Lavrans spoke by fits and starts—his mind seemed growing clearer:
“See you not—he has her wholly in his power—he that has never been man enough to rule himself.—’Twill go hard with her before she finds courage to set herself against aught her husband wills—and should she one day be forced to it, ’twill be bitter grief to her—my own gentle child—
—“Now am I come so far I scarce can understand why God hath laid so many and such heavy sorrows upon me—for I have striven faithfully to do His will. Why hath He taken our children from us, Ragnfrid, one by one—first our sons—then little Ulvhild—and now I have given her that I loved dearest, honourless, to an untrusty and a witless man. Now is there none left to us but the little one—and unwise must I deem it to take joy in her, before I see how it will go with her—with Ramborg.”
Ragnfrid shook like a leaf. Then the man laid his arm about her shoulders:
“Lie down,” he said, “and let us sleep—” He lay for a while with his head against his wife’s arm, sighing now and then, but at last he fell asleep.
It was still pitch-dark in the barn when Ragnfrid stirred—she wondered to find that she had slept. She felt about with her hands; Lavrans was sitting up with knees updrawn and his arms around them.
“Are you awake already?” she asked in wonder. “Are you cold?”
“No,” said he in a hoarse voice, “but I cannot go to sleep again.”
“Is it Kristin you are thinking on?” asked the mother. “Like enough ’twill go better than we think, Lavrans,” she said again.