You know, I was so young when I was betrothed to her. But surely Steinfinn and my father must have made an agreement about that—what we are to bring to each other.—Why do you ask me this?” said Olav, with sudden surprise.

Arnvid did not answer.

Olav said: “Steinfinn will take good care that we get what we are to have according to the settlement.”

“Ay—he is my cousin.” Arnvid spoke with some hesitation. “But you are soon to be our kinsman by marriage—I may well speak of it to you. They say Steinfinn’s fortunes are not so good as they were. I have lain awake thinking of what you spoke of—I believe you are right. You will be wise to hasten the marriage—so that Ingunn may get what comes to her as soon as may be.”

“Ay, we have nothing to wait for, either,” said Olav.

The next day was a holy-day, and the day after they began to cut the grass at Frettastein. Arnvid and his man helped in the haymaking. Early in the day the sky turned pale and grey, and by afternoon big, dark clouds began to drift up from the south and spread over the hazy sky. Olav looked up as they stood whetting their scythes; the first drop of rain fell on his face.

“Maybe ’twill be but a shower or two tonight,” said one of the old house-carls.

“Tomorrow is Midsummer Day,” answered Olav. “If the weather change on that day, ’twill rain as many days after as the sun shone before, I have always heard. I trow we shall have no better hay crop this year, Torleif, than we had last.”

Arnvid was standing a little farther down the field. Now he laid down his scythe, came up quickly toward the others, and pointed. Far down the hillside rode a long line of armed men across a little glade in the forest.

“It is they,” said Arnvid. “It seems they are set upon another kind of mowing. And now, by my troth, I wonder how it will go with the haymaking at Frettastein this year.”

Late in the evening the rain came down, with a thick white mist that drifted in patches over the fields and wooded slopes. Olav and Ingunn stood under the balcony of the loft where she slept; the lad stared angrily at the pouring rain.

Arnvid came running across the mud of the courtyard, darted in to the couple, and shook himself.

“How is it you are not in the men’s councils?” asked Olav with a sneer.

Olav would have followed them when the men went into Ingebjörg’s little house—they chose it for their meeting, out of earshot of the servants. But Steinfinn had bidden his foster-son stay in the hall with the house-carls. Olav was angry—now that in his own thoughts he reckoned himself Steinfinn’s son-in-law, he forgot that the other did not yet know their alliance was about to be welded so fast.

Arnvid stood leaning against the wall, glaring before him mournfully. “I shall not shirk my duty, but shall follow my kinsmen as far as Steinfinn may call upon me. But I will have no part in their councils.”

Olav looked at his friend—the boy’s pale, finely arched lips curled lightly in a scornful smile.

8 A name given to several wild-flowers of the Geranium family.

4

ON the evening of the second day the men went down to the lake. The rain had held off that day, but it had been cold, with a high wind and much cloud.

Kolbein rode with five of his men, Steinfinn had with him seven house-carls and Olav Audunsson; Arnvid followed with one henchman. Kolbein had provided boats, which lay concealed in a cove of Lake Mjösen a little to the northward.

Ingunn went early to rest in her loft. She did not know how long she had slept when she was awakened by a touch on her chest.

“Is it you?” she whispered, heavy with sleep—expecting only to find Olav’s soft locks; but she awoke to see a coifed head. “Mother—” she cried in astonishment.

“I can get no sleep,” said Ingebjörg. “I have been walking outside. Put on some clothes and come down.”

Ingunn got up obediently and dressed. She was surprised beyond measure.

It was not so late after all, she saw on coming out. The weather had cleared. The moon, nearly full, rose due south above the ridge, pale red like a sunset cloud, giving no light as yet.

The mother’s hand was hot as fire as she took her daughter’s. Ingebjörg drew the girl along, roving hither and thither beyond the houses, but saying scarcely a word.

At one moment they stayed leaning over the fence of a cornfield.