He was not in the hall where the young folk were feasted and where they danced when the tables had been taken away; this evening it was Simon with whom Kristin must dance.
Along one of the longer walls stood a fixed table, and thither the King’s men bore ale and mead and wine the whole night long. Once when Simon drew her thither and drank to her, she saw Erlend standing near, behind Simon’s back. He looked at her, and Kristin’s hand shook when she took the beaker from Simon’s hand and set it to her lips. Erlend whispered vehemently to the man who was with him—a tall, comely man, well on in years and somewhat stout, who shook his head impatiently and looked as he were vexed. Soon after Simon led her back to the dance.
She knew not how long this dancing lasted—the music seemed as though ’twould never end, and each moment was long and evil to her with longing and unrest. At last it was over, and Simon drew her to the drinking board again.
A friend came forward to speak to him, and led him away a few steps, to a group of young men. And Erlend stood before her.
“I have so much I would fain say to you,” he whispered, “I know not what to say first—in Jesus’ name, Kristin, what ails you?” he asked quickly, for he saw her face grow white as chalk.
She could not see him clearly; it seemed as though there were running water between their two faces. He took a goblet from the table, drank from it and handed it to her. Kristin felt as though ’twas all too heavy for her, or as though her arm had been cut off at the shoulder; do as she would, she could not lift the cup to her mouth.
“Is it so, then, that you will drink with your betrothed, but not with me?” asked Erlend softly—but Kristin dropped the goblet from her hand and sank forward into his arms.
When she awoke she was lying on a bench with her head in a strange maiden’s lap—someone was standing by her side, striking the palms of her hands, and she had water on her face.
She sat up. Somewhere in the ring about her she saw Erlend’s face, white and drawn. Her own body felt weak, as though all her bones had melted away, and her head seemed as it were large and hollow—but somewhere within it shone one clear, desperate thought—she must speak with Erlend.
She said to Simon Darre—he stood near by:
“ ’Twas too hot for me, I trow—so many tapers are burning here—and I am little used to drink so much wine—”
“Are you well again now?” asked Simon. “You frightened folks. Mayhap you would have me take you home now?”
“We must wait, surely, till your father and mother go,” said Kristin calmly. “But sit down here—I can dance no more.” She touched the cushion at her side—then she held out her other hand to Erlend:
“Sit you here, Erlend Nikulaussön; I had no time to speak my greetings to an end. ’Twas but of late Ingebjörg said she deemed you had clean forgotten her.”
She saw it was far harder for him to keep calm than for her—and it was all she could do to keep back the little tender smile, which would gather round her lips.
“You must bear the maid my thanks for thinking of me still,” he stammered. “Almost I was afraid she had forgotten me.”
Kristin paused a little. She knew not what she should say, which might seem to come from the flighty Ingebjörg and yet might tell Erlend her meaning. Then there welled up in her the bitterness of all these months of helpless waiting, and she said:
“Dear Erlend, can you think that we maidens could forget the man who defended our honour so gallantly—”
She saw his face change as though she had struck him—and at once she was sorry; then Simon asked what this was they spoke of. Kristin told him of Ingebjörg’s and her adventure in the Eikaberg woods. She marked that Simon liked the tale but little. Then she begged him to go and ask of Lady Angerd, whether they should not soon go home; ’twas true that she was weary. When he was gone, she looked at Erlend.
“ ’Tis strange,” said he in a low voice, “you are so quick-witted—I had scarce believed it of you.”
“Think you not I have had to learn to hide and be secret?” said she gloomily.
Erlend’s breath came heavily; he was still very pale.
“ ’Tis so then?” he whispered. “Yet did you promise me to turn to my friends if this should come to pass. God knows, I have thought of you each day, in dread that the worst might have befallen—”
“I know well what you mean by the worst,” said Kristin shortly. “That you have no need to fear. To me what seemed the worst was that you would not send me one word of greeting—can you not understand that I am living there amongst the nuns—like a stranger bird—?” She stopped—for she felt that the tears were coming.
“Is it therefore you are with the Dyfrin folk now?” he asked. Then such grief came upon her that she could make no answer.
She saw Lady Angerd and Simon come through the doorway. Erlend’s hand lay upon his knee, near her, and she could not take it.
“I must have speech with you,” said he eagerly, “we have not said a word to one another we should have said—”
“Come to mass in the Maria Church at Epiphany,” said Kristin quickly, as she rose and went to meet the others.
Lady Angerd showed herself most loving and careful of Kristin on the way home, and herself helped her to bed. With Simon she had
