“To you I care not to lie,” said Kristin.
“’Twould profit you but little if you did,” answered Eline, still laughing. “I know the boy too well. He flew at you like a black-cock, I trow, the second time you were together. ’Tis pity of you too, fair child that you are.”
Kristin’s cheeks grew white. Sick with loathing, she said low:
“I will not speak with you—”
“Think you he is like to deal with you better than with me,” went on Eline. Then Kristin answered sharply:
“No blame will I ever cast on Erlend, whatever he may do. I went astray of my own will—I shall not whimper or wail if the path lead out on to the rocks—”
Eline was silent for a while. Then she said unsteadily, flushing red:
“I was a maid too, when he came to me Kristin—even though I had been wife in name to the old man for seven years. But like enough you could never understand what the misery of that life was.”
Kristin began to tremble violently. Eline looked at her. Then from her travelling-case that stood by her on the step of the bed, she took a little horn. She broke the seal that was on its mouth and said softly:
“You are young and I am old, Kristin. I know well it boots not for me to strive against you—your time is now. Will you drink with me, Kristin?”