“Jesus, Maria! who hath told—”
“Sigurd of Loptsgaard said somewhat—’twas when we were just come hither to the Dale,” said Lavrans. “But answer me what I asked—Think you your life had been gladder had Ivar given you to that man?”
His wife stood with head bowed low:
“That man,” she said—he could scarce hear the words: “’Twas he would not have me.” A throb seemed to pass through her body—she struck out before her with her clenched hand.
The husband laid his hands softly on her shoulders:
“Is it that,” he asked as if overcome, and a deep and sorrowful wonder sounded in his voice; “—is it that—through all these years—have you been sorrowing for him—Ragnfrid?”
She trembled much, but she said nothing.
“Ragnfrid?” he asked again. “Aye, but afterward—when Björgulf was dead—and afterward—when you—when you would have had me be to you as—as I could not be. Were you thinking then of that other?” he spoke low, in fear and bewilderment and pain.
“How can you have such thoughts?” she whispered, on the verge of weeping.
Lavrans pressed his forehead against hers and moved his head gently from side to side.