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 tonight; ’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
