Thus it was not hard for Kristin to slip away unseen, but she dared not take a horse, so she went on foot. The road was a quagmire of snow-slush and withered leaves; there was a saddening breath of death and decay in the raw, chill air, and now and again there came a gust of wind driving the rain into her face. She drew her hood well down over her head and, holding her cloak about her with both hands, went quickly forward. She was a little afraid—the roar of the river sounded so hollow in the heavy air, and the clouds drove dark and ragged over the hill-crests. Now and again she halted and listened for Arne’s coming.
After a time she heard the splashing of hoofs upon the slushy road behind her, and she stopped then where she was, for this was a somewhat lonely spot and she thought ’twas a good place for them to say their farewells, in quiet. Almost at once she saw the horseman coming, and Arne sprang from his horse and led it as he came to meet her.
“’Twas kindly done of you to come,” said he, “in this ugly weather.”
“’Tis worse for you who have so far to ride—and how is it you set out so late?” she asked.
“Jon has bidden me to lie the night at Loptsgaard,” answered Arne. “I thought ’twas easier for you to meet me at this time of day.”
They stood silent for a time. Kristin thought she had never seen before how fair a youth Arne was. He had on a smooth, steel cap, and under that a brown woollen hood that sat tight about his face and spread out over his shoulders; under it his narrow face showed bright and comely. His leather jerkin was old, spotted with rust, and rubbed by the coat of mail which had been worn above it—Arne had taken it over from his father—but it fitted closely to his slim, lithe, and powerful body, and he had a sword at his side and in his hand a spear—his other weapons hung from his saddle. He was full-grown now and bore himself manfully.
She laid her hand upon his shoulder and said:
“Mind you, Arne you asked me once if I thought you as good a man as Simon Andressön? Now will I tell you one thing, before we part; ’tis that you seem to me as much above him in looks and bearing as he is reckoned above you in birth and riches by those who look most to such things.”
“Why do you tell me this?” asked Arne breathlessly.
“Because Brother Edwin told me to lay to heart, that we should thank God for his good gifts, and not be like the woman when St. Olav added to her meat, and she wept because she had not trenchers to put it in—so you should not grieve that He has not given you as much of riches as of bodily gifts—”