Gudrid's throat was dry. She had difficulty in speaking. "I shall do my duty," she said. And then, "I shall obey my father in all things, as I ought."
Eric went over to her and took her hand. "I won't deny I shall be sorry to see you leave Brattalithe," he said. "I tell Thore here that if my Leif had been at home there's no saying what might have happened—but as it is, he's the lucky one. He will have a sweet wife, and owe it to us that she is as happy as she is good." She gave him a swift and searching look, a flash of gratitude in it for his humanity, but resumed her searching of the floor. Thorbeorn rose from his chair and said to Eric that they had better leave the pair together—but then Gudrid looked wild. "May I not go now? Must I stay here?" Her eyes asked so of Eric, but he only smiled. She caught at her father's sleeve. Then Thorbeorn kissed her forehead and said a few words of blessing. He and Eric went out together.
When they were gone Thore went over to Gudrid and put his arm firmly round her. "I see, my dear, that you are upset by this news of ours. Be sure that I understand it. My belief is, that you will be happy with me. I have a good house, warm and dry. You will see company, you will have your maids to see after; and when we have settled down together—maybe before the end of the summer, we will take ship to Iceland and pay a visit to my old mother who is in charge of my property out there. Now let me hear your voice. I know how sweetly you can talk—for I've heard you. And your singing makes me younger: a dreamer of dreams."
He seemed kind; his arm was strong and temperate. She imagined him much older than he was. But she didn't in the least know what to say to him. He waited for her, still holding her close, but she said nothing. So then: "Come, come," he said, "just a word or two"; and when she looked up and saw him laughing, she laughed too; and then he kissed her. "There," he said, "that is better," and drew her closer.
"You seem kind," she said.
"Ah," said Thore, "you will find me so. The fonder I grow the kinder I shall be." He gave her a very friendly squeeze, and she began at once to be sorry for this strong, gentle-hearted man as she thought him.
Her face was now against his shoulder, his black beard brushed and tickled her forehead. She was rather breathless, but quite determined to tell him her trouble. "There is something which I ought to tell you."
"Is there, indeed? I thought that you might find your tongue perhaps, if I gave you time."
"But I should have found it before," she said, "if it had not been for my trouble."
"Well," he said, "and now for your trouble. Mind you, I've seen a good deal of the world, and don't expect miracles out of the church. So if you have had a sweetheart or two, think no more about it. Bless you—do you think I don't know?"