Read Online The Son Avenger by Sigrid Undset - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sigrid Undset
Ads: Link
thicket along the river, and the path was wet with the dew from falling leaves.
At Rundmyr Bothild left the path; before the men were aware of it the dark, bent figure was already darting across the fields. Eirik would have gone on with the others, but they begged him with a laugh not to give himself the trouble. Then they mounted their horses.
“Bitter cold to sport in the grove with one’s lady fair,” said Ragnvald laughing. “But I dare say you cannot choose your own time, you two—with the old man always about you down yonder.”
“Good night,” they both cried. “Beware, Eirik, lest the trolls snatch away your ladylove tonight!”
Eirik stood listening to the beat of their horses’ hoofs as the two rode away into the dusk. Then he turned and went up to the cabin.
There was a good fire burning on the hearth by the door, and a candle stood in an iron clip by Liv’s couch on one of the raised floors. Bothild sat at the mother’s feet swathing the child. On the other side sat Anki and the six older children, eating the food Cecilia had sent; the savoury smell of a boiling pot of meat almost overcame the wonted evil odour of the hut. Comfort and unconcern in the midst of poverty met Eirik as he entered, ducking his head, from the raw autumn evening outside.
He sat for a while talking to Anki, while Bothild tended the child—she dawdled over it till Eirik grew impatient: now she must come, ’twas already black night outside.
They went, he in front and she behind, across the Rundmyr fields, which showed faintly grey in the darkness, and down to the bridle path through the woods. They walked by the side of theriver, which rippled and gurgled very softly among the bushes; there was hardly any water in it that autumn.
Now and again Eirik heard that she was hanging behind; then he stopped and waited till she came up. And every time he had to halt and wait like this in the dark under the trees, his evil will seemed to grow more irresistible.
At last, when he had halted thus, she did not come. Eirik held his breath as he went back, treading as noiselessly as he could. He ran against her in the dark; as he took hold of her shoulder he felt she was trembling like one sick of a fever.
“What is it?” His pulses were throbbing so that he could hardly command his voice.
“I can go no farther,” she whispered miserably.
“Then we must rest awhile.” He took her in his arms and drew her to the edge of the road, where there was a little clearing among the trees. “’Tis your own wish!” he muttered threateningly.
Instantly Bothild tore herself away from him. It was a moment before Eirik recovered himself—he heard her flying footfalls on the path ahead, ran after her; then came a dull thud—Eirik nearly stumbled over the prostrate body. He knelt beside her—she had fallen face forward. Eirik took hold of her, put his hand over her mouth, and felt it wet with a scalding stream that came bubbling out. At first he did not know what it was; disgust and rage boiled up in him—was the bitch lying there vomiting! Then with a shock of horror he knew that it was blood.
He turned her on her back, knelt in the mire of the path, and supported her against his chest. It was so dark that he could only just make out the pale round of her face and the dark flood that poured in pulse-beats from her mouth.
“Bothild—what is it—have you hurt yourself so badly?”
He could get no answer, but beneath his hand he felt the girl’s heart throbbing as fast as his own. In vain he begged, time after time: “Can you not answer, Bothild—Bothild, have you hurt yourself?”
At last he had to lay her down. He tore his way through the bushes; stones scattered and gravel crunched under his feet as he floundered in the darkness, searching for a pool in the river-bed where he could fill his hat. The water oozed through the feltcrown; he had but a few drops when he found her again, and dashed them over her. And now he could
At Rundmyr Bothild left the path; before the men were aware of it the dark, bent figure was already darting across the fields. Eirik would have gone on with the others, but they begged him with a laugh not to give himself the trouble. Then they mounted their horses.
“Bitter cold to sport in the grove with one’s lady fair,” said Ragnvald laughing. “But I dare say you cannot choose your own time, you two—with the old man always about you down yonder.”
“Good night,” they both cried. “Beware, Eirik, lest the trolls snatch away your ladylove tonight!”
Eirik stood listening to the beat of their horses’ hoofs as the two rode away into the dusk. Then he turned and went up to the cabin.
There was a good fire burning on the hearth by the door, and a candle stood in an iron clip by Liv’s couch on one of the raised floors. Bothild sat at the mother’s feet swathing the child. On the other side sat Anki and the six older children, eating the food Cecilia had sent; the savoury smell of a boiling pot of meat almost overcame the wonted evil odour of the hut. Comfort and unconcern in the midst of poverty met Eirik as he entered, ducking his head, from the raw autumn evening outside.
He sat for a while talking to Anki, while Bothild tended the child—she dawdled over it till Eirik grew impatient: now she must come, ’twas already black night outside.
They went, he in front and she behind, across the Rundmyr fields, which showed faintly grey in the darkness, and down to the bridle path through the woods. They walked by the side of theriver, which rippled and gurgled very softly among the bushes; there was hardly any water in it that autumn.
Now and again Eirik heard that she was hanging behind; then he stopped and waited till she came up. And every time he had to halt and wait like this in the dark under the trees, his evil will seemed to grow more irresistible.
At last, when he had halted thus, she did not come. Eirik held his breath as he went back, treading as noiselessly as he could. He ran against her in the dark; as he took hold of her shoulder he felt she was trembling like one sick of a fever.
“What is it?” His pulses were throbbing so that he could hardly command his voice.
“I can go no farther,” she whispered miserably.
“Then we must rest awhile.” He took her in his arms and drew her to the edge of the road, where there was a little clearing among the trees. “’Tis your own wish!” he muttered threateningly.
Instantly Bothild tore herself away from him. It was a moment before Eirik recovered himself—he heard her flying footfalls on the path ahead, ran after her; then came a dull thud—Eirik nearly stumbled over the prostrate body. He knelt beside her—she had fallen face forward. Eirik took hold of her, put his hand over her mouth, and felt it wet with a scalding stream that came bubbling out. At first he did not know what it was; disgust and rage boiled up in him—was the bitch lying there vomiting! Then with a shock of horror he knew that it was blood.
He turned her on her back, knelt in the mire of the path, and supported her against his chest. It was so dark that he could only just make out the pale round of her face and the dark flood that poured in pulse-beats from her mouth.
“Bothild—what is it—have you hurt yourself so badly?”
He could get no answer, but beneath his hand he felt the girl’s heart throbbing as fast as his own. In vain he begged, time after time: “Can you not answer, Bothild—Bothild, have you hurt yourself?”
At last he had to lay her down. He tore his way through the bushes; stones scattered and gravel crunched under his feet as he floundered in the darkness, searching for a pool in the river-bed where he could fill his hat. The water oozed through the feltcrown; he had but a few drops when he found her again, and dashed them over her. And now he could
Similar Books
