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 cowering at 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.
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