Kari. No.
Halla. I could not believe that your eyes lied this evening. (Stamps her foot with anger and shame.) Take yourself away from here! Go! (Covers her face with her hands; rocks to and fro.)
Kari. My eyes did not lie to-night. (Stands for a moment in terrible emotion; then begins to walk up and down.) I knew a man named Eyvind. His father was poor and had many children. Eyvind was the next to the oldest. It was said in those parts that thieving ran in the blood of his kin, though no one could say anything against Eyvind's father. (Halla looks up, listening.) Two years ago or more, toward the end of the winter, it happened, as often before, that there was no food in the house. Eyvind went to the parson to ask him to help them out with food. He offered to pay for it with his work in the spring, but the parson refused. It was late in the evening, dark and snowing. The road to Eyvind's home went past the parson's sheep-cots. (As Kari proceeds, he now and then passes his hand over his forehead.) They loomed before him like a big black mound. Then the temptation came over him. The herdsman had gone home, the snow would cover up the tracks, and the parson was rich enough. I hated him! (Halla rises.) Late that night, Eyvind came home with a fine big sheep. The next day, word came from the parson. They had found his mittens in the sheep-cot. Eyvind was locked up and given ten years in prison. They thought they could prove that he had more thefts to answer for— (He breaks off suddenly.)
Halla (breathlessly). Kari!
Kari. My name is not Kari—it is Eyvind. I was sentenced for theft. I fled and lived one year in the hills as an outlaw.
Halla. After this I shall never believe in any one. (Sits down and bursts into tears.)
Kari (kneeling). Do with me what you will. Drive me out of your house—now—this evening, or give me into the hands of the law, but you must forgive me. It was our poverty and the snow that made me steal.
Halla (rising). I will not cry. It is stupid to cry. Get up! I am no God that you should ask my forgiveness.
Kari (rising to his feet). It is lonesome to live a whole winter up there in the hills. That is why I ventured down here, far from home, and under a new name. Since then I have gone about like one who walks in his sleep, afraid of the awakening. Many a time have I made up my mind to tell you the whole truth, but somehow it seemed to get harder with every day that passed. I have never understood why it was so before to-night, but now I know it, and now I can speak of it. Kari has loved you. You are the only woman he has ever loved, but now Kari is no more, and never has been anything but the dream of a poor and unhappy man.
Halla. Say no more!