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Updated: May 18, 2025
Truls took the scoop, and looked at it as if he had never seen such a thing before; he moved about heavily, hardly knowing what he did, but conscious all the while of his own great misery. His limbs seemed half frozen, and a dull pain gathered about his head and in his breast in fact, everywhere and nowhere. About ten o'clock the bridal procession descended the slope to the fjord.
Truls had not closed his eyes all that night, and before daybreak he sauntered down along the beach and gazed out upon the calm fjord, where the white-winged sea-birds whirled in great airy surges around the bare crags.
If Truls, the Nameless, as scoffers were wont to call him, had been a greater personage in the valley, it would, no doubt, have shocked the gossips to know that one fine morning he sold his cow, his gun and his dog, and wrapped sixty silver dollars in a leathern bag, which he sewed fast to the girdle he wore about his waist.
A loud wail rose from the bridal fleet, and before the day was at an end it filled the valley; but the wail did not recall Truls, the Nameless, or Borghild his bride. What life denied them, would to God that death may yield them! IT was right up under the steel mountain wall where the farm of Kvaerk lay.
Whenever the latch clicked she lifted her eyes and looked for Truls, and one moment she wished that she might never see his face again, and in the next she sent an eager glance toward the door. Presently he came, threw his fiddle on a bench, and with a reckless air walked up to her and held out his hand.
And out of the mist the dark pines stretched their warning hands against the sky, and the moon was swimming, large and placid, between silvery islands of cloud. Truls began to beat his arms against his sides, and felt the warm blood spreading from his heart and thawing the numbness of his limbs. Not caring whither he went, he struck the path leading upward to the mountains.
A dark suspicion shot through the bridegroom's mind. He stared intently upon the weeping Borghild then turned his gaze to the fiddler, who, still regarding her, stood playing, with a half-frenzied look and motion. "You cursed wretch!" shrieked Syvert, and made a leap over two benches to where Truls was standing.
Truls sat in his corner hugging his violin tightly to his bosom, only to do something, for he was vaguely afraid of himself afraid of the thoughts that might rise afraid of the deed they might prompt. He ran his fingers over his forehead, but he hardly felt the touch of his own hand.
Truls stood and gazed at them with large, bewildered eyes. He tried hard to despise the braggart, but ended with envying him. "Ha, fiddler, strike up a tune that shall ring through marrow and bone," shouted Syvert Stein, who struck the floor with his heels and moved his body to the measure of a spring-dance.
"For God's sake, stay, Truls," implored she, and stretched her arms appealingly toward him; "tell me, oh, tell me all." With a leap he was again at her side, stooped down over her, and, in a hoarse, passionate whisper, spoke the secret of his life in her ear. She gazed for a moment steadily into his face, then, in a few hurried words, she pledged him her love, her faith, her all.
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