Erlend came to evensong in the convent church every evening for a week without Kristin getting a chance to change a word with him. She felt as she thought a hawk must feel sitting chained to its perch with its hood over its eyes. Every word that had passed between them at their last meeting made her unhappy too—it should never have been like that. It was of no use to say to herself: it had come upon them so suddenly, they had hardly known what they said. But one afternoon in the twilight there came to the parlour a comely woman, who looked like a townsman’s wife. She asked for Kristin Lavransdatter, and said she was the wife of a mercer and her husband had come from Denmark of late with some fine cloaks; Aasmund Björgulfsön had a mind to give one to his brother’s daughter, and the maid was to go with her and choose for herself. Kristin was given leave to go with the woman. She thought it was unlike her uncle to wish to give her a costly gift, and strange that he should send an unknown woman to fetch her. The woman was sparing of her words at first, and said little in answer to Kristin’s questions, but when they were come down to the town, she said of a sudden: “I will not play you false, fair child that you are—I will tell you all this thing as it is, and you must do as you deem best. ’Twas not your uncle who sent me, but a man—maybe you can guess his name, and if you cannot, then you shall not come with me. I have no husband—I make a living for myself and mine by keeping a house of call and selling beer; for such a one it boots not to be too much afraid either of sin or of the watchmen—but I will not lend my house for you to be betrayed inside my doors.” Kristin stood still, flushing red. She was strangely sore and ashamed for Erlend’s sake. The woman said: “I will go back with you to the convent, Kristin—but you must give me somewhat for my trouble—the knight promised me a great reward—but I too was fair once, and I too was betrayed. And ’twould not be amiss if you should name me in your prayers to-night—they call me Brynhild Fluga.” Kristin drew a ring off her finger and gave it to the woman: “’Tis fairly done of you, Brynhild—but if the man be my kinsman Erlend Nikulaussön, then have I naught to fear; he would have me to make peace betwixt him and my uncle. You may set your mind at ease—but I thank you none the less that you would have warned me.” Brynhild Fluga turned away to hide a smile. She led Kristin by the alleys behind St. Clement’s Church northward towards the river. Here a few small dwelling-places stood by themselves along the river-bank. They went towards one of them along a path between fences, and here Erlend came to meet them. He looked about him, on all sides, then took off his cloak, wrapped it about Kristin and pulled the hood over her face. “What think you of this device,” he asked, quickly and low. “Think you ’tis a great wrong I do?—yet needs must I speak with you.”