There was great gaiety.  Toenne kept apart in a corner of the house, as was his habit when they had guests, but Jofrid was quite wild in her fun.  With shrill voice she led the dance and was eager in offering her guests the foaming ale.  There was not much room in the cottage, but the fiddlers were untiring, and the dance went on with life and spirit.  It grew suffocatingly warm.  The door was thrown open, and all at once Jofrid saw that night had come and that the moon had risen.  Then she went to the door and looked out into the white world of the moonlight.

A heavy dew had fallen.  The whole heath was white, as the moon was reflected in all the little drops, which had collected on every twig.  There Toenne and she would go to-morrow hand in hand to meet the most terrible dishonor.  For, however the meeting with the peasant should turn out, whatever he might take or whatever he might let them keep, dishonor would certainly be their lot.  They, who that evening possessed a good cottage and many friends, to-morrow would be despised and detested by all, perhaps they would also be robbed of everything they had earned, perhaps, too, be dishonored slaves.  She said to herself:  “It is the way of death.”  And now she could not understand how she would ever have the strength to walk in it.  It seemed to her as if she were of stone, a heavy stone image like old King Atle.  Although she was alive, she felt as if she would not be able to lift her heavy stone limbs to walk that way.

She turned her eyes towards the king’s grave and distinctly saw the old warrior sitting there.  But now he was adorned as for a feast.  He no longer wore the gray, moss-grown stone attire, but white, glittering silver.  Now again he wore a crown of beams, as when she first saw him, but this one was white.  And white shone his breastplate and armlets, shining white were sword, hilt, and shield.  He sat and watched her with silent indifference.  The unfathomable mystery which great stone faces wear had now sunk down over him.  There he sat dark and mighty, and Jofrid had a faint, indistinct idea that he was an image of something which was in herself and in all men, of something which was buried in far-away centuries, covered by many stones, and still not dead.  She saw him, the old king, sitting deep in the human heart.  Over its barren field he spread his wide king’s mantle.  There pleasure danced, there love of display flaunted.  He was the great stone warrior who saw famine and poverty pass by without his stone heart being moved.  “It is the will of the gods,” he said.  He was the strong man of stone, who could bear unatoned-for sin without yielding.  He always said:  “Why grieve for what you have done, compelled by the immortal gods?”

Jofrid’s breast was shaken by a sigh deep as a sob.  She had a feeling which she could not explain, a feeling that she ought to struggle with the man of stone, if she was to be happy.  But at the same time she felt helplessly weak.