Kristin nodded.
Lady Aashild sat silent. The more she thought, the more hopeless it seemed to her to find any way out. In the kitchen-house were four men—even if Erlend could bribe them all to keep silence, even if some of them, if Eline’s man, could be bribed to leave the country—still, sure they could never be. And ’twas known at Jörundgaard that Kristin had been here—if Lavrans heard of this, she feared to think what he would do. And how to bear the dead woman hence. The mountain path to the west was not to be thought of now—there was the road to Romsdal, or over the hills to Trondheim, or south down the Dale. And should the truth come out, it would never be believed—even if folk let it pass for true.
“I must take counsel with Björn in this matter,” she said, and rose and went out to call him.
Björn Gunnarsön listened to his wife’s story without moving a muscle and without withdrawing his eyes from Erlend’s face.
“Björn,” said Aashild desperately. “There is naught for it but that one must swear he saw her lay hands upon herself.”
Björn’s dead eyes grew slowly dark, as life came into them; he looked at his wife, and his mouth drew aside into a crooked smile:
“And you mean that I should be the one?”
Lady Aashild crushed her hands together and lifted them towards him:
“Björn, you know well what it means for these two—”
“And you think that, whether or no, ’tis all over with me?” he said slowly. “Or think you there is so much left of the man I once was that I dare be forsworn to save that boy there from going down to ruin? I that was dragged down myself—all those years ago. Dragged down, I say,” he repeated.