There was a door leading from the parlour out into an herb-garden that lay behind the most westerly of the convent buildings. The nun unlocked the door and they stepped out into a mist so thick they could see but a few paces in among the trees. The nearest stems were coal-black; the moisture stood in beads on every twig and bough. A little fresh snow lay melting upon the wet mould, but under the bushes some white and yellow lily plants were blooming already, and a fresh, cool smell rose from the violet leaves.
Simon led her to the nearest bench. He sat a little bent forward with his elbows resting upon his knees. Then he looked up at her with a strange little smile:
“Almost I think I know what you would say to me,” said he. “There is another man, who is more to you than I—”
“It is so,” answered Kristin faintly.
“Methinks I know his name too,” said Simon, in a harder tone. “It is Erlend Nikulaussön of Husaby?”
After a while Kristin asked in a low voice:
“It has come to your ears, then?”
Simon was a little slow in answering.
“You can scarce think I could be so dull as not to see somewhat when we were together at Yule? I could say naught then, for my father and mother were with us. But this it is that has brought me hither alone this time. I know not whether it be wise of me to touch upon it—but methought we must talk of these things before we are given to one another.
“—But so it is now, that when I came hither yesterday—I met my kinsman, Master Öistein. And he spoke of you. He said you two had passed across the churchyard of St. Clement’s one evening, and with you was a woman they call Brynhild Fluga. I swore a great oath that he must have been amiss! And if you say it is untrue, I shall believe your word.”
“The priest saw aright,” answered Kristin defiantly. “You foreswore yourself, Simon.”
He sat a little ere he asked:
“Know you who this Brynhild Fluga is, Kristin?” As she shook her head, he said: “Munan Baardsön set her up in a house here in the town, when he wedded—she carries on unlawful dealings in wine—and other things—”
“You know her?” asked Kristin mockingly.
“I was never meant to be a monk or a priest,” said Simon reddening. “But I can say at least that I have wronged no maid and no man’s wedded wife. See you not yourself that ’tis no honourable man’s deed to bring you out to go about at night in such company—?”
“Erlend did not draw me on,” said Kristin, red with anger, “nor has he promised me aught. I set my heart on him without his doing aught to tempt me—from the first time I saw him, he was dearer to me than all other men.”
Simon sat playing with his dagger, throwing it from one hand to the other.
“These are strange words to hear from a man’s betrothed maiden,” said he. “Things promise well for us two now, Kristin.”
Kristin drew a deep breath:
“You would be ill served should you take me for your wife now, Simon.”
“Aye, God Almighty knows that so it seems indeed,” said Simon Andressön.
“Then I dare hope,” said Kristin meekly and timidly, “that you will uphold me, so that Sir Andres and my father may let this bargain about us be undone?”
“Do you so?” said Simon. He was silent for a little. “God knows whether you rightly understand what you say.”
“That do I,” said Kristin. “I know the law is such that none may force a maid to marriage against her will; else can she take her plea before the Thing—”
“I trow ’tis before the bishop,” said Simon, with something of a grim smile. “True it is, I have had no cause to search out how the law stands in such things. And I wot well you believe not either that ’twill come to that pass. You know well enough that I will not hold you to your word, if your heart is too much set against it. But can you not understand—’tis two years now since our marriage was agreed, and you have said no word against it till now, when all is ready for the betrothal and the wedding. Have you thought what it will mean, if you come forth now and seek to break the bond, Kristin?”
“But you want not me either,” said Kristin.
“Aye, but I do,” answered Simon curtly. “If you think otherwise, you must even think better of it—”
“Erlend Nikulaussön and I have vowed to each other by our Christian faith,” said she, trembling, “that if we cannot come together in wedlock, then neither of us will have wife or husband all our days—”
Simon was silent a good while. Then he said with effort:
“Then I know not, Kristin, what you meant when you said Erlend had neither drawn you on nor promised you aught—he has lured you to set yourself against the counsel of all your kin. Have you thought what kind of husband you will get, if you wed a man who took another’s wife to be his paramour—and now would take for wife another man’s betrothed maiden—?”
Kristin gulped down her tears; she whispered thickly:
“This you say but to hurt me.”
“Think you I would wish to hurt you?” asked Simon in a low voice.
“ ’Tis not as it would have been, had you—” said Kristin falteringly. “You were not asked either, Simon—’twas your father and my father who made the pact. It had been otherwise had you chosen me yourself—”
Simon struck his dagger into the bench so that it stood upright. A little after he drew it out again, and tried to slip it back into its sheath, but it would not go down, the point was bent. Then he sat passing it from hand to hand as
