Erlend stood up, stripped off his under-clothing, and flung it on the benches. He stood by the bed, took the crown and the silken cords from off her hair, and laid them away on the table. Then he came back and mounted into the bed. Kneeling by her side he clasped her round the head, and pressed it in against his hot naked breast, while he kissed her forehead all along the red-streak the crown had left on it. She threw her arms about his shoulders and sobbed aloud—she had a sweet, wild feeling that now the horror, the phantom visions were fading into air—now, now once again naught was left but he and she. He lifted up her face a moment, looked down into it, and drew his hand down over her face and body, with a strange haste and roughness, as though he tore away a covering: “Forget,” he begged, in a fiery whisper, “forget all, my Kristin—all but this, that you are my own wife, and I am your own husband—” With his hand he quenched the flame of the last candle, then threw himself down beside her in the dark—he too was sobbing now: “Never have I believed it, never in all these years, that we should see this day—” * * * * * Without, in the courtyard, the noise died down little by little. Wearied with the long day’s ride, and dizzy with much strong drink, the guests made a decent show of merry-making a little while yet—but more and ever more of them stole away and sought out the places where they were to sleep. Ragnfrid showed all the guests of honour to their places, and bade them good-night. Her husband, who should have helped her in this, was nowhere to be seen. The dark courtyard was empty, save for a few small groups of young folks—servants most of them—when at last she stole out to find her husband and bring him with her to his bed. She had seen as the night wore on that he had grown very drunken. She stumbled over him at last, as she crept along in her search outside the cattle-yard—he was lying in the grass behind the bath-house, on his face. Groping in the darkness, she touched him with her hand—aye, it was he. She thought he was asleep, and took him by the shoulder—she must get him up off the icy-cold ground. But he was not asleep, at least, not wholly. “What would you?” he asked, in a thick voice. “You cannot lie here,” said his wife. She held him up, as he stood swaying. With one hand she brushed the soil off his velvet robe. “’Tis time we too went to rest, husband.” She took him by the arm, and drew him, reeling, up towards the farm-yard buildings. “_You_ looked not up, Ragnfrid, when you sat in the bridal bed beneath the crown,” he said in the same voice. “Our daughter—_she_ was not so shamefast—her eyes were not shamefast when she looked upon her bridegroom.” “She has waited for him seven half-years,” said the mother in a low voice. “No marvel if she found courage to look up—” “Nay, devil damn me if they have waited!” screamed the man—as his wife strove fearfully to hush him.