“When Björgulf was born—oh, I thought he was dearer spared me—He was drunk when he did it—afterward he said he had never cared for me, he would not have me—bade me forget it. My father knew it not; _he_ did not betray you—never think that. But Trond—we were the dearest of friends to each other then—I made my moan to him. He tried to force the man to wed me; but he was but a boy; he was beaten—Afterwards he counselled me to hold my peace, and to take you—” She sat a while in silence. “Then _he_ came out to Skog—a year was gone by; I thought not on it so much any more. But he came out thither—he said that he repented, he would have had me now, had I been unwedded—he loved me. He said so. God knows if he said true. When he was gone—I dared not go out on the fjord, dared not for my sin, not with the child. And I had begun—I had begun to love you so!” She cried out, a single cry of the wildest pain. The man turned his head quickly towards her. “When Björgulf was dying—Oh, no one, no one had to me than my life. When he lay in the death-throes—I thought, if he died, I must die too. But I prayed _not_ God to spare my boy’s life—” Lavrans sat a long time silent—then he asked in a dead, heavy voice: “Was it because I was not his father?” “I knew not if you were,” said Ragnfrid, growing stiff and stark where she sat. Long they sat there in a deathly stillness. Then the man asked vehemently of a sudden: “In Jesus name, Ragnfrid—why tell you me all this—now?” “Oh, I know not!” She wrung her hands till the joints cracked. “That you may avenge you on me—drive me from your house—” “Think you that would help me—” His voice shook with scorn. “Then there are our daughters,” he said quietly. “Kristin—and the little one.” Ragnfrid sat still a while. “I mind me how you judged of Erlend Nikulaussön,” she said softly. “How judge you of me, then—?” A long shudder of cold passed over the man’s body—yet a little of the stiffness seemed to leave him. “You have—we have lived together now for seven and twenty years—almost. ’Tis not the same as with a stranger. I see this too—worse than misery has it been for you.” Ragnfrid sank together sobbing at the words. She plucked up heart to put her hand on one of his. He moved not at all—sat as still as a dead man. Her weeping grew louder and louder—but her husband still sat motionless, looking at the faint grey light creeping in around the door. At last she lay as if all her tears were spent. Then he stroked her arm lightly downward—and she fell to weeping again.