Once and once only the bride found courage to look up and meet his eyes—
Then began the good-nights. Before long all the wedding-guests were gone from the loft. Last of all, Lavrans Björgulfsön went out and shut the door of the bride-house.
Erlend stood up, stripped off his under-clothing, and flung it on the benches. He stood by the bed, took the crown and the silken cords from off her hair, and laid them away on the table. Then he came back and mounted into the bed. Kneeling by her side he clasped her round the head, and pressed it in against his hot naked breast, while he kissed her forehead all along the red-streak the crown had left on it.
She threw her arms about his shoulders and sobbed aloud—she had a sweet, wild feeling that now the horror, the phantom visions were fading into air—now, now once again naught was left but he and she. He lifted up her face a moment, looked down into it, and drew his hand down over her face and body, with a strange haste and roughness, as though he tore away a covering:
“Forget,” he begged, in a fiery whisper, “forget all, my Kristin—all but this, that you are my own wife, and I am your own husband—”
With his hand he quenched the flame of the last candle, then threw himself down beside her in the dark—he too was sobbing now:
“Never have I believed it, never in all these years, that we should see this day—”
Without, in the courtyard, the noise died down little by little. Wearied with the long day’s ride, and dizzy with much strong drink, the guests made a decent show of merry-making a little while yet—but more and ever more of them stole away and sought out the places where they were to sleep.