Along one of the longer walls stood a fixed table, and thither the King’s men bore ale and mead and wine the whole night long. Once when Simon drew her thither and drank to her, she saw Erlend standing near, behind Simon’s back. He looked at her, and Kristin’s hand shook when she took the beaker from Simon’s hand and set it to her lips. Erlend whispered vehemently to the man who was with him—a tall comely man, well on in years and somewhat stout, who shook his head impatiently and looked as he were vexed. Soon after Simon led her back to the dance. She knew not how long this dancing lasted—the music seemed as though ’twould never end, and each moment was long and evil to her with longing and unrest. At last it was over, and Simon drew her to the drinking board again. A friend came forward to speak to him, and led him away a few steps, to a group of young men. And Erlend stood before her. “I have so much I would fain say to you,” he whispered, “I know not what to say first—in Jesus’ name, Kristin, what ails you?” he asked quickly, for he saw her face grow white as chalk. She could not see him clearly; it seemed as though there were running water between their two faces. He took a goblet from the table, drank from it and handed it to her. Kristin felt as though ’twas all too heavy for her, or as though her arm had been cut off at the shoulder; do as she would, she could not lift the cup to her mouth. “Is it so, then, that you will drink with your betrothed, but not with me?” asked Erlend softly—but Kristin dropped the goblet from her hand and sank forward into his arms. When she awoke she was lying on a bench with her head in a strange maiden’s lap—someone was standing by her side, striking the palms of her hands, and she had water on her face. She sat up. Somewhere in the ring about her she saw Erlend’s face, white and drawn. Her own body felt weak, as though all her bones had melted away, and her head seemed as it were large and hollow—but somewhere within it shone one clear, desperate thought—she must speak with Erlend. She said to Simon Darre—he stood near by: “’Twas too hot for me, I trow,—so many tapers are burning here—and I am little used to drink so much wine—” “Are you well again now,” asked Simon. “You frightened folks—Mayhap you would have me take you home now?” “We must wait, surely, till your father and mother go,” said Kristin calmly. “But sit down here—I can dance no more.” She touched the cushion at her side—then she held out her other hand to Erlend: “Sit you here, Erlend Nikulaussön; I had no time to speak my greetings to an end. ’Twas but of late Ingebjörg said she deemed you had clean forgotten her.” She saw it was far harder for him to keep calm than for her—and it was all she could do to keep back the little tender smile, which would gather round her lips. “You must bear the maid my thanks for thinking of me still,” he stammered. “Almost I was afraid she had forgotten me.”