Kristin made no answer. Then the other laughed, and said:
“You do his will in all things now, I well believe. What think you, Kristin—shall we throw dice for our man, we two paramours of Erlend Nikulaussön?” When no answer came, she laughed again and said: “Are you so simple, that you deny not you are his paramour?”
“To you I care not to lie,” said Kristin.
“ ’Twould profit you but little if you did,” answered Eline, still laughing. “I know the boy too well. He flew at you like a blackcock, I trow, the second time you were together. ’Tis pity of you too, fair child that you are.”
Kristin’s cheeks grew white. Sick with loathing, she said low:
“I will not speak with you—”
“Think you he is like to deal with you better than with me?” went on Eline. Then Kristin answered sharply:
“No blame will I ever cast on Erlend, whatever he may do. I went astray of my own will—I shall not whimper or wail if the path lead out on to the rocks—”
Eline was silent for a while. Then she said unsteadily, flushing red:
“I was a maid too, when he came to me, Kristin—even though I had been wife in name to the old man for seven years. But like enough you could never understand what the misery of that life was.”
Kristin began to tremble violently. Eline looked at her. Then from her travelling-case that stood by her on the step of the bed she took a little horn. She broke the seal that was on its mouth and said softly:
“You are young and I am old, Kristin. I know well it boots not for me to strive against you—your time is now. Will you drink with me, Kristin?”
Kristin did not move. Then the other raised the horn to her own lips; but Kristin marked that she did not drink. Eline said:
“So much honour you sure can do me, to drink to me—and promise you will not be a hard stepmother to my children?”
Kristin took the horn. At that moment Erlend opened the door. He stood a moment, looking from one to the other of the women.
“What is this?” he asked.
Kristin answered, and her voice was wild and piercing:
“We are drinking to each other—we—your paramours—”
He gripped her wrist and took the horn from her.
“Be still,” he said, harshly. “You shall not drink with her.”
“Why not?” cried Kristin as before. “She was pure as I was, when you tempted her—”
“That hath she said so often, that I trow she is come to believe it herself,” said Erlend. “Mind you, Eline, when you made me go to Sigurd with that tale, and he brought forth witness that he had caught you before with another man?”
White with loathing, Kristin turned away. Eline had flushed darkly—now she said, defiantly:
“Yet will it scarce bring leprosy on the girl, if she drink with me!”
Erlend turned on Eline in wrath—then of a sudden his face seemed to grow long and hard as stone, and he gasped with horror:
“Jesus!” he said below his breath. He gripped Eline by the arm:
“Drink to her then,” he said in a harsh and quivering voice. “Drink you first; then she shall drink to you.”
Eline wrenched herself away with a groan. She fled backwards through the room, the man after her. “Drink,” he said. He snatched the dagger from his belt and held it as he followed. “Drink out the drink you have brewed for Kristin!” He seized Eline’s arm again and dragged her to the table, then forced her head forward toward the horn.
Eline shrieked once and buried her face on her arm. Erlend released her and stood trembling.
“A hell was mine with Sigurd,” shrieked Eline. “You—you promised—but you have been worst to me of all, Erlend!”
Then came Kristin forward and grasped the horn:
“One of us two must drink—both of us you cannot keep—”
Erlend wrenched the horn from her and flung her from him so that she reeled and fell near by Lady Aashild’s bed. Again he pushed the horn against Eline Ormsdatter’s mouth—with one knee on the bench he stood by her side, and with a hand round her head tried to force the drink between her teeth.
She reached out under his arm, snatched his dagger from the table, and struck hard at the man. The blow did but scratch his flesh through the clothes. Then she turned the point against her own breast, and the instant after sank sidelong down into his arms.
Kristin rose and came to them. Erlend was holding Eline, her head hanging back over his arm. The rattle came in her throat almost at once—blood welled up and ran out of her mouth. She spat some of it out and said:
“ ’Twas for you I meant—that drink—for all the times—you deceived me—”
“Bring Lady Aashild hither,” said Erlend in a low voice. Kristin stood immovable.
“She is dying,” said Erlend as before.
“Then is she better served than we,” said Kristen. Erlend looked at her—the despair in his eyes softened her. She left the room.
“What is it?” asked Lady Aashild, when Kristin called her out from the kitchen.
“We have killed Eline Ormsdatter,” said Kristin. “She is dying—”
Lady Aashild set off running to the hall. But Eline breathed her last as the Lady crossed the threshold.
Lady Aashild had laid out the dead woman on the bench, wiped the blood from her face and covered it with the linen of her coif. Erlend stood leaning against the wall, behind the body.
“Know you,” said Aashild, “that this was the worst thing that could befall?”
She had filled the fireplace with twigs and firewood; now she thrust the horn into the midst of them and blew them into a blaze.
“Can you trust your men?” asked the Lady again.
“Ulf and Haftor are trusty, methinks—of Jon and the man with Eline I know but little.”
“You know, belike,” said the lady, “should it come out that Kristin and you were
