White with loathing, Kristin turned away. Eline had flushed darkly—now she said, defiantly:
“Yet will it scarce bring leprosy on the girl, if she drink with me!”
Erlend turned on Eline in wrath—then of a sudden his face seemed to grow long and hard as stone, and he gasped with horror:
“Jesus!” he said below his breath. He gripped Eline by the arm:
“Drink to her then,” he said in a harsh and quivering voice. “Drink you first; then she shall drink to you.”
Eline wrenched herself away with a groan. She fled backwards through the room, the man after her. “Drink,” he said. He snatched the dagger from his belt and held it as he followed. “Drink out the drink you have brewed for Kristin!” He seized Eline’s arm again and dragged her to the table, then forced her head forward toward the horn.
Eline shrieked once and buried her face on her arm. Erlend released her and stood trembling.
“A hell was mine with Sigurd,” shrieked Eline. “You—you promised—but you have been worst to me of all, Erlend!”
Then came Kristin forward and grasped the horn:
“One of us two must drink—both of us you cannot keep—”