The meal lasted long, with all the toasts in honour of God, the Virgin Mary, and St. Margaret and St. Olav and St. Halvard, and prayers and song between. Kristin saw through the open door that the sun was gone; sounds of fiddling and song came in from the green without, and all the young folks had left the tables already when Lady Groa said to the convent maidens that they might go now and play themselves for a time if they listed. * * * * * Three red bonfires were burning upon the green; around them moved the many-coloured chains of dancers. The fiddlers sat aloft on heaped-up chests and scraped their fiddles—they played and sang a different tune in every ring; there were too many folk for _one_ dance. It was nearly dark already—northward the wooded ridge stood out coal-black against the yellow-green sky. Under the loft-balcony folk were sitting drinking. Some men sprang forward, as soon as the six maids from Nonneseter came down the steps. Munan Baardsön flew to meet Ingebjörg and went off with her, and Kristin was caught by the wrist—Erlend, she knew his hand already. He pressed her hand in his so that their rings grated on one another and bruised the flesh. He drew her with him to the outermost bonfire. Many children were dancing there; Kristin gave her other hand to a twelve-year old lad, and Erlend had a little, half-grown maid on his other side. No one was singing in the ring just then—they were swaying in and out to the tune of the fiddle as they moved round. Then someone shouted that Sivord the Dane should sing them a new dance. A tall, fair-haired man with huge fists stepped out in front of the chain and struck up his ballad: Fair goes the dance at Munkholm On silver sand. There danceth Ivar Sir Alfsön— Holds the Queen’s own hand. _Know ye not Ivar Sir Alfsön?_ The fiddlers knew not the tune, they thrummed their strings a little, and the Dane sang alone—he had a strong, tuneful voice. “Mind you, Queen of the Danemen, That summer fair, They led you out of Sweden, To Denmark here? “They led you out of Sweden To Denmark here, All with a crown of the red gold And many a tear. “All with a crown of the red gold And tear-filled eyne— —Mind you, Queen of the Danemen, You first were mine?” The fiddles struck in again, the dancers hummed the new-learned tune and joined in the burden. “And are you, Ivar Sir Alfsön, Sworn man to me, Then shall you hang to-morrow On the gallows tree!”