en her teeth: "Poor
thing! Why did you come in my way, unbidden?"

The harvest was rich, and the harvest party was to keep pace with the
harvest. The broad Skogli mansion was festively lighted (for it was
already late in September); the tall, straight tallow candles, stuck in
many-armed candlesticks, shone dimly through a sort of misty halo, and
only suffused the dusk with a faint glimmering of light. And every
time a guest entered, the flames of the candles flickered and twisted
themselves with the wind, struggling to keep erect. And Borghild's
courage, too, rose and fell with the flickering motion of a flame which
wrestles with the wind. Whenever the latch clicked she lifted her eyes
and looked for Truls, and one moment she wished that she might never
see his face again, and in the next she sent an eager glance toward
the door. Presently he came, threw his fiddle on a bench, and with a
reckless air walked up to her and held out his hand. She hesitated to
return his greeting, but when she saw the deep lines of suffering in
his face, her heart went forward with a great tenderness toward him,
a tenderness such as one feels for a child who is sick, and suffers
without hope of healing. She laid her hand in his, and there it lay for
a while listlessly; for neither dared trust the joy which the sight of
the other enkindled. But when she tried to draw her hand away, he caught
it quickly, and with a sudden fervor of voice he said:

"The sight of you, Borghild, stills the hunger which is raging in my
soul. Beware that you do not play with a life, Borghild, even though it
be a worthless one."

There was something so hopelessly sad in his words, that they stung her
to the quick. They laid bare a hidden deep in her heart, and she shrank
back st the sight of her own vileness. How could she repair the injury
she had done him? How could she heal the wound she had inflicted? A
number of guests came up to greet her and among them Syvert Stein, a
bold-looking young man, who, during that summer, had led her frequently
in the dance. He had a square face, strong features, and a huge crop of
towy hair. His race was far-famed for wit and daring.

"Tardy is your welcome, Borghild of Skogli," quoth he. "But what a faint
heart does not give a bold hand can grasp, and what I am not offered I
take unbidden."

So saying, he flung his arm about her waist, lifted her from the floor
and put her down in the middle of the room. Truls stood and gaz