Sera Ketill and his wife rode on for some distance without speaking. Alma had an idea that Ketill wished to confide in her about something, but was at a loss how to begin.
She remembered how she had ridden that way with her husband once before: she had wept then, because he left her to ride alone. Now, the mere idea that he wished to speak to her made her shudder.
They came to the ford, and Ketill drew up close beside his wife, lest she should fall dizzy in crossing. He told her to close her eyes and hold on firmly, which she did. They crossed without difficulty. Alma could hear that the water no longer plashed about the horses’ feet. But she still kept her eyes closed.
She could feel that her husband was still at her side. At length he spoke. His voice was unsteady, as if he found it hard to speak at all.
“I want to speak to you about something,” he said.
Alma opened her eyes and glanced at him timidly. But Ketill was looking fixedly at his horse’s mane as he went on:
“It is an unpleasant matter, and I’m afraid it will distress you somewhat. But it must be faced. And when the time comes I am sure you will agree I have done rightly.”
He paused for a moment, and then went on:
“You saw the child?”
He waited, as if for an answer, but Alma made no reply.