“’Tis time I went home, is it not?” she asked at length, and she seemed to wait in deadly terror for his answer.
“May be so,” he answered dully. He got up quickly, went to the horse, and began to loosen the reins.
Then she too got up. Slowly, wearily and with crushing pain it came home to her—she knew not what she had hoped he might do—set her upon his horse, maybe, and carry her off with him so she might be spared from going back amongst other people. It was as though her whole body ached with wonder—that this ill thing was what was sung in all the songs. And since Erlend had wrought her this, she felt herself grown so wholly his, she knew not how she should live away from him any more. She was to go from him now, but she could not understand that it should be so—
Down through the woods he went on foot, leading the horse. He held her hand in his, but they found no words to say.
When they had come so far that they could see the houses at Skog, he bade her farewell.
“Kristin—be not so sorrowful—the day will come or ever you know it, when you will be my wedded wife—”
But her heart sank as he spoke:
“Must you go away, then—?” she asked, dismayed.
“As soon as you are gone from Skog,” said he, and his voice already rang more bright. “If there be no war, I will speak to Munan—he has long urged me that I should wed—he will go with me and speak for me to your father.”
Kristin bent her head—at each word he said, she felt the time that lay before grow longer and more hard to think of—the convent, Jörundgaard—she seemed to float upon a stream which bore her far from it all.