“’Tis not as it would have been, had you—” said Kristin falteringly. “You were not asked either, Simon—’twas your father and my father who made the pact. It had been otherwise had you chosen me yourself—”
Simon stuck his dagger into the bench so that it stood upright. A little after he drew it out again, and tried to slip it back into its sheath, but it would not go down, the point was bent. Then he sat passing it from hand to hand as before.
“You know yourself,” said he in a low tone, and with a shaking voice, “you know that you lie, if you would have it that I did not—You know well enough, what I would have spoken of with you—many times—when you met me so that I had not been a man, had I been able to say it—after that—not if they had tried to drag it out of me with redhot pincers....
“—First I thought ’twas yonder dead lad. I thought I must leave you in peace awhile—you knew me not—I deemed ’twould have been a wrong to trouble you so soon after. Now I see you did not need so long a time to forget—now—now—now—”
“No,” said Kristin quietly. “I know it, Simon. Now I cannot look that you should be my friend any longer.”
“Friend—!” Simon gave a short, strange laugh. “Do you need my friendship now, then?”
Kristin grew red.
“You are a man,” said she softly. “And old enough now—you can choose yourself whom you will wed—”
Simon looked at her sharply. Then he laughed as before:
“I understand. You would have me say ’tis I who—I am to take the blame for the breaking of our bond?