Halla (rises. Her eyes are large and burning). Why did you not take me with you?
Kari. If I had gone alone, I might have come back alive. The two of us would have been sure to perish.
Halla (kneels). I once dreamed of two people. To them their love was the one and only law. When they had lived a long life together, they were thrown into direst need. Hunger drew near to the fine web that time had woven between them and would tear it asunder. Then they looked into each other's eyes, and together they walked out into the snowstorm to die.
Kari. It is every man's duty to keep alive as long as he can.
Halla (rising). And why should it be, when life has become an agony to ourselves and of use to no one?
Kari. It is the law of God.
Halla. The storm writes many laws in the sand. (Sits down.) When my strength had given out, you could have left me in the snow.
Kari. You know very well that I would never have done that.
Halla. That would have been better than to leave me waiting here. And I don't believe that death is so hard. The storm carries you until you drop from weariness, and then the snow comes and covers you up. (Staring before her with eyes wide open.)
Kari (is silent for a moment). You are bitter, because of our sore plight. Many a time have I told myself that I have been the curse of your life. If you had never known me, you would now be living in peace and quiet. You could have ridden to church every Sunday, if you liked. You would have been the rich and comely widow with all the young men flocking about you. I dare say you have often been sorry that you fled with me to the hills. (Halla is silent.) I remember once we had been out hunting together all night. Early in the morning we stood on the rim of the mountain plain looking down upon the fields and the dwellings of men. On some of the farms, the fires were lighted already, and the smoke rose straight up into the blue air, and the streams ran so quietly and pleasantly through the meadows. I thought then that I could see the homesickness in your eyes.