Lady Aashild sat silent. The more she thought, the more hopeless it seemed to her to find any way out. In the kitchen-house were four men—even if Erlend could bribe them all to keep silence, even if some of them, if Eline’s man, could be bribed to leave the country—still, sure they could never be. And ’twas known at Jörundgaard that Kristin had been here—if Lavrans heard of this, she feared to think what he would do. And how to bear the dead woman hence. The mountain path to the west was not to be thought of now—there was the road to Romsdal, or over the hills to Trondheim, or south down the Dale. And should the truth come out, it would never be believed—even if folk let it pass for true. “I must take counsel with Björn in this matter,” she said, and rose and went out to call him. Björn Gunnarsön listened to his wife’s story without moving a muscle and without withdrawing his eyes from Erlend’s face. “Björn,” said Aashild desperately. “There is naught for it but that one must swear he saw her lay hands upon herself.” Björn’s dead eyes grew slowly dark, as life came into them; he looked at his wife, and his mouth drew aside into a crooked smile: “And you mean that I should be the one?” Lady Aashild crushed her hands together and lifted them towards him: “Björn, you know well what it means for these two—” “And you think that, whether or no, ’tis all over with me?” he said slowly. “Or think you there is so much left of the man I once was that I dare be forsworn to save that boy there from going down to ruin? I that was dragged down myself—all those years ago. Dragged down, I say,” he repeated. “You say it because I am old now,” whispered Aashild. Kristin burst out into such weeping that the piercing sound filled the room. She had sat in the corner by Aashild’s bed, stark and silent. Now she began weeping wildly and loud. It was as though Lady Aashild’s voice had torn her heart open. The voice had been heavy with the memories of the sweetness of love; it was as though its sound had made her understand for the first time what her love and Erlend’s had been. The memory of hot and passionate happiness swept over all else—swept away the hard despair and hatred of last night. All she knew of now was her love and her will to hold out. They looked at her—all three. Then Sir Björn went across and lifted her chin with his hand and looked at her: “Say _you_, Kristin, she did it herself?” “Every word you have heard is true,” said Kristin firmly. “We threatened her till she did it.” “She had meant Kristin should suffer a worst fate,” said Aashild. Sir Björn let go the girl. He went over to the body, lifted it up into the bed where Eline had lain the night before, and laid it close to the wall, drawing up the coverings well over it: