And Rönnaug did not cease weeping, not even when she had thrown herself down over her child and was kissing it. She clasped it again and again to her bosom, as though she wanted to make sure of her life's great gain.
She had expected Magnhild to follow her. The clock struck eight, no Magnhild appeared; nine—still no Magnhild. Rönnaug threw a shawl over her head and stole past the saddler's house. Skarlie must have come home some time since. All was still within; there was no one at the windows. Rönnaug went back to the hotel and as she got ready for bed she kept pondering on what was now to be done, and whether she should really start on her journey without Magnhild. The last thought she promptly dismissed. No, she would remain and call for assistance. She was ready to risk a battle, and that with Mr. Skarlie himself, supported by the curate, Grong, and other worthy people. She probably viewed the matter somewhat from an American standpoint; but she was determined.
She fell asleep and dreamed that Mr. Skarlie and she were fighting. With his large hairy hands he seized her by the head, the shoulders, the hands; his repulsive face, with its toothless mouth, looked with a laugh into her eyes. She could not ward him off: once more he had her by the head; then Magnhild repeatedly called her name aloud and she awoke. Magnhild was standing at the side of her bed.
"Rönnaug! Rönnaug!"
"Yes, yes!"
"It is I—Magnhild!"
Rönnaug started up in bed, half intoxicated with sleep. "Yes, I see—you—It is you? No, really you, Magnhild! Are you going with me?"
"Yes!"
And Magnhild flung herself on Rönnaug's bosom and burst into tears. What tears! They were like those of a child, who after long fright finds its mother again.
"Good Heavens! What has happened?"