None had paid heed to the weather all this time—the whole had lasted indeed no long time, but whether short or long scarce any could have told. The thunder and lightning had passed now far down the Dale; the rain, that had begun some time back, fell ever the more heavily, and the wind had died down.
But of a sudden it was as though a sheet of flame shot up from the groundsill of the building—a moment, and with a mounting roar the fire had swallowed up the church from end to end.
The people scattered, rushing away to escape the devouring heat. Erlend was at Kristin’s side on the instant, dragging her away down the hill. The whole man smelt of burning—when she stroked his head and face her hand came away full of burnt hair.
They could not hear each other’s voices for the roaring of the fire. But she saw that his eyebrows were burnt off to the roots; he had burns on his face, and great holes were burnt in his shirt. He laughed as he dragged her along with him after the others.
All the folk followed the old priest as he went weeping, with Lavrans Björgulfsön bearing the crucifix.
At the foot of the churchyard Lavrans set the Rood from him up against a tree, and sank down to a seat on the wreckage of the fence. Sira Eirik was sitting there already—he stretched out his arms toward the burning church:
“Farewell, farewell, thou Olav’s-Church; God bless thee, thou my Olav’s-Church; God bless thee for every hour I have chanted in thee and said Mass in thee—thou Olav’s-Church, good-night, good-night—”
The church-folk wept aloud with their priest. The rain streamed down on the groups of people, but none thought of seeking shelter. Nor did it seem to check the fierce burning of the tarred woodwork—brands and glowing shingles were tossed out on every side. Then, suddenly, the ridge-turret crashed down into the fiery furnace, sending a great shower of sparks high into the air.
Lavrans sat with one hand over his face; the other arm lay in his lap, and Kristin saw that the sleeve was all bloody from the shoulder down, and blood ran down over his fingers. She went to him and touched his arm.
“Not much is amiss, methinks—there fell somewhat on my shoulder,” he said, looking up. He was white to the lips. “Ulvhild,” he murmured in anguish, gazing into the burning pile.