“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 today—”
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 but 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 tomorrow, dastard that you are—”
“Nay, tomorrow you will not
