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-look-
ing 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 gazed
at them with large, bewildered eyes. He tried
hard to despise the braggart, but ended with
envying him.
"Ha, fiddler, strike up a tune that shall ring
through marrow and bone," shouted Syvert
Stein, who struck the floor with his heels and
moved his body to the measure of a spring-dance.
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