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 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.

"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 th