“Take her away, Gyrd. Shameful it is that you should speak such words by this good youth’s body—but if all your children lay here dead, I would not stand and hear you lie about mine—you, Gyrd, must answer for what this madwoman says—” Gyrd took hold of his wife and tried to lead her away, but he said to Lavrans: “’Tis true, though, ’twas of Kristin they talked, Arne and Bentein, when my son lost his life. Like enough you have not heard it, but there hath been talk in the parish here too this autumn—” Simon struck a blow with his sword upon the clothes-chest beside him: “Nay, good folk, now must you find somewhat else to talk of in this death-chamber than my betrothed—Priest, can you not rule these folk and keep seemly order here—?” The priest—Kristin saw now he was the youngest son from Ulvsvolden, who had been at home for Yule—opened his book and stood up beside the bier. But Lavrans shouted that those who had talked about his daughter, let them be who they might, should be made to swallow their words, and Inga shrieked: “Aye, take my life then, Lavrans, since she has taken all my comfort and joy—and make her wedding with this knight’s son; but yet do all folk know that she was wed with Bentein upon the highway—Here—,” and she cast the sheet Lavrans had given her right across the bier to Kristin, “I need not Ragnfrid’s linen to lay my Arne in the grave—make head-cloths of it, you, or keep it to swaddle your roadside brat—and go down and help Gunhild to moan for the man that’s hanged—” Lavrans, Gyrd and the priest took hold of Inga. Simon tried to lift Kristin, who was lying over the bier. But she thrust his arm fiercely aside, drew herself up straight upon her knees and cried aloud: “So God my Saviour help me, it is false!” and, stretching out one hand, she held it over the nearest candle on the bier. It seemed as if the flame bent and waved aside—Kristin felt all eyes fixed upon her—what seemed to her a long time went by. And then all at once she grew aware of a burning pain in her palm, and with a piercing cry she fell back upon the floor. She thought, herself, she swooned—but she was aware that Simon and the priest raised her. Inga shrieked out something; she saw her father’s horror-stricken face, and heard the priest shout that no one must take account of this ordeal—not thus might one call God to witness,—and then Simon bore her from the room and down the stairs. Simon’s man ran to the stable, and soon after Kristin was sitting, still half senseless, in front of Simon on his saddle, wrapped in his coat, and he was riding toward Jörundgaard as fast as his horse could gallop. They were nigh to Jörundgaard when Lavrans came up with them. The rest of their company came thundering along the road far behind. “Say naught to your mother,” said Simon, as he set her down at the door of the house. “We have heard all too much wild talk to-night; ’tis no wonder you lost your wits yourself at the last.”