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 workday 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 dairymaid came rushing in, shrieking and wringing her hands:
“Jesus, Jesus—did ever any hear such a dreadful thing—they are bringing Arne Gyrdsön 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 the 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.
“Maybe 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 tomorrow, 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
