Erlend passed his hand up under his hair, that hung damp with sweat. “Aye,—I remember,” he said. “Will you keep that promise now?” asked Eline. “No,” said Erlend. Eline Ormsdatter looked across at Kristin—then smiled a little and nodded. Then she looked again at Erlend. “It is ten years since, Eline,” said the man. “And since that time you and I have lived together year in year out like two damned souls in Hell.” “But not only so, I trow!” said she with the same smile. “It is years and years since aught else has been,” said Erlend dully. “The children would be none the better off. And you know—you know I can scarce bear to be in a room with you any more!” he almost screamed. “I marked naught of that when you were at home in the summer,” said Eline with a meaning smile. “Then we were not unfriends—always.” “If you deem that we were friends, have it as you will, for me,” said Erlend wearily. “Will you stand here without end?” broke in Lady Aashild. She poured the porridge from the pot into two great wooden dishes and gave one to Kristin. The girl took it. “Bear it to the hall—and you, Ulv, take the other—and set them on the board; supper we must have, whether it be so, or so.” Kristin and the man went out with the dishes. Lady Aashild said to the two others: “Come now, you too; what boots it that you stand here barking at each other.” “’Tis best that Eline and I have our talk out together now,” said Erlend. Lady Aashild said no more, but went out and left them. * * * * * In the hall Kristin had laid the table and fetched ale from the cellar. She sat on the outer bench, straight as a wand and calm of face, but she ate nothing. Nor had the others much stomach to their food, neither Björn nor Erlend’s men. Only the man that had come with Eline and Björn’s hired man ate greedily. Lady Aashild sat herself down and ate a little of the porridge. No one spoke a word. At length Eline Ormsdatter came in alone. Lady Aashild bade her sit between Kristin and herself; Eline sat down and ate a little. Now and again a gleam as of a hidden smile flitted across her face, and she stole a glance at Kristin. A while after Lady Aashild went out to the kitchen-house. The fire on the hearth was almost burnt out. Erlend sat by it on his stool, crouched together, his head down between his arms. Lady Aashild went to him and laid her hand on his shoulder: “God forgive you, Erlend, that you have brought things to this pass—” Erlend turned up to her a face besmeared with wretchedness: “She is with child,” he said, and shut his eyes. Lady Aashild’s face flamed up, she gripped his shoulder hard: “Which of them?” she asked, roughly and scornfully. “My child it is not,” said Erlend, in the same dead voice. “But like enough you will not believe me—none will believe me—” he sank together again. Lady Aashild sat down in front of him on the edge of the hearth: