“Now must we say what has to be said, my Kristin—I scarce dare let you stay here longer.”
“I dare stay here all night long if you would have me stay,” she whispered.
Erlend pressed his cheek to hers:
“Then were I not your friend. ’Tis bad enough as it is, but you shall not lose your good name for my sake.”
Kristin did not answer—but a soreness stirred within her; how could he speak thus—he who had lured her here to Brynhild Fluga’s house—she knew not why, but she felt it was no honest place. And he had looked that all should go as it had gone, of that she was sure.
“I have thought at times,” said Erlend again, “that if there be no other way, I must bear you off by force—into Sweden—Lady Ingebjörg welcomed me kindly in the autumn and was mindful of our kinship. But now do I suffer for my sins—I have fled the land before, as you know—and I would not they should name you as the like of that other.”
“Take me home with you to Husaby,” said Kristin low. “I cannot bear to be parted from you, and to live on among the maids at the convent. Both your kin and mine would surely hearken to reason and let us come together and be reconciled with them—”
Erlend clasped her to him and groaned:
“I cannot bring you to Husaby, Kristin.”
“Why can you not?” she asked softly.