“You know yourself,” said he in a low tone, and with a shaking voice, “you know that you lie, if you would have it that I did not—. You know well enough, what I would have spoken of with you—many times—when you met me so that I had not been a man, had I been able to say it—after that—not if they had tried to drag it out of me with redhot pincers. …
“—First I thought ’twas yonder dead lad. I thought I must leave you in peace awhile—you knew me not—I deemed ’twould have been a wrong to trouble you so soon after. Now I see you did not need so long a time to forget—now—now—now—”
“No,” said Kristin quietly. “I know it, Simon. Now I cannot look that you should be my friend any longer.”
“Friend—!” Simon gave a short, strange laugh. “Do you need my friendship now, then?”
Kristin grew red.
“You are a man,” said she softly. “And old enough now—you can choose yourself whom you will wed.”
Simon looked at her sharply. Then he laughed as before.
“I understand. You would have me say ’tis I who—. I am to take the blame for the breaking of our bond?
“If so be that your mind is fixed—if you have the will and the boldness to try to carry through your purpose—then I will do it,” he said low. “At home with all my own folks and before all your kin—save one. To your father you must tell the truth, even as it is. If you would have it so, I will bear your message to him, and spare you, in giving it, in so far as I can—but Lavrans Björgulfsön shall know that never, with my will, would I go back from one word that I have spoken to him.”
Kristin clutched the edge of the bench with both hands; this was harder for her to bear than all else that Simon Darre had said. Pale and fearful, she stole a glance at him.
Simon rose.
“Now must we go in,” said he. “Methinks we are nigh frozen, both of us, and the sister is sitting waiting with the key. I will give you a week to think upon the matter—I have business in the town here. I shall come hither and speak with you when I am ready to go, but you will scarce care to see aught of me meanwhile.”
VIII
Kristin said to herself: now that, at least, is over. But she felt broken with weariness and sick for Erlend’s arms.
She lay awake most of the night, and she resolved to do what she never dared think of before—send word to Erlend. It was not easy to find anyone who could go such an errand for her. The lay-sisters never went out alone, nor did she know of any of them she thought would be willing; the men who did the farm work were elder folk and but seldom came near the dwellings of the nuns, save to speak with the Abbess herself. There was only Olav. He was a half-grown lad, who worked in the gardens; he had been Lady Groa’s foster-son from the time when he was found, a newborn babe, upon the church steps one morning. Folk said one of the lay-sisters was his mother; she was to have been a nun; but after she had been kept in the dark cell for six months—for grave disobedience, as ’twas said—and it was about that time the child was found—she had been given the lay-sisters’ habit and had worked in the farmyard ever since. Kristin had often thought of Sister Ingrid’s fate throughout these months, but she had had few chances to speak with her. It was venturesome to trust to Olav—he was but a child, and Lady Groa and all the nuns were wont to chat and jest with him, when they saw the boy. But Kristin deemed it mattered little what risks she took now. And a day or two later, when Olav was for the town one morning, Kristin sent word by him to Akersnes, that Erlend must find some way whereby they might meet alone.
That same afternoon Erlend’s own man, Ulf, came to the grille. He said he was Aasmund Björgulfsön’s man, and was to pray, on his master’s behalf, that his brother’s daughter might go down to the town for a little, for Aasmund had not time to come to Nonneseter. Kristin thought this device must surely fail—but when Sister Potentia asked if she knew the bearer of the message, she said, “Yes.” So she went with Ulf to Brynhild Fluga’s house.
Erlend awaited her in the loft-room—he was uneasy and anxious, and she knew at once, ’twas that he was afraid again of what he seemed to fear the most.
Always it cut her to the soul he should feel such a haunting dread that she might be with child—when yet they could not keep apart. Harassed as she was this evening, she said this to him—hotly enough. Erlend’s face flushed darkly, and he laid his head down upon her shoulder.
“You are right,” said he. “I must try to let you be, Kristin—not to put your happiness in such jeopardy. If you will—”
She threw her arms around him and laughed, but he caught her round the waist, forced her down upon a bench, and seated himself on the farther side of the board. When she stretched her hand over to him, he covered the palm with vehement kisses.
“I have tried more than you,” said he with passion. “You know not, how much I deem it means for both of us, that we should be wed with all honour.”
“Then you should not have made me yours,” said Kristin.
Erlend hid his face in his hands.
“Aye, would to God I had not done you that wrong,” he said.
“Neither you nor I wish that,” said Kristin, laughing boldly. “And if I may but be forgiven and make my peace at last with my kindred and with God, then shall
