The thought of taking her own life had crossed her mind, but fear restrained her. Now the thought came up again, and when Ørlygur had whispered to her as he passed, whispered a thing she dared not understand, she made up her mind. There was no fear in her heart now, she had taken her decision.
Shortly after Ørlygur had retired, she rose up, dressed herself noiselessly, and crept along the passage towards the room where Ormarr slept. A light showed from beneath the door; evidently he was still awake. With bated breath she passed by, and crept from the house without a sound. She longed to look in through the window, just to see what he looked like—now. But she dared not risk it. She stepped cautiously and quietly until a little way from the house, then suddenly she broke into a run, and made away towards the place she had in mind....
Ormarr saw a woman come rushing down towards the river. His first impulse was to run towards her, but, realizing that she must pass close by where he stood, he remained motionless, waiting.
The woman checked her pace and stood for a moment with hands clasped to her breast. Then she bent down and, taking up one of the sacks that were strewn around, began filling it with stones. She felt its weight, and, apparently satisfied, tied up the mouth. No sound came from her lips.
In a flash Ormarr realized who it was, and what she had in mind. He saw her move down to the water’s edge, the sack in her hand. Then, rising, he called to her softly:
The girl stood still as if paralysed. He walked up to her without a word; he did not look at the sack, but touched it as if by accident with his foot, sending it into the water. Then, taking the girl’s arm, he led her quietly back to the house.
He took her to his room, led her to a seat and sat down beside her, taking her hands in his and stroking them tenderly. The girl’s breast heaved; she was deadly pale, but she made no sound. So unexpected had been Ormarr’s intervention that she had hardly realized as yet what had happened.
“Poor child, it is hard for you, I know. Life is hard. I have learned something of that myself. Poor child, poor child! But, Runa, you must trust me ... will you try? I will be kind to you. Perhaps, after all, you may be glad of the child and I as well. For we must marry, you know; it is the only thing to do. But only as a matter of form, of course, to save a scandal. The child will be born in wedlock, and it will be understood to be mine. No one knows anything as yet; we can go abroad at once, and stay away a year or so. It is not what you had wished for, I know, not what you had a right to expect, but—there is no other way now. As far as _he_ is concerned it is too late.”