Outside, the fog had come down again. Kristin flew along, with head bent and hands clutched tight in the folds of her cloak. Her throat was bursting with tears—wildly she longed for some place where she could be alone, and sob and sob. The worst, the worst was still before her; but she had proved a new thing this evening, and she writhed under it—she had proved how it felt to see the man to whom she had given herself humbled.
Simon was at her elbow as she hurried through the lanes, over the common lands and across the open places, where the houses had vanished and there was naught but fog to be seen. Once when she stumbled over something, he caught her arm and kept her from falling:
“No need to run so fast,” said he. “Folk are staring after us.—How you are trembling!” he said more gently. Kristin held her peace and walked on.
She slipped in the mud of the street, her feet were wet through and icy cold—the hose she had on were leather, but they were thin; she felt they were giving way, and the mud was oozing through to her naked feet.
They came to the bridge over the convent beck, and went more slowly up the slopes on the other side.
“Kristin,” said Simon of a sudden, “your father must never come to know of this.”
“How knew you that I was—there?” asked Kristin.
“I came to speak with you,” answered Simon shortly. “Then they told me of this man of your uncle’s coming. I knew Aasmund was in Hadeland. You two are not over cunning at making up tales—Heard you what I said but now?”
“Aye,” said Kristin.—“It was I who sent word to Erlend that we should meet at Fluga’s house; I knew the woman—”