Guest the One-Eyed

Night spread its broad, dark wings over the land.

Under the shadow of night the world is changed from what it was while day still reigned. Fear, that the daylight holds in check, is then abroad, and the unseen seems nearer than before. All things are changed, save Love that is unalterable; Love that is constant whether in light or dark.

Guest the One-eyed had long since laid his tired limbs to rest in the hay, the widow’s soul far, far away in the land of dreams, when the outer door of the house opened slowly; only a crack at first, through which the dog silently made its way, followed then by the girl, who stepped with careful, noiseless tread.

Bagga closed the door behind her without a sound, patted the dog, and whispered to it to be silent. And the intelligent beast seemed to understand that this was a business that must be kept secret between it and its mistress.

Off went the pair, in the direction of the stream, the dog hard at Bagga’s heels, and evidently interested in the night’s adventure.

As they neared the flock of sheep, where they lay huddled together for the night, she made the dog lie down, while she called softly, as was her wont, for Ørlygur’s lamb. There was a slight commotion in the flock, and the black-headed lamb came trotting up.

Offering some bread she had brought with her, Bagga gradually enticed it away from the rest. She moved very slowly, to avoid alarming the others, over towards the natural bridge across the stream.

The dog trotted along behind, with its tail down. It was jealous of the lamb, knowing well that, when Bagga had it with her, any other creature must take second place. To approach her now would mean a scolding, and the dog had no desire to be sent back home, just when there was every prospect of something quite unusual happening.

All went well. The lamb gave no trouble, and the dog followed at a safe distance.

But the girl’s heart was sad; it was hard now to have to part with the lamb she had cherished as a link between her lover and herself—a tangible memory of the one she loved so deeply, yet with whom she had never spoken—whom she had only seen now and then at church on Sundays.

Reaching the bridge, she took off her garter and fastened it round the lamb’s neck, to have something to hold by in case the animal should take fright. Then carefully she led it across, the earth underfoot vibrating all the time with the rush of the water below.

After a time, the supply of breadcrumbs having ceased, the lamb grew lazy, and showed signs of becoming rebellious. It seemed to resent having been thus disturbed in the middle of the night. As long as there had been compensation in the way of dainty morsels to nibble, it was perhaps worth it, but now it would prefer to lie down and chew the cud in peace.

Bagga, however, persisted, and with coaxing and scolding urged on her little charge.

It was a long road, but at last they reached Borg.

Quietly as possible she opened the gate of the enclosure. It would never do to rouse the dogs. Then she stroked the lamb sadly in farewell, her tears falling on its woolly fleece, and thrust it through the gate, which she closed after it.

She had forgotten to take her garter from its neck.

As she turned away from the gate, a feeling of loneliness and misery overcame her; it was as if she had lost the one treasure of her life—nothing was left but loneliness and emptiness. Then gradually she grew more composed. The dog marked her trouble, and fawned on her; she came to herself, and realized that it was time to return home.

She stood for a little, gazing with wet eyes at the dark outline of the homestead; there slept her lover, never dreaming she was near. Surely, surely in some mysterious way he must feel that she was there, and come to her? Not to speak to her, no—that he should ever speak seemed to her like a thing so distant as to be almost unreal—an entering into paradise. But come he surely must—if only that they might see each other—that he might realize how she loved him.

But she must go.... With bowed head she turned in the direction of home. The long road was covered, she hardly knew how, and, without once waking to conscious thought of the way, she found herself in the house once more.

Silently she undressed; her head was aching, and it was long before she could sleep. At length she fell into a heavy slumber.

When she woke next morning it seemed as if the journey of the night had been a dream; she had to go out and convince herself that the lamb was really gone.

Once sure, however, she felt an indescribable joy—so near she had been to her heart’s desire that night. And none to know of it but God.... She could not understand now why she had felt sad at parting with the lamb; the night stood out now like a gleam of brightness in her life.

One of her garters was missing—she could not remember what she had done with it. Fallen off somewhere, perhaps, and lying out on the road. It would be hopeless to try and find it now, though, among all the rocks; she might as well give it up for lost.

But it was a pity, for it was a nice one, neatly embroidered, and with her name worked on so prettily....

While Bagga was thus busy with her daydreams, Guest the One-eyed was deep in earnest talk with her mother, who confided to him the story of her life—the story of her heart.

She was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, and had been married against her will, though with no great resistance on her part, to the son of a rich landowner. The man she really loved was a young labourer on her father’s place. No one knew of it, and the man himself had but a vague idea; she could not say if he returned the feeling or not. After some six months of married life, Fate—or the well-laid plans of her lover himself—brought him to work on her husband’s farm. And now began a time of sore trial for her. The young man had become aware of her inclination, and made his advances boldly. So successfully did he play the part of broken-hearted lover that she fell a victim to his persuasion. So much Guest the One-eyed was able to gather from the widow’s own confession; she did not spare herself in the recital.

She had already borne a son—her husband’s child. Immediately after having given way to her lover, she had endeavoured to persuade him to go with her, take her away from the place; she could not stay with her husband as things were. But the lover was quite content to leave all as it was; indeed, it was evident that he preferred to have her there. Then she saw through him, realized the true nature of his feelings towards her, and confessed everything to her husband. The latter had, after a violent scene, at last agreed to forgive her, and treated her kindly. But she was determined to leave him, and went off to live alone, making no claim on him or on her father for her subsistence.

It was nineteen years ago now. At first, she had earned her living where and how she could—cleaning fish or washing wool. Then the child came, and she found it impossible to obtain work anywhere. Finally, she had settled down at Borg, where she had stayed three years. In spite of the kindness with which she was treated by Ormarr and Runa, however, she found herself regarded with suspicion. With her small savings, and some help from Ormarr, she had just been able to rent and stock her little holding, and had lived there now with her daughter for nearly fourteen years.

Now, life was pleasant enough, she said. And Guest the One-eyed understood that she had grown so accustomed to hard work and scanty fare that she would have found it hard now to change to another mode of life. But she looked to her daughter’s upbringing with motherly care, and her great anxiety was the girl’s future. How would it be with her when she went out into the world? Would she be able to live down her mother’s past? Would God in His mercy spare her the consequences of her mother’s sin?

That it was a sin she understood now; now, for the first time, she realized how unpardonable her act had been. The consequences might yet be visited upon her child. And her conscience made her suffer; she feared at times that the agony of her remorse would drive her to madness. She was on the edge of an abyss; only by the utmost effort could she preserve her self-control.

Guest the One-eyed had heard many secrets; listened to the story of many lives. And in his long years of life he had learned to sift the facts of a case, to find out truth as much from what was left unspoken as from what was said. The widow’s life stood out clearly to his mind’s eye in all its detail.

They sat in silence for a while.

“And the girl’s father,” asked Guest at last—“is he still living near?”

“No,” answered the widow, and her lips tightened. “He went away across the seas soon after I left the place. Afraid, maybe, that there might be trouble, and thought it best to be out of the way.”

Again there was a pause.

Then said Guest the One-eyed quietly, “You are troubled at heart by the thought that the sins of the fathers are to be visited upon the children. Do not let that weigh too heavily upon you now. There are those who suffer so deeply for their own sins that they atone for them in life, and more. You are one of these. I am not speaking empty words to you for comfort’s sake, but the truth. You can trust me. God has granted me the power to give my fellow-men in need the knowledge of remission of their sins, as far as may be in knowledge of the truth. I have sinned, and my debt is not yet paid—but my sin was greater than yours or that of any other I have met. But the Lord God is merciful, and I believe that He will grant me peace at last. At last, in death. And when that comes, I can say with truth that my life, by God’s grace, has been a happy one.”

The woman looked at him, with the same dull hopelessness in her eyes.

“How can you know that I have sufficiently atoned for my sin—you, who have known me only since yesterday, and heard no more than I have told you?”

Guest the One-eyed smiled, and a strange look of far-seeing wisdom lit up his heavy face.

“I believe that the Lord has sent me to you for your comfort in need—that the Lord has given me, and to no other, a sign to make you sure. I am no prophet, and I do not profess to tell what will or will not come. But—shall I tell you a secret? Promise me, first, that you will not act in any way to bring about that which shall come in God’s good time.”

The woman grasped his hand and nodded. Her eyes were fixed intently on his face, as if striving to read his words ere they were spoken.

“Your daughter will be the happiest woman in this land. She is loved by the purest soul I have ever looked into through human eyes.” He turned away for a moment, and murmured, as if to himself: “I thank Thee, Lord, for Thy great mercy.” Then, addressing the widow again, he went on: “And she, on her part, returns his love with all her innocent heart.”

The woman’s face darkened.

“Impossible,” she said. “There is no young man she knows here at all. I do not believe she has ever spoken to one.”

“Remember your promise, and trust me now. The girl is in her heart—and in the book of Fate—betrothed and wedded to the one I speak of. Give time, and see.”

“If I could believe you now....”

“You can—you must. It is long since these lips framed a lie—never in the life of Guest the One-eyed have they spoken falsely.”

The widow looked at him earnestly, doubt and hope struggling in her mind. Guest the One-eyed leaned towards her, his face deathly pale, and whispered:

“He of whom I speak—he, too, was born as the fruit of a sin—but a sin that is, or will be soon, I trust, atoned for.”

The woman was weeping now, but they were tears of relief rather than despair. “I cannot fathom it all,” she murmured. “But I believe you.”

Guest the One-eyed smiled sadly, and cast a grateful glance to heaven.

Later in the day, Guest the One-eyed became feverish, and the pain in his shoulder became acute. He could not hide the fact that he was suffering, and the widow wished him to go to bed at once and remain there for the present. But he obstinately refused even to stay in the house.

“I have farther yet to go,” he said, with his sad, kindly smile.

As he was leaving, he asked suddenly:

“Was there not once a priest here, Sera Ketill?”

The widow looked up at him in surprise. Then she cast down her eyes and frowned.

“His name is accursed in this house,” she said—“as are all those who have deceived under the mask of love.”

The man paled at her words. For a moment he seemed stunned. Then, taking up his sack and staff, he limped from the room.

The woman hurried after him.

“Are you ill?” she asked.

“No. I am going now.”

“But—you have not said good-bye!”

“Forgive me,” said Guest the One-eyed. “But you have said that which struck me to the heart.”

The woman looked at him blankly. Then, giving up all attempt at finding out the mystery, she asked:

“Will you not leave some good word after you?—some word to help?”

Guest the One-eyed looked at her. Then he said:

“Let your heart be open to Love and closed to Hatred; and let your lips be quick to bless, but slow to curse.”

“God be with you,” said the woman, her voice quivering on the verge of tears. “God’s blessing go with you where you may go.”

And, turning hurriedly to hide her shame and emotion, she re-entered the house.

Guest the One-eyed limped painfully along beside the stream. Suddenly he remembered the girl, whom he had forgotten in the trouble of his soul, and turned to seek her. But at that moment she came running towards him.

The girl stopped, breathless, and looked at him reproachfully. “Would you have gone without a word to me?” she asked.

“I had just remembered,” he said softly. “But for a moment my soul was not my own.”

She took his sack and put her arm in his.

“I will go with you as far as I may,” she said.

A calm, sunny day. The old man trudged along the valley, leaning on the girl’s arm. Her golden hair and his white locks shone like haloes round their heads.

Now and again a flock of ptarmigan rose at their feet. Already the birds had shed their brown plumage and donned their winter coats of white.

It seemed as if summer were loth to bid farewell. The sea was calm, and the river flowed smoothly on its way; the lakes lay still as mirrors, reflecting the hills around and the blue sky above. No sound was heard from the homesteads but the occasional neigh of a horse or the barking of a dog. Even the rocks seemed less bleak and bare than usual, lapped as they were now in the warm rays of the sun. All seemed intent on looking its best at the last—the last it might be, for another day might bring cold winds and wintry gales, ushering in snow and ice.

The old man and the girl had gone some distance on their way when they came to a grassy slope that seemed inviting them to rest and look out over the scene. Somewhat shyly, the girl took out a packet of food and offered him.

“Now, that is your breakfast you have packed up here,” said the old man as he opened it.

“I am not hungry,” said the girl bravely, but the effort was plain to be seen.

Guest the One-eyed stroked her head and began to eat; he succeeded, however, in persuading her to share with him.

When they had finished, he asked her:

“Will you not turn back now? It is a long way home already.”

She looked at him pleadingly. “Oh, I will run all the way home. I am never tired—and I should like to see you within sight of the next homestead.”

“I am glad to have you—but we had better go on. We must not lose more time sitting here.”

He made no motion to rise, however, and for a while they sat in silence. Then he asked:

“Did you ever hear of one Sera Ketill, once priest of this parish, many years ago?”

The girl burst into tears, and sat crying quietly. He put no further question, but after a little said quietly:

“Have I hurt you, child? I would not have done that.”

“That—that was his father,” she answered, sobbing. “Did you not know?”

“Yes, I knew,” he answered.

“And they all say unkind things and hate him,” she went on, still sobbing passionately. “He drowned himself because he had been so wicked he couldn’t bear it—all the sorrow that came after. Threw himself over the cliff, they say; he was seen there the night after his father died in the church.

“And he left a will giving all he had to the poor, but they say it was only to make them sorry for the hard things they had said, and pray for his soul. And they never would forgive him, and they say the Evil One has taken him, because the body was never found. Isn’t it cruel! And all that was twenty years ago, and all that time no one has ever thought kindly of him once—only me, and I couldn’t help it. His father.... I don’t know if he ever thinks of him. And yet he must, since it was his father....”

Gradually the girl became more composed. Her companion sat quietly, with tears in his eyes.

Suddenly she raised her tear-stained face towards him and asked:

“Do you hate him, too?”

Guest the One-eyed looked her straight in the face as he answered:

“For twenty years my life has been spent in seeking God’s mercy and forgiveness towards him.”

The girl’s eyes lit with pleasure.

“Then you knew him? And were you fond of him?”

The man was silent for a moment. Then he said:

“Sera Ketill is not dead.”

“Oh, thank God for that! Is it really true?”

“God bless you, child, that you are glad to hear it. Yes, it is true. He is yet a wanderer on earth, and penitent.”

“Is he very far away? Shall I ever see him?”

“Not very far away. But ask no more just now.”

They walked on until a fertile valley lay before them.

Close by was a small farm; other homesteads were scattered about not far off.

The old man slung his sack over his shoulder.

“Shall I never see you again?” asked the girl, her eyes filling with tears.

“You like me, then?”

“I love you. Every one loves and blesses you. If I had a father, I should wish him to be like you.”

“But—I am only a beggar.”

“There is no shame in that,” answered the girl in surprise, “for one like you.”

“Shall I bring Sera Ketill your greeting if I see him?”

“Yes, and tell him that I pray for him always.”

“Do you think you can get home now before dark?”

“Yes, indeed; I am not tired at all now. Good-bye.” And she gave him her hand.

“Good-bye,” he said, “and God be with you.”

The girl hurried off in the direction of home, and Guest the One-eyed turned towards the farm.

On the morning after Bagga’s expedition with the lamb, Ormarr was up and about before any of the others at Borg.

It was his custom to rise early. His nights were often restless, and it was only after he had been up and out a little that he felt refreshed. The work drove sad thoughts from his mind.

He was not happy, though he would have found it hard to say what was wrong. He could not honestly declare that he regretted having given up the path of fame that once had stood open to him through his music.

In the old days, whenever he had touched his violin, the contrast between the harmony of music and the discord of the world as it was had wrought on him so strongly that he had been driven to seek solitude. His sensitive soul craved rest, quivering as it did under the harshness of reality. It was not the desire for appreciation of his art, but the longing for harmony in life that he felt most deeply.

Here, on the farm, existence was rendered tolerable by the fact that he had to be constantly at work; the management of the estate gave him much to do, in addition to which the affairs of the parish were almost wholly entrusted to his care. And the affection and respect of his people, which he could not but perceive, served largely to aid him in the constant struggle within.

The people loved him, not only because he helped them in every possible way, and never refused his aid and counsel, but also because they felt that in him they had a true leader. They saw the firmness of character, the stern will, which he exercised in his own life, and it gave them courage.

Ormarr invariably began the day by a visit of inspection round the farm to see that all was in order. The animals allowed to go loose about the place were carefully looked to each morning to see that they had come to no harm during the night.

One of the first things to catch his eye this morning was Ørlygur’s lamb. He noticed the black head at once, and as he approached, the animal rose up, bleating pitifully. Evidently it was in distress about something. As soon as he had caught it, he noticed the blue ribbon at its neck, looked at it, and found the name “Snebiorg” woven in red letters. He was about to take it off, but changed his mind and let the lamb go. There were not two women of that name in the parish. And the lamb had got into the enclosure during the night, though the gate was fastened. Ormarr was not quite clear in his own mind as to what had happened, but at any rate, if the ribbon were intended for any one, it was not for him.

He thought it over for a while, and then went into the house to wake Ørlygur.

“Your lamb has come back. You will find it outside.”

Ørlygur was out of bed in an instant. His father hesitated, as if deliberating whether to say more, but after a moment’s reflection left the room.

Ørlygur threw on his clothes and hurried out—there was the lamb, sure enough. But—it did not recognize him. Evidently, in the course of the summer, it had forgotten him.

The ribbon at its neck caught his eye at once, and he bent down to examine it. At first sight of the name he started in astonishment, and let go his hold. Then, catching the animal again, he took the ribbon from its neck with trembling fingers.

The lamb was let to run as it pleased; Ørlygur stood with the garter in his hand, stroking it softly. His heart beat fast, his head was giddy. Tears came to his eyes, and his thought was all confused, but there was a great joy at his heart.

He sat down on the wall of the enclosure; the sun was just rising. Never before had he seen such a glorious opening to any day. The piece of ribbon in his hand made this day one beyond all others; it called him from his sleep to be king in a beautiful world.

He realized now that, though he had felt sure before, there had nevertheless been something lacking—and here it was. All was certain now. And the joyous possibilities of the future seemed unbounded. He sat there now for hours, deep in his dreams, twining the ribbon round his fingers, one after another—none must be forgotten—and at last round his neck.

Suddenly he started at the sight of his father approaching, and put away the ribbon hastily. He got up in some embarrassment; it occurred to him suddenly that Ormarr might perhaps have noticed the ribbon himself at first. The thought left him utterly at a loss.

Ormarr came up and sat down quietly, as if unaware of anything typo.

“A fortunate thing about the lamb,” he said. “Coming back unharmed like that. All sorts of accidents might have happened to it.”

“Yes,” said Ørlygur, trying to speak calmly.

“Have you time to help me today with the mangers in the big stable?—or were you thinking of going somewhere else?”

Ørlygur felt suddenly that it was most urgent he should go somewhere else, though he had no clear idea as to where. There was something in Ormarr’s voice that seemed to suggest he was not expected to remain at home.

He did not answer at once. Ormarr sat waiting for an answer, but without impatience, as if realizing something of what was passing in the young man’s mind.

When Ørlygur spoke, it was with a calmness that surprised himself.

“Yes—I was going for a walk ... over towards Bolli. I thought of giving the lamb—to the widow there. She would be glad of it, no doubt; then she could kill one of her own sheep instead.”

Ormarr apparently found nothing in this proposal beyond an ordinary act of charity; he simply said:

“Yes, give it to her. Or perhaps to her daughter. Then you may be sure it would be well looked after.”

“That is true.”

Ørlygur had now completely regained his composure, but was still somewhat at a loss to understand his foster-father’s attitude in the matter.

“You can bring them greeting from me,” said Ormarr, as he rose and walked away.

Ormarr was both glad and sorry. But he knew it was best not to let Ørlygur’s love affairs become a matter of dissension between them. They of Borg had need to hold together well; he had made his sacrifice—all that remained now was to prepare his wife.

When Ørlygur arrived at Bolli, with the lamb trotting contentedly behind him, he found the widow outside the gate.

She looked at him, and then at the lamb. She had noticed that morning that it was missing, but had merely thought it had been found and taken away earlier in the day.

“Good morning,” she said in answer to his greeting. “Your lamb seems loth to leave us.”

Bagga had told her mother before that the lamb always came back every time she had essayed to drive it off with other stray sheep.

“It seems so,” Ørlygur agreed. “Can I have a word with Snebiorg?” There was a lump in his throat; he could hardly speak the name.

“She is not at home just now. We had a stranger here last night, and she has gone out to see him a little on his way. How far, I do not know. Can you guess who the stranger was?”

“I think so. Guest the One-eyed, was it not?”

“Oh—then you knew he was here?”

“Yes. I was the first to meet him. When I left him yesterday he was on his way to you.”

“Why did you not come with him, then, and fetch your lamb? When did you fetch it?”

“I did not fetch it at all.”

“But—it was here last night, and this morning it was gone.”

Suddenly Ørlygur understood what had happened. And he flushed at the thought.

“That may be so,” he answered vaguely. He hardly knew what to say.

The widow looked at him, as if somewhat offended at his tone.

“Won’t you come in and sit down for a while?”

“Thanks,” said Ørlygur. And they went indoors.

He had never been inside the house before. The little room was furnished with two beds; he looked immediately at the one which was evidently Bagga’s. Her hat hung on a nail at the head of the bed, her knife and fork were in a little rack close by. On a shelf lay her Bible and Prayer Book, with some other volumes. He dared not take them up to see what they were—they looked like collections of the Sagas. The bed was neatly made, and a knitted coverlet of many colours spread over.

He sat down on the other bed with a strange sense of being an intruder here. His thoughts were vague, but he was dimly conscious that the place was filled with the spirit and life of the girl herself. Here she lived; the little trifles in the room were things she daily touched.

The widow, entering behind him, invited him to sit on the other bed. He did so, feeling dazed, and seating himself uncomfortably on the very edge. The widow suggested that he need not be afraid of lying down if he were tired, but he declined the offer with some abruptness.

The woman sat knitting, and for a long time neither spoke, only glancing across at each other from time to time.

The widow was not altogether pleased with this visit. She was at a loss to think what Ørlygur à Borg could have to say to her daughter, but as he did not speak, she was not inclined to ask him. Also, she remembered her promise to Guest the One-eyed the day before.

They sat thus all day, exchanging only an occasional word. Once the widow went out and made some coffee, which they drank in silence.

At length she remarked:

“You are very patient to wait so long.”

“Yes,” he replied.

A little later she brought him some food and a drink of milk. She herself had eaten her meal in the larder, as was her wont. While he ate, she sat with her knitting, glancing at her guest now and again.

“Bagga must soon be here.”

Ørlygur nodded.

The widow pointed to the bookshelf. “You might take a book, if you care to, and pass the time. You must be tired of waiting.”

“I am not tired of waiting,” said Ørlygur.

Dusk was falling when Bagga at last returned. As soon as her mother heard her footsteps outside, she rose and left the room. Ørlygur remained seated. Something was about to happen—something wonderful, incredible, beyond his control. He was to see her—hear her voice, perhaps—even speak to her himself. He felt unable to move. The thing must happen. And then—what then?

The widow exchanged a hasty greeting with her daughter, and told her that one was waiting to speak with her.

Bagga was overcome with confusion, a wave of warmth swept through her body, and her hands grew moist.

“Me—to speak with me—who is it, then?”

“Go in and see.”

The widow disappeared into the kitchen.

Bagga could hardly find strength to walk the few steps through into the room. When at length she entered and saw Ørlygur standing there, she stood and stared at him without a word. Ørlygur, too, was unable to speak.

She offered her hand, and he took it, but the greeting was equally awkward on both sides. At last Ørlygur plucked up courage to speak:

“Will you have my lamb?” he asked. “I have brought it with me.”

The girl smiled, but did not look up. “Thank you,” she said simply.

For a long time they stood facing each other without a word, hardly daring to breathe. Ørlygur felt he had much to say, but could find no words. At last he offered his hand again.

“Good-bye,” he said.

She took it hesitatingly, but this time their clasp was one of lingering affection. They stood breathing heavily; then suddenly she leaned forward with her forehead against his shoulder; her hot cheek touched his. For a moment he pressed her to him, and passed his hand caressingly over her hair.

With a sigh she slipped from his arms, pressed his hand once more, and turned away. Then quietly Ørlygur left the room.

He went out of the house without taking leave of the widow. The latter, returning a little later to the room, asked if he had gone.

“Yes,” said the girl.

“What did he come for?”

“He gave me his lamb.”

“Nothing more?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause.

“Does he love you?”

Bagga turned her face away. “Yes,” she whispered.

“And you love him too?”

The girl burst into tears. “Yes, mother.”

The widow took her daughter in her arms. “God’s blessing, my child. No need to be sorry for that. By the look of him, he is not one to change.”

Guest the One-eyed felt both ill and tired when, after bidding farewell to Bagga, he limped up towards the farm.

An old man, evidently the master of the place, was busy with some men thatching a hayrick with slabs of turf. The turf lay rolled up and set in piles about on the ground, a couple of hundred rolls, perhaps, in all. It had been a laborious task to cut the pieces thin and even at the edge; the strips were about ten feet long. Two men were busy on the stack, preparing it for the roof, the highest point carefully set so as to give an even slope on all sides. Others were lifting the rolls, taking great care to avoid a break. The farmer himself did but little of the work, being chiefly occupied with looking on and giving orders.

The arrival of a stranger caused a momentary pause in the work. Those on the ground gathered round him, and the two men on the stack leaned over to see.

“Who are you?” asked the farmer curtly.

“A beggar,” answered the newcomer, seating himself on one of the rolls of turf.

“I thought as much,” grumbled the man. “Can’t you sit on the ground, instead of spoiling my turf?” And, turning angrily to the men, he shouted:

“Well, what is there to stare at? Get to your work.”

Guest the One-eyed sat down, and for a while was left to himself. A dog came trotting up, sniffed at him, and curled up dog-fashion at his feet, apparently satisfied of being in decent company.

At length the farmer turned to him again.

“Well, old Greybeard, what news from anywhere?”

“There’s little news I can tell.”

“I daresay. All you think of is the meals you get—in other folks’ kitchens.”

“There’s many things a man can think of. Will you give me shelter for the night?”

“I’ve no beds for lazy vagabonds. But you can sleep in the barn if you like, though I warn you it’s draughty. I take it you can do some tricks or tell a story or something in return?”

Guest the One-eyed smiled and, looking up at him, said:

“Have you ever heard the story of the rich man and Lazarus?”

The farmer turned pale with rage. “You cursed bundle of rags!” he shouted. “You dare ... I’ll have you taken up before the sheriff for begging if you don’t mind your words!”

The men looking on smiled. The local authority was Ormarr à Borg, and all knew there would be little gained by an angry man who came to him demanding the punishment of some poor wanderer for begging. It would, indeed, be about the best thing that could happen to the culprit himself.

“What is your name?” demanded the farmer, striding towards him with a threatening mien.

“I am called Guest the One-eyed,” answered the old man, with his quiet smile.

The farmer was taken aback. “Guest the One-eyed! Impossible. He never comes this way. Guest the One-eyed....”

He looked at the beggar again, shifted his feet, and stood in some confusion. “God’s blessing,” he stammered out at last. “Forgive me—I did not know. Come—come up to the house with me.”

And clumsily he helped the wanderer to rise; his hands were little used to helping others.

“Let me take your sack,” he said.

“Nay—a beggar carries his own,” answered Guest the One-eyed, and hoisted it on his back. Then suddenly he smiled and, swinging down the sack once more, handed it to the farmer, who took it as if it were a favour granted him.

Guest the One-eyed glanced at him mischievously.

“’Tis strange to see you with a beggar’s pouch. None would have thought you could ever come to that.”

The farmer cast a sidelong glance at his men, and was about to make an angry retort, but restrained himself and gave a forced laugh. Then he said:

“If I were to fill the sack with more than you could carry—what then?”

“Then I should let it lie.”

The farmer was evidently anxious to make much of his visitor; the latter, however, seemed to care little for his hospitality, and would not even accept the bed that was offered him. The farmer assured him that it was a bed reserved for personages of distinction; bishops and high officials had lain in it. But Guest the One-eyed preferred to sleep in the barn, and all that the farmer could do was to have the cracks in the walls stopped as far as possible, and a fresh layer of hay laid over the rotting stuff that strewed the floor.

Before retiring, the beggar brought up the subject of Sera Ketill.

“That scoundrel!” cried the farmer angrily. “Ay, a scoundrel he was.” And a murmur from those around showed that he had voiced the general feeling. “He duped them all. Not a man but was on his side. I remember him, and his lying sermons and his talk—and I was no wiser than the rest, to doubt my old friend. Ørlygur à Borg, he was a true man, and Sera Ketill that killed him—his own father.... I shan’t forget! And his poor wife, the Danish Lady at Hof—ruined for life. Twenty years now she’s lived at Borg, and never got back to sense nor wit. ’Tis a comfort to think he’ll suffer for it all, or there’s no justice in heaven. The Devil must have marked him from the first—and took and kept him, and best he should. If I met Sera Ketill at the gates of Paradise, I’d turn and go another way.”

And the farmer laughed, pleased with his own wit and confident of his own salvation.

Guest the One-eyed had listened with pale face to the outburst of hatred and scorn. At last he rose heavily to his feet and said:

“It is time a weary man went to his rest.”

The farmer went with him to the barn.

“If you will sleep here,” he said. “Though why you should, with a fine bed waiting, I can’t see.”

“’Tis best to seek a place that’s not above one’s deserts,” said the other mildly. And he added, “Though, for some, it may be hard to find.”

Left to himself, the wanderer lay staring into the darkness. And his lips moved in an inaudible prayer.

“My God, my God—if only I might dare to hope for forgiveness at the last; only one gleam of Thy mercy to lighten my heart. I am weighed down with the burden of my sin, and long has been my penance, but what is all against the evil I have done? Yet I thank Thee, Lord, that I alone am let to suffer; that Thy wrath has not been visited on that innocent child.”

During the night his fever increased. He could not sleep, and lay tossing uneasily from side to side, murmuring often to himself:

“Lord, I feel now that Death is near. Good that it comes at last, and yet I fear it. What will Death mean for me? Some hell more terrible than I have lived through all these years? Thy will be done! It will not be tonight, I think. Another day, and then ... Death.... Lord, Thy will be done!”

He lapsed into a state of drowsy helplessness, murmuring still to himself:

“Lord, Lord ... two children were granted me of Thy grace. And to the one was given Thy peace in death; the other has found happiness in life.... I thank Thee, Lord....”

He lay bathed in perspiration; dust and fragments of hay clung to his face and hands.

“Two Women ... Lord, forgive me.... Mercy, Lord....”

He flung himself over on his side and hid his face.

“Father, how often have I sinned against Thee! And knowing my sin, yet hardening my heart. Even then I suffered, but I would not heed, and persevered in sin. Forgive me, Lord.”

For a while he lay still, then turned again. He strove to raise himself, but his strength failed him, and, sinking back, he cried aloud:

“Forgive me, Lord—forgive me, Lord....”

His words were lost in the darkness, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

He woke some hours later, exhausted and parched with thirst. But he could not rise to seek for water, and at length he sank into a restless, feverish sleep.

Early next morning he was awakened by the entry of the farmer. At first he hardly realized where he was. He was ill, with a racking pain in his head. But he strove to appear as if nothing were amiss.

“Good morning,” said the farmer. “And how do you feel today? Was it very draughty up here?”

“Good morning. I have slept well, and I thank you.”

The farmer laughed at sight of his visitor’s face, which was plastered with scraps of hay. “You’ve enough hay about you to feed a sheep through the winter,” he said with a laugh.

Guest the One-eyed had risen. As he stepped out into the cold morning air, his teeth chattered audibly. “The sun is not up yet, it seems,” he murmured.

Never before had he so longed for the rising of the sun. He stood now staring towards the east; it seemed to him a miracle that he should be suffered to see the sun rise once more.

“The blessed sun,” he murmured to himself.

The sky showed a dull blue between hurrying banks of cloud. The farmer yawned, and observed carelessly, “It’s cold in the mornings now. Come in; there will be coffee ready soon.”

Guest the One-eyed went into the cowshed, washed himself at the drinking-trough, and dried his face and hands on his coat, the farmer watching him the while.

“You’re one for cleanliness, I see,” he said. “I never trouble to wash myself, these cold mornings.”

The wanderer produced a piece of comb, and tidied his hair and beard; it was a matter of some difficulty to get rid of the scraps of hay.

“Why not stay here for the day and have a good rest?” suggested the farmer. And with a sly glance he added: “I daresay we can afford to give you a bite of food.”

“I thank you. But I must go on.”

“Ay, there’s always haste with those that have nothing to do,” said the farmer, with a touch of malice.

He walked down a little way with his guest, some of the farm hands accompanying them. The wanderer bade farewell to each in turn, and all answered with a blessing. Then they turned back, the farmer alone going on a few steps more.

“Have you not some good word to leave with me?” he asked a little awkwardly.

Guest the One-eyed looked at the man from head to foot; the burly fellow stood as timidly before him as a child that had done wrong.

“It would be well if you were oftener to take the beggar’s bag upon your shoulders,” he said. And, having shaken hands in parting, he walked away.

“God be with you,” said the farmer, and stood for some moments watching the beggar as he limped along. For the first time in his life he began to feel that perhaps after all wealth and security were not the only things worth coveting. There were other things—other feelings than the sense of material gain or loss.

He walked back to the house somewhat humbled in mind, and, going into his room, sat down on the bed with his head bowed in his hands. For long hours he sat there, seemingly in thought. In the evening, he roused himself with a sigh, and went out to where the men were working. His tone seemed harsher than his wont as he ordered them about.

But Guest the One-eyed went on his way, shivering and muttering to himself:

“Haste—yes, for today. But tomorrow? Who knows? Who asks? What do we know of it all? Life ... and mortals playing at joy and sorrow; a little life ... a long life ... playing at life ... playing with others’ hearts and with our own. And thinking it all in earnest. And the end? The grave, the grave. Cold earth, dark earth, where the sun cannot reach, though its grace be spread all above. My God, my God, what are my thoughts? Not earnest? Is it not earnest, all our life? Lord, forgive me. Thoughts, thoughts that come and go—but not for long. Thoughts fearing to end, to die under the earth, and never reach to heaven. My soul—Lord God, where is my soul? Is there a soul that is mine? Lord, Lord, forgive me! This is the last day Thy grace allows me; the last day of life on earth, of life and the blessing of the sun for me; the last day granted me to feel joy in the light. Joy? But my days have been pain, pain. And yet there is joy.... The last day ... Lord, here am I, Thy servant. Let Thy wrath be turned away from me, O Lord, and see my heart that repents, repents. Forgive me, Lord....”

He crouched down beside a rock, and laid his head upon the stone.

“God in heaven, I can feel Thy presence. Or is it that God is far away? Is it mercy or God’s judgment that comes? Forgive me, Lord, if there can be forgiveness.... Thy will be done!”

He rose, and limped along his painful way.