At last, as Kristin stood giving the horse bread out of her hand, while Simon leant with his arm over its back, he said all at once:
“Methinks, Kristin, you and my mother are none too loving one with another.”
“I have not meant to be unloving to your mother,” said she, “but I find not much to say to Lady Angerd.”
“Nor seems it you find much to say to me either,” said Simon. “I would not force myself upon you, Kristin, before the time comes—but things cannot go on as now, when I can never come to speech with you.”
“I have never been one for much speaking”; said Kristin, “I know it myself; and I look not you should think it so great a loss, if what is betwixt us two should come to naught.”
“You know well, what my thoughts are in that matter,” said Simon, looking at her.
Kristin flushed red as blood. And it gave her a pang that she could not mislike the fashion of Simon Darre’s wooing. After a while he said:
“Is it Arne Gyrdsön, Kristin, you feel you cannot forget?” Kristin but gazed at him; Simon went on, and his voice was gentle and kind: “Never would I blame you for that—you had grown up like brother and sister, and scarce a year is gone by. But be well assured, for your comfort, that I have your good at heart—”
Kristin’s face had grown deathly white. Neither of them spoke again as they went back through the town in the twilight. At the end of the street, in the blue-green sky, rode the new moon’s sickle with a bright star within its horn.
A year, thought Kristin; and she could not think when she had last given a thought to Arne. She grew afraid—maybe she was a wanton, wicked woman—but one year since she had seen him on his bier in the wake room, and had thought she should never be glad again in this life—she moaned within herself for terror of her own heart’s inconstancy and of the fleeting changefulness of all things. Erlend, Erlend—could he forget her—and yet it seemed to her ’twould be worse, if at any time she should forget him.