Out in the farm-place Ramborg and a band of children were dancing in a ring, singing:
“The eagle sits on the topmost hill-crag
Crooking his golden claws....”
Kristin followed her mother through the little outer room where lay empty ale-kegs and all kinds of brewing gear. A door led from it out to a strip of ground between the back wall of the brew-house and the fence round the barley-field. A herd of pigs jostled each other, and bit and squealed as they fought over the lukewarm grains thrown out to them.
Kristin shaded her eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. The mother looked at the pigs and said:
“With less than eighteen reindeer we shall never win through.”
“Think you we shall need so many?” said her daughter, absently.
“Aye, for we must have game to serve up with the pork each day,” answered Ragnfrid. “And of wild-fowl and hare we shall scarce have more than will serve for the table in the upper hall. Remember, ’twill be well on toward two hundred people we shall have on the place—counting serving-folk and children—and the poor that have to be fed. And even should you and Erlend set forth on the fifth day, some of the guests, I trow, will stay out the week—at the least.”
“You must stay here and look to the ale, Kristin,” she went on. “’Tis time for me to get dinner for your father and the reapers.”