Guest the One-Eyed

A grey, dull day—not a glimpse of the sun since morning.

A man came hobbling along the little-used path, a solitary figure under the leaden sky. The clouds hung so low that it seemed as if the heavens had fallen, and were supported only by the mountain peaks on the horizon. A grey, dull day—and the man’s spirit was grey and dull within him. All that the day had given him was a fragment of a song that had sprung into his mind; he hummed it half-consciously as he went along.

His voice was deep and hollow-sounding; in its depth a ring of loneliness and unsatisfied longing. There seemed a power of fate and sorrow behind it, as behind the dull roar of the sea. The eternal restlessness of life, and the boundless seeking of the soul quivered in this old man’s voice. Strong, yet soft, its tones had power at times to move those who heard to sadness in themselves.

He felt a peculiar comfort in the sound of his own voice when wandering thus alone; and he was a man who wandered much alone. And for all that he carried no heavy burden, his steps often faltered.

His right leg was crippled, which made journeying none the easier; the stout staff he carried was but a poor substitute for a sound limb.

Despite his infirmity, he tramped the country far and wide. Just now, he was on his way across the chain of hills to the north of Hofsfjordur, known as the Dark Mountains.

He had never been in Hofsfjordur. All the other districts round he had visited many a time in his twenty years of vagabond life, but somehow he had always passed by this. If any asked him why, he might answer that it was because of the bad roads. Yet he was well used to roads that were no better.

However it might be, this time he was on his way. The day was drawing to a close, and he had still far to go. The night would be dark, and hopeless then to find his way; there was nothing for it but to find some sheltered spot where he could rest.

He was thoroughly tired, and his lameness was more marked than usual; his sound leg too was aching from its unfair share of the work. He rocked along uncertainly, like a machine on the verge of breakdown, or a windmill making its last rotations before a calm.

His heavy coat dragged like the wings of a wounded bird. It was a picture well in keeping with the landscape, the man with his long white beard, the tangled grey hair showing below a big soft hat of the indeterminate colour of age. From beneath his bushy brows showed the glimpse of an eye—he had but one—almost unearthly in its intelligence and penetrating glance. His whole appearance, with his beggar’s pouch and limping gait, presented an almost unreal effect, harmonizing to a striking degree with the surroundings. He seemed to be in his element in this waste tract, beneath the low-lying clouds that at times almost enveloped him.

He limped on, a monarch in the realm of mist and solitude.

But there was nothing of power in his thoughts. He simply felt at home here, and in no way disheartened at the prospect of a night in the open.

Again and again he hummed his fragment of a song. It was his way to make up such refrains as he walked, humming them hour after hour to while away the tedium of the road. Also, it was a form of expression, giving relief to his feelings and easing his mind.

At last, after innumerable repetitions of his melancholy chant, he fell silent. Not all at once, but stopping for a little, then taking it up and stopping again, with longer and longer pauses between. And his glance grew dull, his brow wrinkled and furrowed. Night was at hand; he stopped on a sudden as if to make a survey of his surroundings.

“Here am I, a worm in all creation,” he muttered. “And the day has left me up on a desolate hill. Make haste, Eye, and find us a place to rest.”

Gradually the fog lifted, and the sky cleared. The darkness, however, grew more intense, and the contours of the hills were soon almost indistinguishable.

The wanderer glanced around, searching for some corner that might offer some little shelter. Comfort and warmth were not to be expected in these regions. But at length he spied two boulders leaning one against the other. “Like brothers,” he thought to himself, and added aloud:

“Good evening, brothers!”

The sense of loneliness vanished, and his heart was glad; he seemed to feel already a bond of kindliness between him and this his night’s abode. Pleasanter thoughts rose in his mind, and he gripped his faithful staff with a heartiness that might once have been extended to his fellow-men. Now, the staff was almost his only friend. He spoke to it aloud, thanking it for help during the day; he even felt somewhat shamed at not having done so before. He dug and scraped away a heap of moss and little stones, to fill the northern opening between the boulders, making a kind of cave.

This done, he opened his wallet and took out some food, given him earlier in the day by some kindly soul, and ate it, lying in the shelter of his cave. When the meal was finished, he rose to his knees, and hid his face for a moment in his hands, as if silently returning thanks.

Then after some shifting about, he curled himself up in the most convenient position within the cramped space at his disposal. He patted the hard stones, and spoke, half aloud, as his thoughts came.

“Feel strangely happy this evening. Not lonely now, just at home. Nice soft sand here to lie on. And the stones that lie there saying nothing, they are like friends. Battered about, like me, by sun and storms and time. Ay, we’ve much in common, for all they stay still and I’m for ever moving from place to place. Who knows—perhaps this night may be my longest at last. Must come some time—some night be night for ever. If so, ’tis a good place for old bones to rest. Maybe there comes One tonight to take the unrest out of my soul and give me the peace I’ve sought. If so, why, call up all the worms and creeping things that live on flesh, and make a feast of me.”

Drowsiness crept over him; he closed his eyes and prayed:

“Lord, see the end of one more day in Thy service. Lord, may it please Thee soon to lift the burden from my shoulders—the burden of sin. Lord, Thou knowest my heart is full of penitence and distress; Lord, grant me soon Thy peace. Amen!”

He ceased, and lay for a while without opening his eyes. Then, turning over on his side, he huddled himself up for warmth, and resigned himself to what the night might bring—rest, or the fever of sleeplessness.

Morning broke with the clear brightness of an autumn sky above the hills.

At the first sight of dawn, the old man limped out from his cave, beat his hands together, and stamped his sound leg repeatedly, to get some warmth into his body. And as he did so, he thought:

“So! Once more Death has passed me by. Not worth taking....”

Then, penitently, he whispered:

“Lord, Thy will be done! Thanks be to Thee for the night that is gone, and for all trials that are sent from Thee. Be not angry, Lord, if I long for the peace of Death.”

The sun came up, and the man sat down on a stone, bared his head and stretched out his hands to meet the warmth of the first rays; he smiled towards the light, that gave but little warmth as yet.

When the first cold of waking had passed, he ate his last scraps of food, and prepared to move.

The mood of last night and his gloomy thoughts seemed strange to remember now; he smiled involuntarily at the difference between his feeling then and now.

“Never twice alike,” he murmured. “What’s truth, I wonder? Can there be any truth in thoughts and feelings that change between dark and dawn? Where’s the note that lasts and does not change?”

He turned to go, when something made him pause. And, smiling indulgently at himself for his foolishness, he stooped and picked away the moss and stones with which he had closed the opening the night before. Then he patted the two rocks that had sheltered him, and went on his way with an easier mind. Who could say? Perhaps they were lonely there, and would have been sorry to feel the way barred to the passage of the wind that told so many things as it sang through the sharp-edged cleft.

He limped off, moving stiffly at first, his limbs still feeling the cold. He found the path he had left the night before in his search for a resting-place, and went on his way towards Hofsfjordur.

The sun rose higher in the heavens, and dried the dew from the rocks, warming their surface where they faced it, while the northward sides were still dark with moisture. In the shade, the moss glistened with dew. As far as eye could see, there was no growth save the brown and green of moss. But the old wanderer felt quite content; he was at home among these rock-strewn hills, so rich in their weird grouping and fantastic outlines. He was among friends here, and as he passed the massive boulders he touched them with his hand caressingly, grateful for the warmth that passed into his blood. The sun had given it, and they passed it on.

He reached Langeryg, a narrow ridge between two steep ravines, and stopped to look around him. Farther on was a meadow of pale green grass, but not a living soul was to be seen.

Slowly he went on his way, keeping carefully to the middle between the steep and dangerous precipices on either hand. A sinister place this, and of ill repute, perilous especially in mist or darkness. Even now, in the light of day, the wind moaned dismally round the sharp rocks, to the one side, that known as Death’s Cliff, though, strangely enough, no sound came from the other, that was called the Silent Cliff. There was a legend current that the two had been daughters of a king—one good, the other wicked, one dark, the other fair. And the silent chasm was the good princess who sat listening in horror to the evil doings of her sister. And it was said that if any could be found to cast himself voluntarily over the Silent Cliff, he would escape unharmed, and the ravines would close for ever.

Half-way along the track, the old man felt tempted to peer down over the edge of Death’s Cliff. Mastering a feeling of dread, he crept cautiously to the brink, and looked down, but could discern nothing in the darkness below. Suddenly a great black bird fluttered up out of the gloom, and he started back. The bird uttered a hoarse cry—and the man smiled to himself. Only a raven, that had been to visit the princess—or perhaps to see if there were any unfortunate creatures there on which to feast.

With a sigh of relief he drew back from his perilous position, and threw himself down on a patch of grass to rest. Grass was a welcome thing among these barren hills, and the sight of it gladdened him. He found himself studying each little stalk as if it were a wonder to be remembered.

And suddenly tears rose to his eyes; his lips quivered, and he murmured:

“Ay, there are many little joys in life....”

He glanced down the path ahead; first a flat stretch of grass, and then over a long, stony rise. There at the top he knew was a cairn, from which one could look out over Hofsfjordur.

Somehow or other, he felt disinclined to go on, and yet there was something that urged him forward. He felt nervous and anxious, as a boy about to undertake some responsible task for the first time.

When at last he reached the summit of the slope, he stopped and looked down. There it was at last, the shore where he had spent his childhood. There lay the blue fjord, the rockiness, the glittering stream, the grassy slopes—all that he had so often thought of with affectionate longing. Ay, he had come to love it all—since he had left it.

Tears dimmed his vision as he looked. And yet he was happy. He had crossed the boundary now; he was coming home.

He had been standing for some time leaning against the cairn, when suddenly he heard a dog barking. He turned in the direction of the sound, and perceived a young man approaching. At sight of a fellow-creature, he forgot all else.

The newcomer called to his dog, and the animal was silent at once. But the voice of the stranger went to the wanderer’s heart as had never a voice before.

He limped towards him, and held out his hand, a glad smile on his wrinkled face.

The two exchanged greetings, and stood for a moment taking stock of each other. The evident emotion of the older man was not lost upon the stranger.

“A beautiful day,” said the latter after a pause.

“Do your sheep stray as far afield as this?” asked the other. He seemed to be taking in every detail of the stranger’s appearance as he spoke. He listened, moreover, rather to his voice than to his words, though the other was not aware of this—as little as he guessed that the old man had seen his face many years ago, and recognized him now.

“Who are you?” asked the young man, somewhat ill at ease.

“A poor wanderer,” was the reply.

“And your name?”

The old man hesitated. “My name,” he said at last—“there’s none remembers it for aught but ill.”

“Where are you going now?”

“Going? I go from place to place, and live by grace of God and my fellow-men. I am going to Hofsfjordur. I have never been there before.”

“Then you will come to Borg, no doubt?”

“Yes,” said the old man, with a queer smile. “I shall come to Borg.”

“You have not seen any sheep on your way? Or any sign?”

“Nay, naught but a raven flying up from below Death’s Cliff. ’Tis the only living creature I have seen. Were you going farther?”

“No. I can see as far as I need from here. We can go down together; I have looked enough for today.”

“Have you lost many sheep?”

“No. Only a white lamb with black feet and head. It was a sensible beast, and strong, when it went up with the rest in the spring—I can hardly think any fox could have harmed it. But it was a favourite, and I must find it.”

“You are from Borg, then?” queried the old man, looking away.

“Yes. My name is Ørlygur.”

“Ørlygur the younger, that will be?”

“There is no other now. Ørlygur, my grandfather, died many years ago.”

“Yes, that is true. He died in the church at Hof. I was there at the time. True....”

“So you have been here before?”

“No—no. It was—my other self that was here then.”

The young man seemed busy with thoughts of his own; he took no notice of the strange reply. He stood gazing for some moments into distance, then turned and looked searchingly at the wanderer.

“Then you must have known Sera Ketill? He is dead, too.”

“Yes, I knew Sera Ketill,” repeated the old man. And in a curiously toneless voice he went on: “He is dead, too. Yes....”

There was a long pause. The young man realized that he could not here, in broad daylight, ask all he would of this stranger, who, he perceived, could tell him much. Such talk was for the dark, when men can speak together without reserve.

“Will you come back with me now, to Borg?” he asked.

“No. I must go elsewhere.”

“But you will come to Borg? You give me your word?”

“I give you my word. No beggar ever came this way and did not ask for alms at Borg.”

Ørlygur was somewhat embarrassed, and said in a kindly tone:

“Let me give you some food now. We can share it.”

“Heaven bless you,” said the old man.

They walked down the slope together, and found a seat on a grassy mound. Ørlygur opened his haversack and took out first a new pair of shoes.

“Take these, will you not?” he asked shyly. “Yours are badly worn. I brought these with me in case my own gave out. But they will last me home easily.”

The old man took them gladly, and let his fingers glide caressingly along the clean soles. He put them on, and looked up with deep gratitude in his face.

“Fine shoes,” he said, and laughed happily.

“It does not take much to please you,” said Ørlygur, with a smile. “And now let us have something to eat.”

They ate in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Ørlygur was watching his companion, and noticed now for the first time that one eye was closed. The man’s appearance seemed less repulsive now than at first. Evidently, one who had seen better days.

When the old man had finished he wiped his mouth and murmured something to himself, then added aloud:

“Thanks be to God.” And he reached out for Ørlygur’s hand in thanks, looking at it closely as he did so.

The man’s touch had a curious effect upon Ørlygur, at once pleasing and the reverse. He was well used to shaking hands with men, whether friends or strangers, and did so usually without a thought. But with this beggar it was different; he felt an impulse to embrace him, and at the same time shrank from giving him his hand at all.

They walked on side by side, but for a long time no word was spoken. Often the old man stopped, and leaned on his staff to rest. At length they reached the point where the road branched off to Nordurdalur. Here they halted, and sat down without a word.

The old man was the first to speak.

“You will cross the stream now, I take it, and take the shorter road. I am going down alongside the stream. I can reach Bolli in an hour’s time. There is still some one living there?”

“You must know the neighbourhood well,” said Ørlygur. “Yes; a widow lives there with her daughter.” And he blushed.

The old man noticed it and smiled. “Here is a young man who is still a child,” he thought. “Cannot speak of the widow’s daughter without blushing. If I had not been a stranger he would not have spoken of her at all.”

Aloud, he said: “I hope they’ll give me leave to sleep in a barn tonight. You’re not going that way yourself?”

Ørlygur looked aside. “No,” he said shortly.

“Shall I tell them I’ve met you—by way of greeting?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Ørlygur did not look up. The old man rose and came towards him. “Good-bye,” he said, offering his hand.

“And thank you for good company.”

“Good-bye and thanks.”

Ørlygur sat looking after the old man as he went. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he ran after him and asked:

“Will you not tell me your name?”

“Men call me ‘Guest the One-eyed,’” answered the wanderer quietly, and smiled.

Ørlygur said nothing, but his face showed that the name was not unknown to him.

“Good-bye, again, Ørlygur à Borg.”

“Good-bye, Guest One-eyed, and God be with you,” answered Ørlygur reverently, pressing the other’s hand.

The wanderer went on his way, following the course of the stream. Ørlygur watched him till he was out of sight, and stood for a long while looking down the way he had gone.

The sun had vanished behind the western heights when Ørlygur at last roused himself from gazing down the valley. The figure had disappeared long since.

The name of Guest the One-eyed had always seemed to him a part of some fantastic story; now, however, it had become a reality; he had seen and spoken to the man.

He knew that this Guest was a wandering beggar, and had heard many stories current concerning him. He knew also that Guest the One-eyed had never before visited Hofsfjordur—possibly it was this fact which had led him to regard the stories as stories only, without reality. Now that he had learned that the man had apparently lived in Hofsfjordur before, under another name, it seemed strange to him—it had never struck him before that the name of Guest the One-eyed must have had some natural origin.

As with all young and simple folk who had heard of Guest the One-eyed, Ørlygur felt an affection for the singular character of report. Many were the instances on record of kindness and courtesy shown by the wanderer in his journeyings. He had lost one eye in saving a child from a burning farm; his crippled leg was the result of his having flung himself in the way of a sledge that was hurrying towards a dangerous cliff—the life he had thus saved being that of no more romantic personage than an elderly and by no means beautiful servant girl. This latter incident had been the cause of some ill-placed amusement among the peasantry, for it was known that the girl had been merely making a foolhardy attempt to win the heart of one of the labourers near by. Her rescuer, however, before leaving the farm, made it his business to see that the marriage was duly accomplished.

Ørlygur knew, also, that Guest the One-eyed had a peculiar faculty of getting over difficulties and removing misunderstandings; in more than one instance he had been the means of ending an irreconcilable feud and establishing firm friendship in its stead.

A legendary hero in real life, and gifted with wisdom far beyond that of his fellows. Yet he never used his powers for his own advantage. Nobler than those around him, he was nevertheless content to tramp the country in rags, with a beggar’s staff. In point of intelligence, he seemed fitted to be the adviser of kings; yet he chose to live alone, and to seek his rest in barns and outhouses. All of which led folk to look upon him as the personification of something beneficent—the spirit of kindliness and good-will. And Ørlygur himself had felt the same.

He felt a great desire to follow after the old man; a craving for adventure within him even suggested the idea of throwing in his lot with him, and sharing his wanderings.

But as the sun went down, he woke from his dreams and, pulling himself together, made his way rapidly towards home.

Half-way over the stream he stopped suddenly; the water seemed like a flood of gold pouring towards him, glittering with strange reflections in the evening light. And the play of colour, with the murmur of the stream, held him for a moment entranced. Was it a dream, or had he really met Guest the One-eyed in the flesh?

Once across, however, the spell was broken, and Ørlygur was a boy again, filled with no more romantic fancy for the moment than an impulse to run races with his dog. He called to the animal, and they raced away, tearing along at top speed.

As he ran, Ørlygur was conscious that he was eager to get home and relate his adventure; to tell of his conversation with the One-eyed Guest, and announce the arrival of the hero.

He raced on homeward, leaving the dog far behind. The animal followed at its best, till it saw him leap the fence of the enclosure, when it gave up and lay down panting breathlessly.

Ørlygur likewise could run no more, and slackened to a walk. Noticing his foster-father approaching, he made towards him.

Ormarr Ørlygsson had seen the lad come tearing down the slope, his hat off, and his hair streaming in the wind. He knew how the boy delighted in long walks and violent outbursts of energy, but this exuberance of spirits caused him some uneasiness at times—he knew that a day would come when the natural safety-valve of youth would no longer suffice. Yet he could not suppress a smile of pleasure at sight of the handsome lad as he raced away at a speed which bade fair to tire even his horses and dogs.

Often he reflected how like the boy was to his father—the same fair hair, the same blue eyes, the same splendid build; the figure of a young god.

And he thought, with a mingling of unconscious love and conscious hate, of his brother Ketill, who had disappeared the night after that terrible scene that had caused his father’s death and lost his wife her reason. It was said that he had drowned himself—he had last been seen on the cliffs near the fjord. True, the body had never been recovered. Still, it might have been carried out to sea.

After the revelation of that day, when the facts had been made common knowledge, and seeing that Ketill had disappeared, in all likelihood never to return, Ormarr had ceased to give out Ørlygur, Ketill’s and Runa’s child, as his own. He and Runa had continued to live as man and wife, but no children had been born to them.

They lived peacefully and happily at the farm, with never an unkind word between them. At all times, whether they spoke or were silent, there was a mutual bond of perfect confidence and affection between them. Life had brought them together in a strange and merciless fashion, but the innate good sense and nobility of both had turned all to the good. They knew that they had never been lovers in the sense in which love is generally understood, yet, as the years passed, there grew up between them a happiness of each in each that filled their lives. And their mutual trust gave them a surer foundation on which to rest than any lovers’ love could give.

Ørlygur rarely gave a thought to the fact that Ormarr was not his real father. He knew it, because Ormarr had once, in the presence of Runa, told him how matters stood. No details had been given, but the facts were plainly stated: Ormarr had promised to tell him the whole story some day, if he wished. But Ørlygur perceived that the subject was a painful one, and had asked no further since.

Had it not been from fragments of information gathered in course of time from one or another outside the home, he would have known but little. What he did know made towards the conclusion that his father had been a bad man, who had wrought harm to his own kin. But strangely enough, he, Ørlygur, did not suffer thereby. The misfortunes that had come after seemed to have wiped away, as it were, the stain on the family honour, and as years went by, the recollection of Sera Ketill seemed gradually to lose its association with the house of Borg. The story of Sera Ketill lived on—a gruesome tale enough in itself. But it had become a thing apart.

And Ørlygur, growing up at Borg, became one of the family there, until it was almost forgotten that he was in any way related to his father, Sera Ketill of unblessed memory. Ørlygur was aware of this, and at times could feel a kind of remorse at the thought—for, after all, his father was his father.... And, as he grew up, he tried to picture to himself what his father had really been. In his inmost heart he could not quite believe him so utterly evil as report made out.

But there was no one whom he could ask—no one, indeed, to whom he could even speak on the subject at all. He could not bring himself to open a painful subject with his foster-father or his mother. There was only old Kata, the faithful attendant of the poor witless Danish Lady. And Kata’s replies to his questioning were always wrapped up in mysterious, incomprehensible allusions. Ørlygur, in common with others, regarded her as entering on her second childhood, though she was sound and active as ever in body.

Ørlygur was still out of breath when he reached Ormarr.

“Well,” said the latter, “did you find the lamb? You look very pleased with yourself.”

“No,” said Ørlygur. “But I found—whom do you think? Guest the One-eyed! Right up at the very edge of the pastures, in the hills. And I went with him as far as Nordura. I didn’t know who he was till we said good-bye. And I gave him my shoes, and he is wearing them now.”

Ørlygur’s delight and pride at this last fact were so evident that Ormarr could not help smiling.

“Why didn’t you bring him back home with you?”

“He is coming. He promised faithfully he would. He was too tired now. Said he was going down the stream to one of the nearest farms there.”

Ormarr did not fail to remark that the boy had avoided mentioning Bolli, but he made no sign of having noticed anything. He had an idea that Ørlygur cherished a fancy for the daughter there, but it seemed wiser to wait before taking any definite action. He was not at all pleased with the idea of a match between Ørlygur and the child of the so-called “widow” at Bolli. But he was loth to interfere with the boy’s affairs—after all, he was of an age to choose for himself. And Ormarr knew too well that the men of his race were apt to be headstrong in affairs of the heart. On the other hand, if he were mistaken—if the affair were not really serious, his interference would do no good. If the damage were already done, and Ørlygur had made up his mind, then there was nothing to be done but wait and see.

Ørlygur himself did not know whether his parents were aware of his affection for Snebiorg, the girl from Bolli. But he was convinced that they would not agree with his choice. Even if they did not oppose it, he knew it would pain them.

Up to now, his will and conscience had always been in accord with theirs. In this case he was quite clear as to his own feelings, but was loth to bring matters to a head. There was time enough—no definite promise had as yet been given on either side, though there was certainly a tacit understanding between them.

Ormarr and Ørlygur walked across the enclosure together.

“And what else did he say—the old man?” asked Ormarr.

Ørlygur was at a loss for an answer. He could not remember anything else of importance, and it seemed somehow unsatisfactory to have met the celebrated vagabond, renowned for his wisdom, and bring back no utterance worthy of remark. He said nothing—and Ormarr did not press the question, but walked beside him with the quiet, peculiar smile that had become characteristic of him.

But when they reached the house, Ørlygur found himself once more a person of importance. Old Kata came hobbling towards him, and laid her hand on his arm.

“You have met him, and spoken. And felt joy of the meeting—more than with any other you have ever met. The Lord is great, and our eyes are blind. Yes; he will come now, and all will be well.”

Kata hobbled off again to her mistress, whom she never left for any length of time.

The two men stood watching her with a smile.

“She still has the gift, you see,” observed Ormarr. “No need to tell her that you had met with Guest the One-eyed in the mountains.”

Alma dragged on her timeless, feelingless existence under old Kata’s care. Age had left no mark on her, though it was twenty years now since the tragic event that had deprived her of her reason. In the world about her there had been changes: those who had been in the prime of life at that time were now aged and infirm; the children of those days were grown. But Alma was to all appearances the same as on the day when she had left the church at Hof, released from suffering by the breakdown of all capacity to feel or understand. She looked a trifle healthier—less pale, that was all.

And her life now had, despite its essential monotony, a certain variation of a sort. She smiled happily when the sun shone, but wept when the clouds hid it from her sight. Her joys were those of childhood—fine weather, dumb animals, flowers, and the presence of certain chosen friends. There were some of her fellow-creatures whom she loved, without knowing why. Others she disliked no less distinctly, and contact with them would render her depressed for days. Strangers, in particular, invariably troubled her mind.

In course of time, people had come to attribute this discrimination to a strange instinct that had taken the place of the ordinary human intelligence she no longer possessed. She was still spoken of as the Danish Lady at Hof, though for years she had not set her foot outside the limits of Borg.

She spoke but little. It seemed as if she had forgotten not only her native tongue, but also the little Icelandic she had ever learnt. She picked up odd words and sentences, however, uttering them afterwards incoherently. And she had a kind of language of her own invention—a combination of curious expressions and strange gestures, which those about her learned to understand. Old Kata was an adept in this mode of intercourse, and pleased her mistress by her quickness of understanding.

The two women occupied one room, with two windows, in which they had their favourite seats. They would sit there for hours, old Kata with her knitting, and Alma gazing at the world outside, and following with childish interest anything that might be happening within view. For the most part, they were silent, but now and again passers-by might hear them exchanging words in their own unintelligible form of speech.

They had little to do with others, though Alma knew all the servants and farm hands on the place. All loved her, and towards old Kata, too, the general feeling was one of kindly regard.

On Sundays they joined the circle for Bible reading or singing, after which coffee was handed round, Alma playing the part of hostess. It was one of the small recurring pleasures in her life, and both she and Kata found an ever-new delight in the arrangement.

Sometimes the master, Ormarr Ørlygsson, if so disposed, would bring out his violin and treat his people to an entertainment. He invariably began with merry tunes, and finished with strange, heart-stirring themes; the simple listeners knew nothing of the great composers, but the music had its own effect on them, and often brought tears to the eyes of the more impressionable amongst them.

When he had played thus, Ormarr would leave the room abruptly; the rest, sitting in silence, would hear him leave the house. And then the party broke up, each to his work or play.

But Ormarr went off alone into the hills. At times he might be seen pacing to and fro; sometimes he would find some spot where he could lie and rest, but he never returned to the farm until all had retired for the night. There were always two, however, who waited his return. One was old Kata, who sat by the window till she saw or heard him back again—sat weeping, though he never dreamed of any such sympathy on her part. Not till she knew that he was safely within doors—had fought out that day’s fight with his God, as she put it to herself—would she go to rest.

The other was his wife, lying awake in bed till he came. No words were spoken when he returned; in silence he lay down at her side, drawing close to her, with one arm round her neck. Lying thus, rest would come to him and he could sleep.

The only other event in the life of Alma and her aged nurse was when visitors came to the place. All invariably came in to pay their respects to the Danish Lady however brief their stay or how pressing their errand might be. Some did so from a natural desire to show their sympathy with one afflicted by God; others from a secret fear that God would punish them if they did not. And Alma seemed able to distinguish between those who came of their own kind will and those who merely obeyed a custom they feared to break.

Guest the One-eyed limped wearily along by the side of the stream.

The path he followed wound with many turns, following the course of the water, and in places quite near to the edge, the bank sometimes overhanging the riverbed below. At one spot the river actually tunnelled its way underground for some few yards, leaving a kind of natural bridge above. When he reached this spot the wanderer knew that he was not far from Bolli.

His thoughts were busy with recollection of the young man he had met up in the hills.

“So that was he,” he thought to himself. “A handsome lad, strong and manly, and of a kindly heart, by his eyes.” He thought of the evident pleasure with which the boy had given him the shoes and shared his food with him. Ay, a true son of his race—little fear of his bringing sorrow upon Borg.

And the old man’s heart beat faster at the thought that he would soon see the girl whom Ørlygur had chosen for his bride. His knowledge of men had enabled him to read clearly enough the signs of Ørlygur’s feeling; it was evident, also, that the two young people understood each other.

He forgot his weariness and hurried on.

Then, rounding a bend of the river, he came suddenly upon the tiny homestead, a cluster of small buildings on a little piece of rising ground. A thin smoke rose from a chimney—that must be from the open hearth in the kitchen. The ground outside was marked by heaps of hay, in regular rows; a solitary horse was grazing on the hillside, and a few sheep nosed about among the rocks down by the river.

For some minutes he stood looking over the place. So this was where the two women passed their quiet lives. Mother and daughter, living for some reason apart from their neighbours. The old wanderer knew well enough that it was often not the worst of human kind that chose to live aloof from their fellows.

As he approached the house, a dog ran out barking angrily. Immediately after, a young woman appeared. At first sight of the strange figure coming towards her, she turned as if to go indoors again, but changed her mind and advanced to meet him.

“Here is one who is tired,” said she. “Can I help you, old man?”

And she took his arm.

“Thanks, blessed child,” said the old man, with a smile.

The girl looked up at his face.

“Oh—you have only one eye!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” answered the stranger, with a chuckle. “Worms couldn’t wait for it. They’ll have the other one soon, and the rest of me with it.”

“You should not talk like that,” said the girl, with childish displeasure.

Guest the One-eyed changed his tone. “Yes,” he said earnestly. “You are young and wise, and I am old and foolish. ’Tis not a matter for jesting. What is your name, child?”

“Snebiorg is my name. Mother calls me Bagga, but I don’t let other people call me that—or only one other, perhaps, if he cares to. And you perhaps, too, because you are not like other folk.”

“One other—if he cares to? Don’t you know whether he cares to or not?”

“No—for I have never spoken to him.”

“But—are you not lovers, then?”

“Yes.”

“And you mean to say you have never spoken—only written letters to each other?”

“Written? No.” Bagga looked up in surprise. “We have looked at each other. Isn’t that enough?”

There was a strange earnestness in the old man’s voice as he answered:

“Surely it is enough. And are you very fond of him?”

“I love him.”

They walked on in silence. Guest the One-eyed wished to have his message given before going into the house.

“I have seen him,” he said. “And I was to bring you greeting from him.”

The girl stopped still and clasped her hand to her breast. The colour had risen to her cheeks as she spoke of her lover; now she turned pale. The old man looked at her intently, taking in her fine profile, her beautiful eyes and lovely hair, the fineness of her figure. He realized that these two were destined for each other; that they must love each other at first sight.

Bagga could hardly speak at first. After a while she said:

“You have spoken to him? Is it long ago? What did he say? Did he ask you to bring me greeting?”

“No.”

“But you said so just now!” She looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“I asked if I should bring you greeting, and he said yes. And I read more in his eyes. Can you guess what?”

“No.”

“That he loves you, and is for ever thinking of you. That he will always be true to you.”

“That I knew long ago. But how could you know that it was he?”

“It needs not long to find out that. Shall I tell you his name?”

“No,” answered the girl, colouring deeply. “Did he say anything else? Was he looking for a lamb that had strayed?”

“Yes, a favourite lamb, and he was afraid some fox might have harmed it.”

Bagga looked serious.

“It is here,” she said hesitatingly. “It strayed over here early in the summer, and I have been keeping it with our sheep. I knew it was his, and I could not bear to part with it. But tonight, when every one is asleep, I will take it over to Borg. Then he will find it in the morning, and be glad.”

She smiled with pleasure at the thought.

“Can’t you remember any more he said? Did you have a long talk with him?”

“Yes—but I have forgotten. He gave me these shoes I am wearing now.”

Bagga was immediately keenly interested in the old man’s shoes.

“I hope you have not worn a hole in them yet. But, if you have, I will mend them for you.”

“No,” answered the old man, with a quiet smile. “I am sorry to say there is nothing to mend.”

Bagga blushed again, but added quickly, “But you can let me set them in oil for you tonight, then they will be soft in the morning. You will stay here tonight, will you not?”

“Gladly, if you will house me.”

They had reached the door of the house, and Bagga led him through a dark passage into the room. Seated on a bed was an elderly woman, busy mending some clothes. The visitor noticed for the first time that the girl’s clothing was almost as patched as his own. It was not so noticeable, however, in a pretty girl.

The old woman sat up and stared at him.

“Who is this?” she asked in surprise.

“A beggar, lady. Peace be with you.”

The woman’s glance softened.

“Come in,” she said, “and welcome to what we can give. Sit down. Have you come far?”

“From across the Dark Mountains.”

“So far—and you are lame? Quick, Bagga, make some coffee.”

Bagga whispered something in her mother’s ear. The latter looked at her daughter, and then at the stranger. Her glance expressed concern.

“Is it true? You have lost an eye, and lame as well?” She came towards him. “Then you must be ... you are Guest the One-eyed?”

“So I am called,” was the reply.

She grasped his hand, and her voice trembled.

“God bless you!” she said earnestly—“God bless you! And blessed be the hour that brought you here.”

Bagga had left the room, and the two were alone.

“Where did you spend the night?”

“On the hills.”

“And without shelter? How can you endure such hardships—an old man?...”

“I am well hardened to it by now. Though, to tell the truth, my shoulder is somewhat stiff from last night.”

“I hope it may be no worse. Let me make up a bed for you now, and you can have a good rest.”

“I would rather lie in the hayloft. A bed would seem strange to me now.”

Somewhat unwillingly the widow agreed to let him have his way.

“So you have come to Hofsfjordur after all, though after many years.”

“Yes; Fate has brought me here at last, in my old age.”

“Then Fate is kind to us.”

“Fate is always kind,” replied the old man earnestly.

“Even when it brings us trouble and distress?”

“Then most of all, good soul, if you did but know.”

“Even when it leads us into temptation—drives us to sin?” The widow looked up at him quickly as she spoke, and lowered her eyes again.

“We mortals are poor clay; God has need of strange ways to work us to His will.”

“Then you think all that happens is decreed—a part of God’s plan with us?”

“In a way, yes. Each man’s actions are determined by the nature of his soul; that makes his fate. All that men do is a result of their own character. But the deeds that we do most naturally are good. Therefore, we should each be master of ourself.”

“But a sin committed can never be a good action or lead to any good. Surely it were better that such an act had never been?”

“A sin committed can bring out the good in one who is so made that the good in him can be reached by no other way. One can wander through many lands and yet not escape from one evil deed. The memory of it will stay fresh in the mind, and in time can soften the hardest heart, or make the weakest strong; good thoughts and strength of will grow out of it. I speak as I have found it. But perhaps you have not found it so.”

The woman bent over her work.

“Yes,” she said. “You speak the truth. I, too, have sinned, and the memory of it has made me better than I was, or ever could have been without it. But I never thought of it so until now.”

Bagga entered with some food. She wore a bandage over one eye.

“What is it, child?—have you hurt yourself?” asked the mother anxiously.

Bagga blushed hotly, set down the plates, and tore away the handkerchief from her head, laughing nervously.

The others laughed too—it was easy to see what the girl had been doing.

“I forgot to take it off,” she explained shyly. “It’s not so very bad, after all, to have only one eye.”

“Better to have two,” said Guest the One-eyed. “More especially if they are as blue and as good as yours.” And he looked at her with a kindly smile.

Bagga was still embarrassed; she glanced anxiously at the visitor, and asked: “You are not angry with me?”

He patted her arm. “How could I be? After you have given me leave to call you Bagga?”

“When you go away from here, I will go with you all the way to the next place. I am strong, and I can carry your sack for you.”

“That’s kind of you. And I shall not be angry with you, not even if you fasten a stick to one leg just to see what it feels like to be lame!”

Bagga’s checks were burning now; she was nearly crying.

“I—I did just now,” she confessed. “And it was much worse than—the other. But I’ll never do it again.”

Guest the One-eyed burst out laughing. Even the girl’s mother could not help joining in. And there was not much of anger in the rebuke she gave her daughter.