She was stony-calm. She had known it from the moment she heard who was come—this was the thought she had been fleeing from always; this thought it was she had tried to smother under impatience, restlessness and defiance; the whole time she had been striving not to think whether Erlend had freed himself wholly and fully from his former paramour. Now she was overtaken—useless to struggle any more. But she begged not nor beseeched for herself. She saw that Eline Ormsdatter was fair. She was young no longer; but she was fair—once she must have been exceeding fair. She had thrown back her hood; her head was round as a ball, and hard; the cheekbones stood out—but none the less it was plain to see—once she had been very fair. Her coif covered but the back part of her head; while she was speaking, her hands kept smoothing the waving, bright-gold front-hair beneath the linen. Kristin had never seen a woman with such great eyes; they were dark brown, round and hard; but under the narrow coal-black eyebrows and the long lashes they were strangely beautiful against her golden hair. The skin of her cheeks and lips was chafed and raw from her ride in the cold, but it could not spoil her much; she was too fair for that. The heavy riding-dress covered up her form, but she bore herself in it as does only a woman most proud and secure in the glory of a fair body. She was scarce as tall as Kristin; but she held herself so well that she seemed yet taller than the slender, spare-limbed girl. “Hath she been with you at Husaby the whole time?” asked Kristin in a low voice. “I have not been at Husaby,” said Erlend curtly, flushing red again. “I have dwelt at Hestnæs the most of the summer.” “Here now are the tidings I came to bring you, Erlend,” said Eline. “You need not any longer take shelter with your kinsfolk and try their hospitality for that I am keeping your house. Since this autumn I have been a widow.” Erlend stood motionless. “It was not I that bade you come to Husaby last year, to keep my house,” said he with effort. “I heard that all things were going to waste there,” said Eline. “I had so much kindness left for you from old days Erlend, that methought I should lend a hand to help you—although God knows you have not dealt well with our children or with me.” “For the children I have done what I could,” said Erlend. “And well you know, ’twas for their sake I suffered you to live on at Husaby. That you profited them or me by it you scarce can think yourself, I trow,” he added, smiling scornfully. “Gissur could guide things well enough without your help.” “Aye, you have ever had such mighty trust in Gissur,” said Eline, laughing softly. “But now the thing is this, Erlend now I am free. And if so be you will, you can keep the promise now you made me once.” Erlend stood silent. “Mind you,” asked Eline, “the night I bore your son? You promised then that you would wed me when Sigurd died.”