordis had nursed. Ragnfrid would scarce look at the child

for some time after it was born, for she said she brought her children

ill-fortune. Yet she loved the little maid much and was ever sending

gifts to her and Tordis; and later she went often over to Laugarbru and

saw Ramborg, but she liked best to come after the child was asleep, and

sit by her. Lavrans and the two older daughters were often at Laugarbru

to play with the little one; she was a strong and healthy child, but not

so fair as her sisters.

* * * * *

This was the last summer Arne Gyrdsön was on Jörundgaard. The bishop had

promised Gyrd to help the youth on in the world, and in the autumn Arne

was to set out for Hamar.

Kristin knew well enough that she was dear to Arne, but she was in many

ways still a child in mind and she thought little about it, but bore

herself to him as she had always done from the time they were children;

was with him as often as she could, and always stood up with him when

there was dancing at home or upon the church-green. That her mother did

not like this, seemed to her something of a jest. But she never spoke to

Arne of Simon or of her wedding, for she marked that he grew

heavy-hearted when there was talk of it.

Arne was a very handy man and was now making Kristin a sewing-chair as a

keepsake. He had covered both the box and the frame of the chair with

fair, rich carving, and was now busy in the smithy on iron bands and

lock for it. On a fine evening well on in summer Kristin had gone down

to him. She had taken with her a jacket of her father’s she had to mend,

and sat upon the stone threshold sewing while she chatted with the youth

in the smithy. Ulvhild was with her; she hopped about upon her crutch,

eating the raspberries which grew among the heaps of stone around the

field.

After a while Arne came to the smithy door to cool himself. He made as

though to seat himself beside Kristin, but she moved a little away and

bade him have a care not to dirty the sewing she had upon her knee.

“Is it come to this between us,” said Arne, “that you dare not let me

sit by you for fear the peasant boy should soil you?”

Kristin looked at him in wonder, and answered:

“You know well enough what I meant. But take your apron off, wash the

charcoal from your hands and sit down a little and rest you here by me—”

and she made room for him.

But Arne laid himself in the grass in front of her; then she said again:

“Nay, be not angry, my Arne. Can you think I could be unthankful for the

brave gift you are making me, or ever forget you have been my best

friend at home here all my days?”

“Have I been that?” he asked.

“You know it well,” said Kristin. “And never will I forget you. But you,

who are to go out into the world—maybe you will gain wealth and honor or

ever you think—you will like enough forget me, long before I forget

you—”

“You will never forget me?” said Arne, smiling. “And I will forget you

ere you forget me?—you are naught but a child, Kristin.”

“_You_ are not so old either,” she replied.

“I am as old as Simon Darre,” said he again. “And we bear helm and

shield as well as the Dyfrin folk, but my folks have not had fortune

with them—”

He had dried his hands on the grass tufts; and now he took Kristin’s

ankle and pressed his cheek to the foot which showed from under her

dress. She would have drawn away her foot, but Arne said:

“Your mother is at Laugarbru, and Lavrans has ridden forth—from the

houses none can see us where we sit. Surely you can let me speak this

once of what is in my heart.”

Kristin answered:

“We have known all our days, both you and I, that ’twas bootless for us

to set our hearts on each other.”

“May I lay my head in your lap,” said Arne, and as she did not answer,

he laid his head down and twined an arm about her waist. With his other

hand he pulled at the plaits of her hair.

“How will you like it,” he asked in a little, “when Simon lies in your

lap thus, and plays with your hair?”

Kristin did not answer. It seemed as though a heaviness fell upon her of

a sudden—Arne’s words and Arne’s head on her knee—it seemed to her as

though a door opened into a room, where many dark passages led into a

greater darkness; sad, and heavy at heart, she faltered and would not

look inside.

“Wedded folk do not use to do so,” said she of a sudden, quickly, as if

eased of a weight. She tried to see Simon’s fat round face looking up

into hers as Arne was looking now; she heard his voice—and she could not

keep from laughing:

“I trow Simon will never lie on the ground to play with my shoes—not

he!”

“No, for he can play with you in his bed,” said Arne. His voice made her

feel sick and powerless all at once. She tried to push his head from off

her lap, but he pressed it against her knee and said softly:

“But _I_ would play with your shoes and your hair and your fingers, and

follow you out and in the livelong day, Kristin, were you ever so much

my wife and slept in my arms each single night.”

He half sat up, put his arm round her shoulder and gazed into her eyes.

“’Tis not well done of you to talk thus to me,” said Kristin bashfully,

in a low voice.

“No,” said Arne. He rose and stood before her. “But tell me one

thing—would you not rather it were I—?”

“Oh! I would rather—,” she sat still a while. “I would rather not have

any man—not yet—”

Arne did not move, but said:

“Would you rather be given to the cloister then, as ’tis to be with

Ulvhild, and be a maid all your days?”

Kristin pressed her folded hands down into her lap. A strange, sweet

trembling seized her—and with a sudden shudder she seemed to understand

how much her little sister was to be pitied—her eyes filled with tears

of sorrow for Ulvhild’s sake.

“Kristin,” said Arne in a low voice.

At that moment a loud scream came from Ulvhild. Her crutch had caught

between the stones, and she had fallen. Arne and Kristin ran to her, and

Arne lifted her up into her sister’s arms. She had cut her mouth and

much blood was flowing from the hurt.

Kristin sat down with her in the smithy door, and Arne fetched water in

a wooden bowl. Together they set to washing and wiping her face. She had

rubbed the skin off her knees, too. Kristin bent tenderly over the

small, thin legs.

Ulvhild’s wailing soon grew less, but she wept silently and bitterly as

children do who are used to suffering pain. Kristin held her head to her

bosom and rocked her gently.

Then the bell began to ring for Vespers up at Olav’s-Church.

Arne spoke to Kristin, but she sat bent over her sister as though she

neither heard nor marked him, so that at last he grew afraid and asked

if she thought there was danger in the hurt. Kristin shook her head, but

looked not at him.

Soon after she got up and went towards the farmstead, bearing Ulvhild in

her arms. Arne followed, silent and troubled—Kristin seemed so deep in

thought, and her face was set and hard. As she walked, the bell went on

ringing out over the meadows and the dale; it was still ringing as she

went into the house.

She laid Ulvhild in the bed which the sisters had shared ever since

Kristin had grown too big to sleep by her father and mother. She slipped

her shoes off and lay down beside the little one,—lay and listened for

the ringing of the bell long after it was hushed and the child slept.

It had come to her as the bell began to ring, while she sat with

Ulvhild’s little bleeding face in her hands, that maybe it was a sign to

her. If she should go to convent in her sister’s stead—if she should vow

herself to the service of God and the Virgin Mary—might not God give the

child health and strength again?

She thought of Brother Edwin’s word: that nowadays ’twas only marred and

crippled children and those for whom good husbands could not be found

that their fathers and mothers gave to God. She knew her father and

mother were godly folks—yet had she never heard aught else but that she

should wed—but when they understood that Ulvhild would be sickly all her

days they planned for her straightway that she should go to the

cloister—

And she had no mind to go herself—she strove against the thought that

God would do a miracle for Ulvhild if she herself turned nun. She hung

on Sira Eirik’s word that in these days not many miracles come to pass.

And yet she felt this evening it was as Brother Edwin said; had a man

but faith enough, his faith might work miracles. But she had no mind to

have that faith herself, she did not love God and his Mother and the

Saints _so_ much, did not even wish to love them so—she loved the world

and longed for the world—

Kristin pressed her lips down into Ulvhild’s soft, silken hair. The

child slept soundly, and the elder sister sat up restlessly, but lay

down again. Her heart bled with sorrow and shame, but she knew she did

not wish to believe in signs and wonders, for she would not give up her

heritage of health and beauty and love.

So she tried to comfort herself with the thought, that her father and

mother would not be willing she should do such a thing. Nor would they

think it could avail. Then, too, she was promised already, and she was

sure they would not give up Simon of whom they were so fond. She felt it

a betrayal of herself that they were so proud of this son-in-law; of a

sudden she thought with dislike of Simon’s round, red face and small

laughing eyes—of his jaunty gait—he bounced like a ball, it came to her

all at once—; of his bantering talk, that made her feel awkward and

foolish. ’Twas no such glory either to get him, and move with him just

down to Formo—Still she would rather have him than be sent to

convent—But, ah! the world beyond the hills, the King’s palace and the

earls and knights Lady Aashild talked of—and a comely man with sorrowful

eyes who would follow her in and out and never grow weary. She thought

of Arne that summer day when he lay on his side and slept with his

brown, glossy hair outspread among the heather—she had loved him then as

though he were her brother. It was not well done of him to have spoken

to her so, when he knew they could never belong to one another—

* * * * *

Word came from Laugarbru that her mother would stay there overnight.

Kristin got up to undress and go to rest. She began to unlace her

dress—then she put her shoes on again, threw her cloak about her and

went out.

The night sky stretched clear and green above the hillcrests. It was

near time for the moon to rise, and where it was yet hid behind the

fell, sailed some small clouds, their lower edges shining like silver;

the sky grew brighter and brighter, like metal under gathering drops of

dew.

She ran up between the fences, over the road, and up the slope toward

the church. It stood there, as though asleep, dark and shut, but she

went up to the cross which stood near by to mark the place where St.

Olav once rested as he fled before his enemies.

Kristin knelt down upon the stone and laid her folded hands upon the

base of the cross: “Holy Cross, strongest of masts, fairest of trees,

bridge for the sick to the fair shores of health—”

At the words of the prayer, it was as if her longing widened out and

faded little by little like rings on a pool. The single thoughts that

troubled her smoothed themselves out one after the other, her mind grew

calmer, more tender, and there came upon her a gentle, vague sadness in

place of her distress.

She lay kneeling there and drank in all the sounds of the night. The

wind sighed strangely, the rushing sound of the river came from beyond

the wood by the church, the beck ran near by right across the road—and

all about, far and near, in the dark, she half saw and heard small rills

of running and dripping water. The river gleamed white down below in the

valley. The moon crept up in a little nick in the hills—the dewy leaves

and stones sparkled faintly, and the newly tarred timber of the belfry

shone dull and dark by the churchyard gate. Then the moon was hid once

more where the mountain ridge rose higher, and now many more white and

shining clouds floated in the sky.

She heard a horse coming at a slow pace from higher up the road, and the

sound of men’s voices speaking low and even. She had no fear of folk

here close at home where she knew everyone—so she felt quite safe.

Her father’s dogs rushed at her, turned and dashed back into the wood,

then turned back and leaped upon her again. Her father shouted a

greeting as he came out from among the birches. He was leading

Guldsveinen by the bridle; a brace or two of birds hung dangling from

the saddle, and Lavrans bore a hooded hawk upon his left wrist. He had

with him a tall, bent man in a monk’s frock, and even before Kristin had

seen his face she knew it was Brother Edwin. She went to meet them,

wondering no more than if it had been a dream—she only smiled when

Lavrans asked whether she knew their guest again.

Lavrans had chanced upon him up by the Rost bridge, and had coaxed him

home with him to spend the night. But Brother Edwin would have it they

must let him lie in an outhouse: “For I’m grown so lousy,” said he, “you

cannot put me in the good beds.”

And for all Lavrans talked and begged, the monk held out; nay, at first

he would have it they should give him his food out in the courtyard. But

at last they got him into the hall with them, and Kristin made up the

fire in the fireplace in the corner and set candles on the board, while

a serving-maid brought in meat and drink.

The monk seated himself on the beggars’ bench by the door, and would

have naught but cold porridge and water for his supper. Neither would he

have aught of Lavrans’ proffer to have a bath made ready for him and

have his clothes well washed.

Brother Edwin fidgeted and scratched himself, and laughed all over his

lean, old face.

“Nay, nay,” said he, “these things bite into my proud hide better than

either whips or the Gardian’s words. I have been sitting under a rock up

here among the fells all summer—they gave me leave to go out into the

wilderness to fast and pray, and there I sat and thought: now was I like

a holy hermit indeed; and the poor folk away in Setnadal came up with

food for me, and thought here they saw, in very truth, a godly and

clean-living monk. Brother Edwin, they said, were there many such monks

as you, we would be better men fast enough; but when we see priests and

bishops and monks biting and fighting like young swine in a trough—Aye,

I told them it was unchristian-like to talk so—but I liked to hear it

well enough, and I sang and I prayed till the mountain rang again. Now

will it be wholesome for me to feel the lice biting and fighting upon my

skin, and to hear the good housewives, who would have all clean and

seemly in their houses, cry out: that dirty pig of a monk can lie out in

the barn well enough now ’tis summer. I am for northwards now to Nidaros

for St. Olav’s Vigil, and ’twill be well for me to mark that folk are

none too fain to come nigh me—”

Ulvhild woke, and Lavrans went and lifted her up and wrapped her in his

cloak:

“Here is the child I spoke of, dear Father. Lay your hands upon her and

pray to God for her as you prayed for the boy away north in Meldal, who

we heard got his health again—”

The monk lifted Ulvhild’s chin gently and looked into her face. And then

he raised one of her hands and kissed it.

“Pray rather, you and your wife, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that you be not

tempted to try and bend God’s will concerning this child. Our Lord Jesus

himself has set these small feet upon the path which will lead her most

surely to the home of peace—I see it by your eyes, you blessed Ulvhild,

you have your intercessors in our second home.”

“The boy in Meldal got well, I have heard,” said Lavrans, in a low

voice.

“He was a poor widow’s only child, and there was none but the parish to

feed or clothe him when his mother should be gone. And yet the woman

prayed only that God might give her a fearless heart so that she might

have faith. He would bring that to pass which would be best for the lad.

Naught else did I do but join in that prayer of hers.”

“’Tis hard for her mother and for me to rest content with this,”

answered Lavrans heavily. “The more that she is so fair and so good.”

“Have you seen the child at Lidstad, south in the Dale,” asked the monk.

“Would you rather your daughter had been like that?”

Lavrans shuddered and pressed the child close to him.

“Think you not,” said Brother Edwin again, “that in God’s eyes we are

all children he has cause to grieve for, crippled as we are with sin?

And yet we deem not we are so badly off in this world.”

He went to the picture of the Virgin Mary upon the wall, and all knelt

down while he said the evening prayer. It seemed to them that Brother

Edwin had given them good comfort.

But, none the less, after he had gone from the room to seek his place of

rest, Astrid, the head serving-wench, swept with care all parts of the

floor where the monk had stood, and cast the sweepings at once into the

fire.

* * * * *

Next morning Kristin rose early, took milk-porridge and wheat-cakes in a

goodly dish of flame-grained birchwood—for she knew that the monk never

touched meat—and herself bore the food out to him. But few of the folk

were yet about in the houses.

Brother Edwin stood upon the bridge of the cow-house, ready for the road

with staff and scrip; with a smile he thanked Kristin for her pains, and

sat himself down on the grass and ate, while Kristin sat at his feet.

Her little white dog came running up, the little bells on his collar

tinkling. She took him into her lap, and Brother Edwin snapped his

fingers at him, threw small bits of wheat-cake into his mouth, and

praised him mightily the while.

“’Tis a breed Queen Euphemia brought to the country,” said he. “You are

passing fine here on Jörundgaard now; both in great things and small.”

Kristin flushed with pleasure. She knew already the dog was of a fine

breed, and she was proud of having it; no one else in the parish had a

lapdog. But she had not known it was of the same kind as the Queen’s pet

dogs.

“Simon Andressön sent him to me,” said she, and pressed it to her, while

it licked her face. “His name is Kortelin.”

She had thought to speak to the monk about her trouble and to pray for

his counsel. But she had no longer any wish to let her mind dwell on the

thoughts of the past evening. Brother Edwin was sure God would turn all

things to the best for Ulvhild. And it was good of Simon to send her

such a gift before even their betrothal was fixed. Arne she would not

think of—he had not borne himself as he should towards her, she thought.

Brother Edwin took his staff and scrip, and bade Kristin greet those

within the house—he would not stay till folk were up, but go while the

day was yet cool. She went with him up past the church and a little way

into the wood.

When they parted he wished her God’s peace, and blessed her.

“Give me a word, like the word you gave to Ulvhild, dear Father,” begged

Kristin, as she stood with his hand in hers. The monk rubbed his naked

foot, knotted with gout, in the wet grass:

“Then would I bid you, daughter, that you lay to heart how God cares for

folks’ good here in the Dale. Little rain falls here, but he has given

you water from the fells, and the dew freshens meadow and field each

night. Thank God for the good gifts he has given you, and murmur not if

you seem to miss aught you think might well be added to you. You have

bonny yellow hair; see you fret not because it does not curl. Have you

not heard of the old wife who sat and wept for that she had only a small

bite of swine’s flesh to give to her seven little ones for Christmas

cheer. Pat at the moment St. Olav came riding by, and he stretched out

his hand over the meat and prayed that God might give the poor little

ravens their fill. But when the woman saw a whole pig’s carcase lying

upon the board, she wept that she had not pots and platters enow!”

Kristin ran homewards with Kortelin dancing at her heels, snapping at

the hem of her dress, and barking and ringing all his little silver

bells.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

6

ARNE stayed at home at Finsbrekken the last days before he was to set

out for Hamar; his mother and sisters were making ready his clothes.

The day before he was to ride southward, he came to Jörundgaard to bid

farewell. And he made a chance to whisper to Kristin, would she meet him

on the road south of Laugarbru next evening?

“I would so fain we two should be alone the last time we are together,”

said he. “Does it seem such a great thing that I ask—after all, we were

brought up together like brother and sister,” he said when Kristin hung

doubtful a little before making reply.

So she promised to come, if she could slip away from home.

It snowed next morning, but through the day it turned to rain, and soon

roads and fields were a sea of grey mud. Wreaths of mist hung and

drifted along the lower hillsides; now and then they sank yet lower and

gathered into white rollers along the roots of the hills; and then the

thick rain-clouds closed in again.

Sira Eirik came over to help Lavrans draw up some deeds. They went down

to the hearth-room, for in such weather it was pleasanter there than in

the great hall, where the fireplace filled the room with smoke. Ragnfrid

was at Laugarbru, where Ramborg was now getting better of a fever she

had caught early in the autumn.

Thus it was not hard for Kristin to slip away unseen, but she dared not

take a horse, so she went on foot. The road was a quagmire of snow-slush

and withered leaves; there was a saddening breath of death and decay in

the raw, chill air, and now and again there came a gust of wind driving

the rain into her face. She drew her hood well down over her head and,

holding her cloak about her with both hands, went quickly forward. She

was a little afraid—the roar of the river sounded so hollow in the heavy

air, and the clouds drove dark and ragged over the hill-crests. Now and

again she halted and listened for Arne’s coming.

After a time she heard the splashing of hoofs upon the slushy road

behind her, and she stopped then where she was, for this was a somewhat

lonely spot and she thought ’twas a good place for them to say their

farewells, in quiet. Almost at once she saw the horseman coming, and

Arne sprang from his horse and led it as he came to meet her.

“’Twas kindly done of you to come,” said he, “in this ugly weather.”

“’Tis worse for you who have so far to ride—and how is it you set out so

late?” she asked.

“Jon has bidden me to lie the night at Loptsgaard,” answered Arne. “I

thought ’twas easier for you to meet me at this time of day.”

They stood silent for a time. Kristin thought she had never seen before

how fair a youth Arne was. He had on a smooth, steel cap, and under that

a brown woollen hood that sat tight about his face and spread out over

his shoulders; under it his narrow face showed bright and comely. His

leather jerkin was old, spotted with rust, and rubbed by the coat of

mail which had been worn above it—Arne had taken it over from his

father—but it fitted closely to his slim, lithe, and powerful body, and

he had a sword at his side and in his hand a spear—his other weapons

hung from his saddle. He was full-grown now and bore himself manfully.

She laid her hand upon his shoulder and said:

“Mind you, Arne you asked me once if I thought you as good a man as

Simon Andressön? Now will I tell you one thing, before we part; ’tis

that you seem to me as much above him in looks and bearing as he is

reckoned above you in birth and riches by those who look most to such

things.”

“Why do you tell me this?” asked Arne breathlessly.

“Because Brother Edwin told me to lay to heart, that we should thank God

for his good gifts, and not be like the woman when St. Olav added to her

meat, and she wept because she had not trenchers to put it in—so you

should not grieve that He has not given you as much of riches as of

bodily gifts—”

“Was it _that_ you meant?” said Arne. And then, as she was silent, he

said:

“I wondered if you meant that you would rather be wedded to me than to

the other—”

“That I would, truly,” said she in a low voice. “—I know you better—”

Arne threw his arms around her so that her feet were lifted from the

ground. He kissed her face many times, and then set her down again:

“God help us, Kristin, what a child you are!”

She stood and hung her head, but left her hands upon his shoulders. He

caught her wrists and held them tight:

“I see how ’tis with you, my sweeting; you little know how sore I am at

heart to lose you. Kristin, you know we have grown up together like two

apples on one branch; I loved you long before I began to understand that

one day another would come and break you from me. As sure as God

suffered death for us all—I know not how I can ever be happy in this

world after to-day—”

Kristin wept bitterly and lifted her face, so that he might kiss her.

“Do not talk so, my Arne,” she begged, and patted him on the shoulder.

“Kristin,” said Arne in a low voice and took her into his arms again,

“think you not that if you begged your father—Lavrans is so good a man,

he would not force you against your will—if you begged them but to let

you wait a few years—no one knows how fortune may turn for me—we are

both of us so young.”

“Oh, I fear I must do as they wish at home,” she wept. And now weeping

came upon Arne too.

“You know not, Kristin, how dear you are to me.” He hid his face upon

her shoulder. “If you did, and if you cared for me, for sure you would

go to Lavrans and beg hard—”

“I cannot do it,” she sobbed. “I could never come to love any man so

much as to go against my father and mother for his sake.” She groped

with her hands for his face under the hood and the heavy steel cap. “Do

not cry so, Arne, my dearest friend—”

“You must take this at least,” said he after a time, giving her a little

brooch; “and think of me sometimes, for I shall never forget you nor my

grief—”

It was all dark when Kristin and Arne had said their last farewell. She

stood and looked after him when at length he rode away. A streak of

yellow light shone through a rift in the clouds, and was reflected in

the footprints, where they had walked and stood in the slush on the

road—it all looked so cold and sorrowful, she thought. She drew up her

linen neckerchief and dried her tear-stained face, then turned and went

homeward.

She was wet and cold and walked quickly. After a time she heard someone

coming along the road behind her. She was a little frightened; even on

such a night as this there might be strange folk journeying on the

highway, and she had a lonely stretch before her. A great black scree

rose right up on one side, and on the other the ground fell steeply and

there was fir-forest all the way down to the leaden-hued river in the

bottom of the dale. So she was glad when the man behind her called to

her by name; and she stood still and waited.

The newcomer was a tall, thin man in a dark surcoat with lighter

sleeves—as he came nearer she saw he was dressed as a priest and carried

an empty wallet on his back. And now she knew him to be Bentein

Priestson, as they called him—Sira Eirik’s daughter’s son. She saw at

once that he was far gone in drink.

“Aye, one goes and another comes,” said he, laughing, when they had

greeted one another. “I met Arne of Brekken even now—I see you are

weeping. You might as well smile a little now I am come home—we have

been friends too ever since we were children, have we not?”

“’Tis an ill exchange, methinks, getting you into the parish in his

stead,” said Kristin, bluntly. She had never liked Bentein. “And so, I

fear, will many think. Your grandfather here has been so glad you were

in Oslo making such a fair beginning.”

“Oh, aye,” said Bentein, with a nickering laugh. “So ’twas a fair

beginning I was making, you think? I was even like a pig in a

wheat-field, Kristin—and the end was the same, I was hunted out with

cudgels and the hue and cry. Aye, aye; aye, aye. ’Tis no great thing,

the gladness my grandfather gets from his offspring. But what a mighty

hurry you are in!”

“I am cold,” said Kristin, curtly.

“Not colder than I,” said the priest. “I have no more clothes on me than

you see here—my cloak I had to sell for food and beer in little Hamar.

Now, you should still have some heat in your body from making your

farewells with Arne—methinks you should let me get under your fur with

you—,” and he caught her cloak, pulled it over his shoulders and gripped

her round the waist with his wet arm.

Kristin was so amazed with his boldness it was a moment before she could

gather her wits—then she strove to tear herself away, but he had a hold

of her cloak and it was fastened together by a strong silver clasp.

Bentein got his arms about her again, and made to kiss her, his mouth

nearly touching her chin. She tried to strike, but he held her fast by

the upper arm.

“I trow you have lost your wits,” she hissed, as she struggled, “dare

you to lay hands on me as I were a—dearly shall you rue this to-morrow,

dastard that you are—”

“Nay, to-morrow you will not be so foolish,” says Bentein, putting his

leg in front of her so that she half fell into the mud, and pressing one

hand over her mouth.

Yet she had no thought of crying out. Now for the first time it flashed

on her mind what he dared to want with her, but rage came upon her so

wild and furious she had scarce a thought of fear: she snarled like an

animal at grips with another, and fought furiously with the man as he

tried to hold her down, while the ice-cold snow-water soaked through her

clothes on to her burning skin.

“To-morrow you will have wit enough to hold your tongue,” said Bentein,

“—and if it can not be hidden, you can put the blame on Arne—’twill be

believed the sooner—”

Just then one of his fingers got into her mouth and at once she bit it

with all her might, so that Bentein shrieked and let go his hold. Quick

as lightning Kristin got one hand free, seized his face with it and

pressed her thumb with all her might against the ball of one of his

eyes; he roared out and rose to his knees; like a cat she slipped from

his grasp, threw herself upon him so that he fell upon his back, and,

turning, rushed along the road with the mud splashing over her at every

bound.

She ran and ran without looking back. She heard Bentein coming after,

and she ran till her heart thumped in her throat, while she moaned

softly and strained her eyes forward—should she never reach Laugarbru?

At last she was out on the road where it passed through the fields; she

saw the group of houses down on the hill-slope, and at the same moment

she bethought her that she durst not run in there, where her mother

was,—in the state she was now in, plastered with clay and withered

leaves from head to foot, and with her clothing torn to rags.

She marked that Bentein was gaining upon her; and on that she bent down

and took up two great stones. She threw them when he came near enough;

one struck him with such force it felled him to the ground. Then she ran

on again and stayed not before she stood upon the bridge.

All trembling, she stood and clutched the railing of the bridge; a

darkness came before her eyes, and she feared she would drop down in a

swoon—but then she thought of Bentein; what if he should come and find

her. Shaken with rage and shame she went onwards, though her legs would

scarce bear her, and now she felt her face smart where fingernails had

scarred it, and felt too she had hurts upon both back and arms. Her

tears came hot as fire.

She wished Bentein might have been killed by the stone she had

thrown—she wished she had gone back and made an end of him—she felt for

her knife, but found that she must have lost it.

Then again came the thought, she must not be seen at home as she was;

and so it came into her mind that she would go to Romundgaard. She would

complain to Sira Eirik.

But the priest had not come back yet from Jörundgaard. In the

kitchen-house she found Gunhild, Bentein’s mother; the woman was alone,

and Kristin told her how her son had dealt with her. But that she had

gone out to meet Arne she did not tell her. When she saw that Gunhild

thought she had been at Laugarbru, she left her to think so.

Gunhild said little, but wept a great deal while she washed the mud off

Kristin’s clothes and sewed up the worst rents. And the girl was so

shaken she paid no heed to the covert glances Gunhild cast on her now

and then.

When Kristin went, Gunhild took her cloak and went out with her, but

took the way to the stables. Kristin asked her whither she was going.

“Surely I may have leave to ride down and look after my son,” answered

the woman. “See whether you have killed him with that stone of yours, or

how it fares with him.”

There seemed to be naught Kristin could answer to this, so she said only

that Gunhild should see to it Bentein got out of the parish as soon as

might be, and kept out of her sight, “—or I will speak of this to

Lavrans, and you can guess, I trow, what would happen then.”

* * * * *

And indeed, Bentein went southward not more than a week later; he

carried letters from Sira Eirik to the Bishop of Hamar begging the

Bishop to find work for him or otherwise to help him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

7

One day at Yule-tide Simon Andressön came riding to Jörundgaard, a quite

unlooked for guest. He craved pardon for coming thus, unbidden and

alone, without his kinsfolk. But Sir Andres was in Sweden on the King’s

business; he himself had been home at Dyfrin for a time, but only his

young sisters and his mother, who lay ill abed, were there; so time had

hung on his hands, and a great longing had taken him to look in upon

them up here.

Ragnfrid and Lavrans thanked him much for having made this long journey

in the depth of winter. The more they saw of Simon the more they liked

him. He knew of all that had passed between Andres and Lavrans, and it

was now fixed that his and Kristin’s betrothal ale should be drunk

before the beginning of Lent if Sir Andres would be home by that time,

but, if not, then as soon as Easter was past.

Kristin was quiet and downcast when with her betrothed; she found not

much to talk of with him. One evening when they had all been sitting

drinking, he asked her to go out with him a little into the cool. Then,

as they stood on the balcony in front of the upper hall, he put his arm

round her waist and kissed her. After that he did the same often when

they were alone. It gave her no gladness, but she suffered him to do it,

since she knew the betrothal was a thing that must come. She thought of

her wedding now only as something which she must go through with, not as

something she wished for. None the less she liked Simon well

enough—most, though, when he talked with others and did not touch or

talk to her.

* * * * *

She had been so unhappy through this whole autumn. It was of no use,

however often she told herself Bentein had been able to do her no harm;

none the less she felt herself soiled and shamed.

Nothing could be the same as it had been before, since a man had dared

try to wreak such a will on her. She lay awake of nights and burned with

shame and could not stop thinking of it. She felt Bentein’s body close

against hers as when they fought, his hot, beery breath—she could not

help thinking of what might have happened—and she thought, with a

shudder through all her body, of what he had said: how Arne would get

the blame if it could not be hidden. There rushed through her mind all

that would have followed if such a calamity had befallen and then folk

had heard of her meeting with Arne—what if her father and mother had

believed such a thing of Arne—and Arne himself—She saw him as she had

seen him that last evening, and she felt as though she sank crushed

before him at the very thought that she _might_ have dragged him down

with her into sorrow and disgrace. And then she had such ugly dreams.

She had heard tell in church and in holy stories of fleshly lusts and

the temptations of the body, but they had meant naught to her. Now it

was become real to her that she herself and all mankind had a sinful,

carnal body which enmeshed the soul and ate into it with hard bonds.

Then she would think out for herself how she might have killed or

blinded Bentein. It was the only solace she could find—to sate herself

with dreams of revenge upon the dark, hateful man who stood always in

the way of her thoughts. But this did not help for long; she lay by

Ulvhild’s side of nights and wept bitter tears at the thought of all

this that had been brought upon her by brute force. Bentein had not

failed altogether—he had wrought scathe to the maidenhood of her spirit.

The first work-day after Christmas all the women on Jörundgaard were

busy in the kitchen-house; Ragnfrid and Kristin had been there, too, for

most of the day. Late in the evening, while some of the women were

clearing up after the baking, and others making ready for supper, the

dairy-maid came rushing in, shrieking and wringing her hands:

“Jesus, Jesus—did ever any hear such a dreadful thing—they are bringing

Arne Gyrdson home dead on a sleigh—God help Gyrd and Inga in this

misery—”

A man who dwelt in a cottage a little way down the road came in with

Halvdan. It was these two who had met the bier.

The women crowded round them. Outside the circle stood Kristin, white

and shaking. Halvdan, Lavrans’ own body-servant, who had known Arne from

his boyhood, wept aloud as he told the story:

It was Bentein Priestson who had killed Arne. On New Year’s Eve the men

of the Bishop’s household were sitting and drinking in the men’s hall,

and Bentein had come in—he had been given a clerkship now with the

Corpus Christi prebendary. The men did not want him amongst them at

first, but he had put Arne in mind that they were both from the same

parish, and Arne had let him sit by him, and they had drunk together.

But presently they had quarrelled and fought, and Arne had fallen on so

fiercely that Bentein had snatched a knife from they table and stabbed

him in the throat and then more than once in the breast. Arne had died

almost at once.

The Bishop had taken this mischance much to heart; he himself had cared

for the laying-out of the corpse, and had it brought all the long way

home by his own folk. Bentein he had thrown into irons, cast him out

from the church, and if he were not already hanged, he was going to be.

Halvdan had to tell all this over again many times as fresh people

streamed in. Lavrans and Simon came over to the kitchen too, when they

marked all the stir and commotion about the place. Lavrans was much

moved; he bade them saddle his horse, he would ride over to Brekken at

once. As he was about to go, his eyes fell on Kristin’s white face.

“May be _you_ would like to go with me?” he asked. Kristin faltered a

little; she shuddered—but then she nodded, for she could not utter one

word.

“Is’t not too cold for her?” said Ragnfrid. “Doubtless they will have

the wake to-morrow, and then ’tis like we shall all go together—”

Lavrans looked at his wife; he marked Simon’s face too; and then he went

and laid his arm round Kristin’s shoulders:

“She is his foster-sister, you must bear in mind,” said he. “Maybe she

would like to help Inga with the laying-out the body.”

And though Kristin’s heart was benumbed with despair and fear, she felt

a glow of thankfulness to her father for his words.

Ragnfrid said then, that if Kristin was to go, they must eat their

evening porridge before they started. She wished, too, to send gifts to

Inga by them—a new linen sheet, wax-candles and fresh-baked bread; and

she bade them say she would come up herself and help to prepare for the

burial.

There was little eating, but much talking in the room while the food was

on the table. One reminded the other of the trials that God had laid

upon Gyrd and Inga. Their farm had been laid waste by stone-slips and

floods: more than one of their elder children were dead, so that all

Arne’s brothers and sisters were still but little ones. They had had

fortune with them now for some years, since the Bishop placed Gyrd at

Finsbrekken as his bailiff; and the children who were left to them were

fair and full of promise. But his mother loved Arne more than all the

rest—

They pitied Sira Eirik too. The priest was beloved and well respected

and the folk of the parish were proud of him; he was learned and skilled

in his office and in all the years he had had their church he had never

let a holy day or mass or a service pass that he was in duty bound to

hold. In his youth he had been man-at-arms under Count Alv of Tornberg

but he had had the misfortune to kill a man of very high birth, and so

had taken refuge with the Bishop of Oslo; when the Bishop saw what a

turn Eirik had for book-learning, he had him trained for a priest. And

had it not been that he still had enemies by reason of that slaying of

long ago, it was like Sira Eirik would not have stayed here in this

little charge. True enough, he was very greedy of pence, both for his

own purse and for the church, but then, was not his church richly fitted

out with plate and vestments and books? and he himself had these

children—and he had had naught but sorrow and trouble with his family.

In these far away country parishes folk held it was not reason that

priests should live like monks, for they must at the least have women to

help on their farms, and they might well need a woman to look after

things for them, seeing what long and toilsome journeys they must make

round the parishes, and that too in all kinds of weather; besides folk

had not forgotten that it was not so very long since priests in Norway

had been wedded men. Thus no one had blamed Sira Eirik over much that he

had had three children by the woman who tended his house, while he was

yet young. But this evening they said, it looked, indeed, as though

’twas God’s will to punish Eirik for his loose living, so much evil had

his children and his children’s children brought upon him. And some

thought there was good reason, too, that a priest should have neither

wife nor children—for after this it was much to be feared that

bitterness and enmity would arise between the priest and the folk on

Finsbrekken, who until now had been the best of friends.

Simon Andressön knew much of Bentein’s doings in Oslo; and he told of

them. Bentein had been clerk to the Dean of the Church of the Holy

Virgin, and he had the name of being a quick-witted youth. There were

many women, too, who liked him well—he had roving eyes, and a glib

tongue. Some held him a comely man—these were for the most part such

women as thought they had a bad bargain in their husbands, and then

young maids, the sort that liked well that men should be somewhat free

with them. Simon laughed—aye, they understood? Well, Bentein was so sly,

he never went too far with that kind of woman; he was all talk with

them, and so he got a name for clean-living. But the thing was that King

Haakon, as they knew, was a good and pious man himself, and fain would

keep order among his men and hold them to a seemly walk and

conversation—the young ones at least; the others were apt to be too much

for him. And it came about that whatever pranks the youngsters managed

to slip out and take part in—drinking bouts, gambling and beer-drinking

and such like—the priest of the King’s household always got to hear of,

and the mad-caps had to confess and pay scot and suffer hard reproof;

aye, two or three of the wildest youths of all were hunted away. But at

last it came out it was this fox, Bentein secretarius—unknown to anyone

he had been made free of all the beer-houses and worse places still; he

confessed the serving-wenches and gave them absolution—

Kristin sat at her mother’s side; she tried to eat so that no one should

mark how it was with her, though her hand shook so that she spilled the

milk porridge at each spoonful, and her tongue felt so thick and dry in

her mouth that she could not swallow the morsels of bread. But when

Simon began to tell of Bentein, she had to give up making believe to

eat; she held on to the bench beneath her—terror and loathing seized

her, so that she felt dizzy and sick. It was he who had wanted

to—Bentein and Arne, Bentein and Arne—Beside herself with impatience,

she waited for them to be finished. She longed to see Arne, Arne’s

comely face, to throw herself down beside him and mourn and forget all

else.

As her mother helped her with her outer wrappings, she kissed her

daughter on the cheek. Kristin was so little used to endearments from

her mother now, it comforted her much—she laid her head upon Ragnfrid’s

shoulder a moment, but she could not weep.

When they came out of the courtyard, she saw that others were going with

them—Halvdan, Jon from Laugarbru, and Simon and his man. It gave her a

pang, she knew not why, that the two strangers should be coming with

them.

It was a bitter cold evening, and the snow crackled under foot; in the

black sky the stars crowded thick, glittering like rime. When they had

ridden a little way, they heard yells and howls and furious hoof-beats

from the flats to the south—a little further up the road a whole troop

of horsemen came tearing up behind and swept past them with a ringing of

metal, leaving behind a vapour of reeking, rime-covered horseflesh,

which reached them even where they stood aside in the deep snow. Halvdan

hailed the wild crew—they were youths from the farms in the south of the

parish; they were still keeping Yule-tide and were out trying their

horses. Some, who were too drunk to understand, thundered on at a

gallop, roaring at the top of their voices and hammering on their

shields. But a few grasped the tidings which Halvdan shouted to them;

they fell out of the troop, grew silent, joined Lavrans’ company and

talked in whispers to those in the rear.

At last they came in sight of Finsbrekken, on the hillside beyond the

Sil river. There were lights about the houses—in the middle of the

courtyard pine-root torches had been planted in a heap of snow, and

their glare lay red over the white slopes, but the black houses looked

as though smeared with clotted blood. One of Arne’s little sisters stood

outside and stamped her feet; she hugged her hands beneath her cloak.

Kristin kissed the tear-stained, half-frozen child. Her heart was heavy

as stone, and it seemed as though she had lead in her limbs, as she

climbed the stairs to the loft-room where they had laid him.

* * * * *

The sound of singing and the glitter of many lighted candles met them in

the doorway. In the middle of the room stood the coffin he had been

brought home in, covered with a sheet; boards had been laid on trestles

and the coffin placed upon them. At the head of the bier a young priest

stood with a book in his hands, chanting; round about knelt the mourners

with their faces hidden in their heavy cloaks.

Lavrans lit his candle at one of those already burning, set it firmly

upon one of the boards of the bier and knelt down. Kristin tried to do

the like, but could not get her candle to stand; so Simon took it and

helped her. As long as the priest went on chanting, all stayed upon

their knees and repeated his words in whispers, their breath hanging

like steam about their mouths, in the bitter cold air of the room.

When the priest shut his book and the folk rose—there were many gathered

in the death-chamber already—Lavrans went forward to Inga. She stared at

Kristin, and seemed scarce to hear what Lavrans said; she stood holding

the gifts he had handed to her as though she knew not she had aught in

her hand.

“Are _you_ come, too, Kristin,” she said in a strange, laboured voice.

“Maybe you would see my son, so as he is come back to me?”

She pushed some of the candles aside, seized Kristin’s arm with a

shaking hand, and with the other swept the napkin from the face of the

dead.

It was greyish-yellow like clay, and the lips had the hue of lead; they

had parted a little, so that the small, even, bone-white teeth showed

through as in a mocking smile. Under the long eyelashes there was a

gleam of the glassy eyes, and there were some livid stains below the

temples, either marks of blows or the death-spots.

“Maybe you would kiss him?” asked Inga, as before; and Kristin bent

forward at her bidding and pressed her lips upon the dead man’s cheek.

It was clammy as with dew, and she thought she could feel the least

breath of decay; the body had begun to thaw perhaps with the heat from

all the tapers round.

Kristin stayed still, lying with her hands on the bier, for she could

not rise. Inga drew the shroud further aside, so that the great gash

above the collarbone came to sight. Then she turned towards the people

and said with a shaking voice:

“They lie, I see, who say a dead man’s wounds will bleed when he is

touched by him who wrought his death. He is colder now, my boy, and less

comely, than when you met him last down there on the road. You care not

much to kiss him now, I see—but I have heard you scorned not his lips

then.”

“Inga,” said Lavrans, coming forward, “have you lost your wits—are you

raving—”

“Oh, aye, you are all so fine, down at Jörundgaard—you were far too rich

a man, you Lavrans Björgulfsön, for my son to dare think of courting

your daughter with honour—and Kristin, too, she thought herself too

good. But she was not too good to run after him on the highway at night

and play with him in the thickets the night he left—ask her yourself and

we will see if she dare deny it here, with Arne lying dead—and all

through her lightness—”

Lavrans did not ask, he turned to Gyrd:

“Curb your wife, man—you see she has clean lost her wits—”

But Kristin lifted her white face and looked desperately about her:

“I went and met Arne the last evening because he begged me to. But

naught of wrong passed between us.” And then, as she seemed to come to

herself and to understand all, she cried out: “I know not what you mean,

Inga—would you slander Arne, and he lying here—never did he tempt me nor

lure me astray—”

But Inga laughed aloud:

“Nay, not Arne! but Bentein Priest—_he_ did not let you play with him

so—ask Gunhild, Lavrans, that washed the dirt off your daughter’s back;

and ask each man who was in the Bishop’s henchmen’s hall on New Year’s

Eve, when Bentein flouted Arne for that he had let her go, and leave him

standing like a fool. She let Bentein walk homeward with her under her

cloak and would have played the same game with him—”

Lavrans took her by the shoulder and laid his hand over her mouth:

“Take her away, Gyrd. Shameful it is that you should speak such words by

this good youth’s body—but if all your children lay here dead, I would

not stand and hear you lie about mine—you, Gyrd, must answer for what

this madwoman says—”

Gyrd took hold of his wife and tried to lead her away, but he said to

Lavrans:

“’Tis true, though, ’twas of Kristin they talked, Arne and Bentein, when

my son lost his life. Like enough you have not heard it, but there hath

been talk in the parish here too this autumn—”

Simon struck a blow with his sword upon the clothes-chest beside him:

“Nay, good folk, now must you find somewhat else to talk of in this

death-chamber than my betrothed—Priest, can you not rule these folk and

keep seemly order here—?”

The priest—Kristin saw now he was the youngest son from Ulvsvolden, who

had been at home for Yule—opened his book and stood up beside the bier.

But Lavrans shouted that those who had talked about his daughter, let

them be who they might, should be made to swallow their words, and Inga

shrieked:

“Aye, take my life then, Lavrans, since she has taken all my comfort and

joy—and make her wedding with this knight’s son; but yet do all folk

know that she was wed with Bentein upon the highway—Here—,” and she cast

the sheet Lavrans had given her right across the bier to Kristin, “I

need not Ragnfrid’s linen to lay my Arne in the grave—make head-cloths

of it, you, or keep it to swaddle your roadside brat—and go down and

help Gunhild to moan for the man that’s hanged—”

Lavrans, Gyrd and the priest took hold of Inga. Simon tried to lift

Kristin, who was lying over the bier. But she thrust his arm fiercely

aside, drew herself up straight upon her knees and cried aloud:

“So God my Saviour help me, it is false!” and, stretching out one hand,

she held it over the nearest candle on the bier.

It seemed as if the flame bent and waved aside—Kristin felt all eyes

fixed upon her—what seemed to her a long time went by. And then all at

once she grew aware of a burning pain in her palm, and with a piercing

cry she fell back upon the floor.

She thought, herself, she swooned—but she was aware that Simon and the

priest raised her. Inga shrieked out something; she saw her father’s

horror-stricken face, and heard the priest shout that no one must take

account of this ordeal—not thus might one call God to witness,—and then

Simon bore her from the room and down the stairs. Simon’s man ran to the

stable, and soon after Kristin was sitting, still half senseless, in

front of Simon on his saddle, wrapped in his coat, and he was riding

toward Jörundgaard as fast as his horse could gallop.

They were nigh to Jörundgaard when Lavrans came up with them. The rest

of their company came thundering along the road far behind.

“Say naught to your mother,” said Simon, as he set her down at the door

of the house. “We have heard all too much wild talk to-night; ’tis no

wonder you lost your wits yourself at the last.”

* * * * *

Ragnfrid was lying awake when they came in, and she asked how things had

been in the wake chamber. Simon took it upon himself to answer for all.

Aye, there had been many candles and many folk; aye, there had been a

priest—Tormod from Ulvsvolden—Sira Eirik he heard had ridden off to

Hamar this very evening, so there would be no trouble about the burial.

“We must have a mass said over the lad,” said Ragnfrid; “God strengthen

Inga; the good worthy woman is sorely tried.”

Lavrans sang the same tune as Simon and in a little Simon said that now

they must all go to rest; “for Kristin is both weary and sorrowful.”

* * * * *

After a time, when Ragnfrid slept, Lavrans threw on a few clothes, and

went and seated himself on the edge of his daughters’ bed. He found

Kristin’s hand in the dark and said very gently:

“Now must you tell me, child, what is true and what is false in all this

talk Inga is spreading?”

Sobbing, Kristin told him all that had befallen the evening Arne set out

for Hamar. Lavrans said but little. Kristin crept toward him in her bed,

threw her arms around his neck and wailed softly:

“It _is_ my fault that Arne is dead—’tis but too true, what Inga said—”

“’Twas Arne himself that begged you to go and meet him,” said Lavrans,

pulling the coverlid up over his daughter’s bare shoulders. “I trow it

was heedless in me to let you two go about together, but I thought the

lad would have known better—I will not blame you two—I know these things

are heavy for you to bear. Yet did I never think that daughter of mine

would fall into ill-fame in this parish of ours—and ’twill go hard with

your mother when she hears these tidings—But that you went to Gunhild

with this and not to me, ’twas so witless a thing—I understand not how

you could behave so foolishly—”

“I cannot bear to stay here in the Dale any more,” sobbed Kristin, “—not

a soul would I dare look in the face—and all I have brought upon

them—the folks at Romundgaard and at Finsbrekken—”

“Aye, they will have to see to it, both Gyrd and Sira Eirik,” said

Lavrans, “that these lies about you are buried with Arne. For the rest,

’tis Simon Andressön can best defend you in this business,” said he, and

patted her in the dark. “Think you not he took the matter well and

wisely—”

“Father”—and Kristin clung close to him and begged piteously and

fervently, “send me to the convent, father. Aye, listen to me—I have

thought of this for long; may be Ulvhild will grow well if I go in her

stead. You know the shoes with beads upon them that I sewed for her in

the autumn—I pricked my fingers sorely, and my hands bled from the sharp

gold-thread—yet I sat and sewed on them, for I thought it was wicked of

me not to love my sister so that I would be a nun to help her—Arne once

asked if I would not. Had I but said ‘Aye’ then, all this would not have

befallen—”

Lavrans shook his head:

“Lie down now,” he bade. “You know not yourself what you say, poor

child. Now you must try if you can sleep—”

But Kristin lay and felt the smart in her burnt hand, and despair and

bitterness over her fate raged in her heart. No worse could have

befallen her had she been the most sinful of women; everyone would

believe—no, she could not, could not bear to stay on here in the Dale.

Horror after horror rose before her—when her mother came to know of

this—and now there was blood between them and their parish priest,

ill-will betwixt all who had been friends around her the whole of her

life. But the worst, the most crushing fear of all fell upon her when

she thought of Simon and of how he had taken her and carried her away

and stood forth for her at home, and borne himself as though she were

his own possession—her father and mother had fallen aside before him as

though she belonged already more to him than to them—

Then she thought of Arne’s face in the coffin, cold and cruel. She

remembered the last time she was at church, she had seen, as she left,

an open grave that stood waiting for a dead man. The upthrown clods of

earth lay upon the snow hard and cold and grey like iron—to this had she

brought Arne—

All at once the thought came to her of a summer evening many years

before. She was standing on the balcony of the loft-room at Finsbrekken,

the same room where she had been struck down that night. Arne was

playing ball with some boys in the courtyard below, and the ball was hit

up to her in the balcony. She had held it behind her back, and would not

give it up when Arne came after it; then he had tried to wrest it from

her by strength—and they had fought for it, in the balcony, in the room

amid the chests, with the leather sacks, which hung there full of

clothes, bumping their heads as they knocked against them in their

frolic; they had laughed and struggled over that ball—

And then, at last, the truth seemed to come home to her: he was dead and

gone, and she should never again see his comely, fearless face nor feel

the touch of his warm, living hands. And she had been so childish and so

heartless as never to give a thought to what it must be for him to lose

her—She wept bitter tears, and felt she had earned all her unhappiness.

But then the thought came back of all that still awaited her, and she

wept anew, for, after all, it seemed to her too hard a punishment—

* * * * *

It was Simon who told Ragnfrid of what happened in the corpse chamber at

Brekken the night before. He did not make more of it than he needs must.

But Kristin was so amazed with sorrow and night waking that she felt a

senseless anger against him because he talked as if it were not so

dreadful a thing after all. Besides it vexed her sorely that her father

and mother let Simon behave as though he were master of the house.

“And you Simon—surely you believe not aught of this?” asked Ragnfrid,

fearfully.

“No,” replied Simon. “Nor do I deem there is anyone who believes it—they

know you and her and this Bentein; but so little befalls for folk to

talk of in these outparishes—’tis but reason they should fall to on such

a fat titbit. ’Tis for us to teach them Kristin’s good name is too fine

fare for such clowns as they. But pity it was she let herself be so

frighted by his grossness that she went not forthwith to you or to Sira

Eirik with the tale—methinks this bordel-priest would but too gladly

have avowed he meant naught worse than harmless jesting, had you,

Lavrans, got a word with him.”

Both Kristin’s parents said that Simon was right in this. But she cried

out, stamping her foot:

“But he threw me down on the ground, I say—I scarce know myself what he

did or did not do—I was beside myself; I can remember naught—for all I

know it may be as Inga says—I have not been well nor happy a single day

since—”

Ragnfrid shrieked and clasped her hands together; Lavrans started

up—even Simon’s face fell; he looked at her sharply, then went up to her

and took her by the chin.

Then he laughed:

“God bless you, Kristin—you had remembered but too well if he had done

you any harm. No marvel if she has been sad and ill since that unhappy

evening she had such an ugly fright—she who had never known aught but

kindness and goodwill before,” said he to the others. “Any but the evil

minded, who would fain think ill rather than good, can see by her eyes

that she is a maid, and no woman.”

Kristin looked up into her betrothed’s small, steady eyes. She half

lifted her hands—as if to throw them round his neck—when he went on:

“You must not think, Kristin, that you will not forget this. ’Tis not in

my mind that we should settle down at Formo as soon as we are wed, so

that you would never leave the Dale. No one has the same hue of hair or

mind in both rain and sunshine, said old King Sverre, when they blamed

his Birch-legs for being overbearing in good fortune—”

Lavrans and Ragnfrid smiled—it was pleasant enough to hear the young man

discourse with the air of a wise old bishop. Simon went on:

“’Twould ill beseem me to seek to teach you, who are to be my

father-in-law; but so much, maybe, I may make bold to say, that we, my

brothers and sisters and I, were brought up more strictly; we were not

let run about so freely with the house-folk as I have seen that Kristin

is used to. My mother often said that if one played with the cottar

carls’ brats, ’twas like one would get a louse or two in one’s hair in

the end—and there’s somewhat in that saying.”

Lavrans and Ragnfrid held their peace, but Kristin turned away, and the

wish she had felt but a moment before to clasp Simon round the neck, had

quite left her.

* * * * *

Towards noon, Lavrans and Simon took their ski and went out to see to

some snares up on the mountain ridges. The weather was fine

outside—sunshine, and the cold not so great. Both men were glad to slip

away from all the sadness and weeping at home, and so they went

far—right up among the bare hilltops.

They lay in the sun under a crag and drank and ate; Lavrans spoke a

little of Arne—he had loved the boy well, Simon chimed in, praised the

dead lad, and said he thought it not strange that Kristin grieved for

her foster brother. Then Lavrans said: maybe they should not press her

much, but should give her a little time to get back her peace of mind

before they drank the betrothal ale. She had said somewhat of wishing to

go into a convent for a time.

Simon sat bolt upright, and gave a long whistle.

“You like not the thought?” asked Lavrans.

“Nay, but I do, I do,” said the other hastily. “Methinks it is the best

way, dear father-in-law. Send her to the Sisters in Oslo for a

year—there will she learn how folk talk one of the other out in the

world. I know a little of some of the maidens who are there,” he said

laughing. “_They_ would not throw themselves down and die of grief if

two mad younkers tore each other to pieces for their sakes. Not that I

would have such an one for wife—but methinks Kristin will be none the

worse for meeting new folks.”

Lavrans put the rest of the food into the wallet and said, without

looking at the youth:

“Methinks you love Kristin—?”

Simon laughed a little and did not look at Lavrans:

“Be sure, I know her worth—and yours too,” he said quickly and

shamefacedly, as he got up and took his ski. “None that I have ever met

would I sooner wed with—”

* * * * *

A little before Easter, when there was still snow enough for sleighing

down the Dale and the ice still bore on Mjösen, Kristin journeyed

southward for the second time. Simon came up to bear her company—so now

she journeyed driving in a sleigh, well wrapped in furs and with father

and betrothed beside her; and after them followed her father’s men and

sledges with her clothes, and gifts of food and furs for the Abbess and

the Sisters of Nonneseter.

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BOOK TWO

THE GARLAND

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1

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 chimes

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

spring-like 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 tree-tops. The wind ruffled the skirts of her cloak and

snatched at her hair beneath her hood.

They had left 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 horse-hide 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’

step-mother, 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 step-mother,

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 Misericordiæ, 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 well-born 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 to-day.

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 bed-fellow—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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

2

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 spring-like 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 well-born 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 head-band,

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 passers-by.

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 foot-gear.

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 Östre 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 merry-making 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 Edwin 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 river

bank; 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 mountain-side 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 to-night—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

back. 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 cart-wheel 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 good-bye,

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 to-night 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 for ever 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 left

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 Gyrdson’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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

3

The farmer 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. In 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 wellnigh 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 hay-making

was near at an end here on the lowlands, but along the fences grew

blue-bells 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’ women-folk 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 by-ways 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 over-crowded 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 to-day.”

“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.