"Ah, Borghild, is it you?" said he, in a hoarse voice. "What do you want with me?I thought you had done with me now.""You are a very unwitty fellow," answered she, with a forced laugh. "The branch that does not bend must break."She turned quickly on her heel and was lost in the crowd. He sat long pondering on her words, but their meaning remained hidden to him. The branch that does not bend must break. Was he the branch, and must he bend or break? By-and-by he put his hands on his knees, rose with aslow, uncertain motion, and stalked heavily toward the door. The fresh night air would do him good. The thought breathes more briskly in God's free nature, under the broad canopy of heaven. The white mist rose from the fields, and made the valley below appear like a white sea whose nearness you feel, even though you do not see it. And out of the mist the dark pines stretched their warning hands against the sky, and the moon was swimming, large and placid, between silvery islands of cloud. Truls began to beat his arms against his sides, and felt the warm blood spreading from his heart and thawing the numbness of his limbs. Not caring whither he went, he struck the path leading upward to the mountains. He took to humming an old air which happened to come into his head, only to try if there was life enough left in him to sing. It was the ballad of Young Kirsten and the Merman:
"The billows fall and the billows swell, In the night so lone, In the billows blue doth the merman dwell, And strangely that harp was sounding."He walked on briskly for a while, and, looking back upon the pain he had endured but a moment ago, he found it quite foolish and irrational. An absurd merriment took possession of him; but all the while he did not know where his foot stepped; his head swam, and his pulse beat feverishly. About midway between the forest and the mansion, where the field sloped more steeply, grew a clump of birch-trees, whose slender stems glimmered ghostly white in the moonlight. Something drove Truls to leave the beaten road, and, obeying the impulse, he steered toward the birches. A strange sound fell upon his ear, like the moan of one in distress. It did not startle him; indeed, he was in a mood when nothing could have caused him wonder. If the sky had suddenly tumbled down upon him, with moon and all, he would have taken it as a matter of course. Peering for a moment through the mist, he discerned the outline of a human figure. With three great strides he reached the birch-tree; at his feet sat Borghild rocking herself to and fro and weeping piteously. Without a word he seated himself at her side and tried to catch a glimpse of her face; but she hid it from him and went on sobbing. Still there could be no doubt that it was Borghild--one hour ago so merry, reckless, and defiant, now coweringat his feet and weeping like a broken-hearted child.
"Borghild," he said, at last, putting his arm gently about her waist, "you and I, I think, played together when we were children.""So we did, Truls," answered she, struggling with her tears.
"And as we grew up, we spent many a pleasant hour with each other." "Many a pleasant hour."She raised her head, and he drew her more closely to him.
"But since then I have done you a great wrong," began she, after a while.
"Nothing done that cannot yet be undone," he took heart to answer.
It was long before her thoughts took shape, and, when at length they did, she dared not give them utterance. Nevertheless, she was all the time conscious of one strong desire, from which her conscience shrank as from a crime; and she wrestled ineffectually with her weakness until her weakness prevailed.
"I am glad you came," she faltered. "I knew you would come. There was something I wished to say to you.""And what was it, Borghild?"
"I wanted to ask you to forgive me--" "Forgive you--"He sprang up as if something had stung him. "And why not?" she pleaded, piteously.
"Ah, girl, you know not what you ask," cried he, with a sternness which startled her. "If I had more than one life to waste--but you caress with one hand and stab with the other. Fare thee well, Borghild, for here our paths separate."He turned his back upon her and began to descend the slope.
"For God's sake, stay, Truls," implored she, and stretched her arms appealingly toward him; "tell me, oh, tell me all."With a leap he was again at her side, stooped down over her, and, in a hoarse, passionate whisper, spoke the secret of his life in her ear. She gazed for a moment steadily into his face, then, in a few hurried words, she pledged him her love, her faith, her all. And in the stillness of that summer night they planned together their flight to a greater and freer land,where no world-old prejudice frowned upon the union of two kindred souls. They would wait in patience and silence until spring; then come the fresh winds from the ocean, and, with them, the birds of passage which awake the longings in the Norsernen's breasts, and the American vessels which give courage to many a sinking spirit, strength to the wearied arm, hope to the hopeless heart.
