“Aye, one goes and another comes,” said he, laughing, when they had greeted one another. “I met Arne of Brekken even now—I see you are weeping. You might as well smile a little now I am come home—we have been friends too ever since we were children, have we not?” “’Tis an ill exchange, methinks, getting you into the parish in his stead,” said Kristin, bluntly. She had never liked Bentein. “And so, I fear, will many think. Your grandfather here has been so glad you were in Oslo making such a fair beginning.” “Oh, aye,” said Bentein, with a nickering laugh. “So ’twas a fair beginning I was making, you think? I was even like a pig in a wheat-field, Kristin—and the end was the same, I was hunted out with cudgels and the hue and cry. Aye, aye; aye, aye. ’Tis no great thing, the gladness my grandfather gets from his offspring. But what a mighty hurry you are in!” “I am cold,” said Kristin, curtly. “Not colder than I,” said the priest. “I have no more clothes on me than you see here—my cloak I had to sell for food and beer in little Hamar. Now, you should still have some heat in your body from making your farewells with Arne—methinks you should let me get under your fur with you—,” and he caught her cloak, pulled it over his shoulders and gripped her round the waist with his wet arm. Kristin was so amazed with his boldness it was a moment before she could gather her wits—then she strove to tear herself away, but he had a hold of her cloak and it was fastened together by a strong silver clasp. Bentein got his arms about her again, and made to kiss her, his mouth nearly touching her chin. She tried to strike, but he held her fast by the upper arm. “I trow you have lost your wits,” she hissed, as she struggled, “dare you to lay hands on me as I were a—dearly shall you rue this to-morrow, dastard that you are—” “Nay, to-morrow you will not be so foolish,” says Bentein, putting his leg in front of her so that she half fell into the mud, and pressing one hand over her mouth. Yet she had no thought of crying out. Now for the first time it flashed on her mind what he dared to want with her, but rage came upon her so wild and furious she had scarce a thought of fear: she snarled like an animal at grips with another, and fought furiously with the man as he tried to hold her down, while the ice-cold snow-water soaked through her clothes on to her burning skin. “To-morrow you will have wit enough to hold your tongue,” said Bentein, “—and if it can not be hidden, you can put the blame on Arne—’twill be believed the sooner—”