They were riding between the fences of the convent-fields when the stranger spoke to her again. He asked her what she thought best; should he go with her to the gate and ask for speech of the Lady Groa, so that he might tell her how this thing had come about. But Ingebjörg would have it that they should steal in through the church; then maybe they might slip into the convent without anyone knowing they had been away so much too long—it might be her kinsfolks’ visit had made Sister Potentia forget them.
The open place before the west door of the church was empty and still, and it came not into Kristin’s thoughts to wonder at this, though there was wont to be much life there of an evening with folks from the neighbourhood who came to the nuns’ church, and round about were houses wherein lay-servants and commoners dwelt. They said farewell to Erlend here. Kristin stood and stroked his horse; it was black and had a comely head and soft eyes—she thought it like Morvin, whom she had been wont to ride at home when she was a child.
“What is your horse’s name, sir?” she asked, as it turned its head from her and snuffed at its master’s breast.
“Bayard,” said he, looking at her over the horse’s neck. “You ask my horse’s name, but not mine?”
“I would be fain to know your name, sir,” she replied, and bent her head a little.
“I am called Erlend Nikulaussön,” said he.
“Then, Erlend Nikulaussön, have thanks for your good service this night,” said Kristin and proffered him her hand.
Of a sudden she flushed red, and half withdrew her hand from his.
“Lady Aashild Gautesdatter of Dovre, is she your kinswoman?” she asked.
To her wonder she saw that he too blushed—he dropped her hand suddenly and answered: