Thorgerd, swinging her aside by the collar on her neck.
Set on the water for the porridge; go.
Blanid goes into the outhouse; Thorgerd continues to Hialti.
Why must you hold her hands and hold her eyes?
Hialti.
Under each dark grey lash a long tear slid,
Like rain in a wild rose's shadowy curve
Bowed in the wind about the morning twilight.
Thorgerd.
Have done; I know; you left the fair at noon
To reach the copse just at the young moon's setting—
I could not find her till i' the night-hid copse
A woman's voice sobbed "If he would but come..."
Hialti.
It is not true; you know it is not true.
Let her alone; you know that I must love you,
And if she loves me she will know it too
And hurt herself far more than you can hurt her.
Thorgerd.
I hear you say it: and afterward?... Perhaps
My little shears are sharp as any knife.
Hialti.
You would not kill her?
Thorgerd. When have I grown kind-hearted?
She lays her hand on his shoulder and, leaning her mouth to his ear, speaks in a low, distinct voice.
Slit nose and lip and where's her beauty then?
He starts from his stool.
Nay, are my kinsfolk as far off as hers?
He turns away as Blanid enters with an iron pot which she hangs from a hook over the fire, and a pitcher of milk which she sets on the table.
Thorgerd takes the pot from the fire.