Once, while she was looking at the dark head that lay in her lap, between her hands, something bygone flashed on her mind. It stood out, clear yet distant, as a homestead far away on a mountain slope may start to sight of a sudden from out dark clouds, when a sunbeam strikes it on a stormy day. And it was as though there welled up in her heart all the tenderness Arne Gyrdsön had once begged for while as yet she did not understand his words. With timid passion, she drew the man up to her and laid his head upon her breast, kissing him as if afraid he should be taken from her. And when she saw his head upon her arm, she felt as though she clasped a child—she hid his eyes with one of her hands and showered little kisses upon his mouth and cheek. The sunshine had gone from the meadow—the leaden colour above the tree-tops had thickened to dark-blue and spread over the whole sky; little, coppery flashes like fire-tinged smoke flickered within the clouds. Bayard came down to them, neighed loudly once and then stood stock still, staring before him. Soon after came the first flash of lightning, and the thunder followed close, not far away. Erlend got up and took hold of the horse. An old barn stood at the lowest end of the meadow; they went thither, and he tied Bayard to some woodwork just inside the door. At the back of the barn lay some hay; Erlend spread his cloak out, and they seated themselves with the dogs at their feet. And now the rain came down like a sheet before the doorway. It hissed in the trees and lashed the ground—soon they had to move further in, away from the drips from the roof. Each time it lightened and thundered, Erlend whispered: “Are you not afraid, Kristin—?” “A little—” she whispered back and drew closer to him. * * * * * They knew not how long they had sat—the storm had soon passed over—it thundered far away, but the sun shone on the wet grass outside the door, and the sparkling drops fell more and more rarely from the roof. The sweet smell of the hay in the barn grew stronger. “Now must I go,” said Kristin, and Erlend answered: “Aye, ’tis like you must.” He took her foot in his hand: “You will be wet—you must ride and I must walk—out of the woods—” and he looked at her so strangely. Kristin shook—it must be because her heart beat so, she thought—her hands were cold and clammy. As he kissed her vehemently she weakly tried to push him from her. Erlend lifted his face a moment—she thought of a man who had been given food at the convent one day—he had kissed the bread they gave him. She sank back upon the hay.... * * * * * She sat upright when Erlend lifted his head from her arms. He raised himself suddenly upon his elbow: “Look not so—Kristin!” His voice sent a new, wild pang into Kristin’s soul—he was not glad—_he_ was unhappy too—! “Kristin, Kristin—