Guest the One-Eyed

Guest the One-eyed wandered far that day. He felt that it was fated to be his last.

Fever burned in his veins; fever in his soul. It seemed a painful task to end this life. And he was tormented by dread lest his sufferings should after all not suffice to atone for his sin.

Sun and rain and hail took turns to follow him on this the hardest of all his wandering days. Clouds and sheets of hail passed before the face of the sun, making strange shadows on the hillsides, the contrast being more pronounced where dark stretches of lava and the lighter hue of cornfields alternated. One moment the sun’s rays warmed him, the next he was stung by the sudden lash of hailstones in his face. It was a day of contest between the powers of sun and shadow—a giant’s battle where summer and life were pitted against autumn and death. And the earth over which it raged was marked by each in turn.

His beggar’s staff changed constantly from a dry, gleaming white to a dripping grey. He swung it at each step, as it were a distorted extra limb. And the figure of the man standing against the changing background of the sky seemed hardly human; more like some fantastic creation of Nature herself.

And this man’s soul, maybe, was rugged and misshapen as his body. But the soul of a man is not so easy to see....

The first homestead he came to on this day’s march was a little place. A peasant and his wife came out to meet the stranger, the rest of their people following. They were at home today, by reason of the weather, and had, moreover, expected his arrival. All the district knew by now that Guest the One-eyed had come amongst them. The peasant and his household received him kindly, with many blessings. He felt their kindness without any need of words, and marked how they were glad to have him with them.

And talking with them, he spoke the name of Sera Ketill, once their priest, whom all remembered now with execration. Here, too, the tongues that had been ready with blessing for himself were quick to curse at the mention of that name; to their minds, Sera Ketill was a monster, a thing of dread. His very name made them shudder as if at the touch of some loathsome thing. He was a murderer, a hypocrite, and a cheat; they could not find in him the slightest link of charity and affection with his fellow-men. Even his death had been the act of a despicable creature, in that he had endeavoured to secure their regard by leaving all he had to the poor, and then flinging himself over the cliffs into the sea. This last was not even a fine thought of his own—a young poet had been the first to go that way, and by that very spot.

But the Devil had taken his body, and his soul, if any shred of soul he had, had doubtless gone with it. A thing of no use upon earth! He had not even had the courage to face the consequences of his acts. He was a stain upon mankind; in justice, he should have been burned at the stake before his soul went on its way to hell.

Guest the One-eyed listened pale as death to the bitter words. Strange, how a man’s character could thus outlive him in the memory of his fellows. Twenty years had not sufficed to bring oblivion for the wrongs this man had done. His body might have been reduced to ashes in a moment, but the fire of hate burned still about his memory.

The wanderer looked at the faces of those about him—faces that one moment shone with kindly pleasure and the next glowed fiercely with hate. He could not but smile, though his heart was heavy. Poor mortals, poor unseeing men, seeing good and evil as things absolute, unalterable.

But while his thoughts were busy, his soul cried all the time to God, praying forgiveness....

Thoughts within thoughts, and thoughts again.

For they were right, after all, these men. They themselves had the power of being good or evil, of loving or hating without reserve.

It was their hatred he was feeling now, fuel added to the furnace of his own remorse; he was passing through a purgatory of maledictions.

One moment he saw himself as Guest the One-eyed, beggar and wanderer—a figure clear enough. Then he was the doomed soul on the verge of death, doubting everything, doubting even his own doubt, torn asunder to his innermost being, a living cry of anguish seeking Heaven. And then, too, he was the penitent, believing and trusting in God—yet even so unable to wrench himself free from the spectres of doubt and mockery and scorn that clung to him.

Something prompted him to rise and speak to these his fellows gathered round him. There were many now; for folk had come from places near to see the man of whom they had heard so much. Yes, let them see him and judge him by what he had been and what he was now, and act as they were prompted to do. It was not enough that they received Guest the One-eyed with blessings, and cursed the name of Sera Ketill; he longed to bring both before them as one.

But the impulse reached no further than his thought.

As they cursed the man that he had been, he sat silent, with eyes cast down. He made no movement, only sighed. Then at last he rose, and stood a moment trying to collect his thoughts.

“I must go,” he said. “I have a long way before me today.”

And he bade farewell to each in turn, confused thoughts passing through his mind the while.

“They give me their hands—but I am stealing what they give. If they knew me, they would spit on me. Stone me, perhaps. Would they, I wonder—would they do so now? But I steal what they give because I need it; it is because I must. Soon my hand will be cold, and then my soul will have no link with any other soul—no way to feel their love and innocent kindness. Yes, I must let them give me their hands—as many as I can. And after that, the grave. Lord, remember that this is my last day ... the very last. But I will be patient ... Lord, Thy will be done!”

And he went on his way, with blessings from all. The people stood silently watching him as he went; their hearts had been moved beyond their daily wont by the sight of this unhappy wanderer, and their thoughts followed him now in sympathy along his sorrowful way.

The wanderer’s heart was suffering more than all. His soul ached with loneliness—he felt as if already he were confined within the cold walls of the grave. It seemed a marvel to him that he could endure this and live.

On and on he went, thinking—thinking....

“If no man can forgive me, if no human heart can realize my atonement, can then God ever forgive? The blessings they have given me—can they ever outweigh the curses that were meant for me as well? Lord, if only one might cross my path to know me, and forgive. One who could take my hand and know and pardon all.... Lord, Thy will be done....”

He was taking the road towards the trading station. On the way he entered a house here and there, and was greeted kindly as ever. But at the mention of Sera Ketill’s name, all who heard it had but curses; eyes that had looked on him in kindliness lit now with hatred of the man he named.

“I have done more evil even than I thought,” he muttered to himself as he went on his way, refusing those who would have shared the road. “To have planted so much hatred in all their hearts; to be the cause of all those evil thoughts beyond my own; things grown in the dark from evil seed of my sowing. Lord, who shall ever tear them up and destroy them that they may not rise again? Lord, can it be that the fruits of sin never cease, when good comes to an end at last? Lord, Lord, now I see the greatness of my sin—more than I had dreamed. And now I am come to the verge of death and have no strength even to suffer more. Only Thy mercy, Lord—grant me Thy mercy, that hast denied me the forgiveness of men.”

The trading station had grown considerably in the twenty years that had passed. There were many new houses in the place. And the wanderer looked in vain for the turf huts that had formed the outskirts of the settlement when he knew it. They were gone, and modern buildings stood where they had been.

He limped from door to door, bearing with him each time blessings for Guest the One-eyed and curses for the name of Sera Ketill. At the last house, he asked:

“Where do the poor live now?”

There was still a glimmer of hope in his heart that there, among the poorest, he might find one single heart to bless Ketill the priest for what he had given.

“There are no poor here now,” was the reply.

“Are all in Hofsfjordur grown rich?”

“There is a poor widow living out at Bolli, a lonely place at the foot of the hills. But ’tis her own fault that she lives as poorly as she does. She might have taken the help that was offered her. But it was the Devil Priest’s money, and she would not take it.”

“The Devil Priest?”

“Sera Ketill was his name. But we call him the Devil Priest.”

“Good-bye,” said Guest the One-eyed.

“Peace go with you.”

On his way out from the trading station, he passed by a shed from which came the sound of voices within. The door stood half-open, and, looking in, he saw in the half-dark four strange figures—three men and a woman, ragged and wild-looking; evidently these were vagabonds like himself.

The woman was shouting a ribald song; one of the men sat crouched on the floor rocking with laughter. The other two men were fighting, the stronger chuckling at each successful blow, while the other fought in silence, waiting his chance.

The man on the floor called out to the others with an oath to come and listen. “Give over, you fools, and come and hear. ’Tis a new song—one of Gudda’s best. Ay, Gudda, she can make a song, if she’s not as young as she used to be....” And he came shambling over towards them.

He was a tall fellow, bigger than either of his two companions, still young, with reddish-yellow hair and a pasty face. The two sprang away as he came up.

“Mind your own business, Luse-Grimur!” cried the one nearest. This was a dark man of slender build, known as the Bishop, from a way he had of mimicking the tones of a priest, and repeating fragments of an indecent parody of the marriage service whenever a couple came together. “Keep away, and don’t bring your lice near me.”

“You’ll have my hands nearer than you care for in a minute,” answered Grimur, with a leer. “Go on, Gudda.”

Gudda was known for her talent in making songs. She was a powerfully built woman getting on in years, with a coarse voice in keeping with her coarse face and heavy build. Her skirt reached hardly below her knees, showing a pair of muscular legs; her stockings were of rough material, and clumsily darned. One redeeming feature she had—her large blue eyes. Children feared her until she looked them full in the face, when the glance of her eyes seemed to draw them to her.

She was one of the few women vagabonds in the country, and was known far and wide for her vulgar songs.

Looking towards the door, she caught sight of the stranger, and called to him to come in. Guest the One-eyed limped over to the group.

“God’s peace,” he said as he entered.

“God’s peace with you,” returned the others, somewhat abashed.

Suddenly the youngest of the party stepped forward. This was Jon Gislason, a short, thick-set fellow who had some claim to good repute, being known to work at times, and trusted to carry letters and parcels from place to place. He strode up to the newcomer, and looked him in the face.

“He’s one of our sort,” he said. “It is Guest the One-eyed.”

There was a shout of welcome at this, and Grimur took out a flask from his pocket.

“Best corn brandy,” he declared, handing the bottle to Guest. “Good stuff, you can take my word for it.” Then, in a slightly altered tone, he went on: “I daresay, now, you think us rather a rough lot, you being more gentle like. But it’s just our way. Rap out an oath without thinking like.”

“’Tis not such words that do the worst of harm,” said Guest the One-eyed. And he took a sip from the flask.

Then with a grimace he spat it out. “I thought it might do me good,” he said. “But I can’t swallow it, all the same.”

“Oh, you swine!” shouted Grimur as he saw the precious liquid wasted. “There, I’m sorry,” he went on. “That’s no way to speak to a godly man. But the stuff’s too good to waste. Leastways, to my thinking.”

Guest the One-eyed offered his hand.

“No harm, brother,” he said. “Each to his own ways.”

“‘Brother,’” repeated Grimur thickly. “Calls me brother—shakes hands. Nobody ever called me brother before. My own folk won’t touch me, call me Luse-Grimur, and keep far out of reach of vermin. Ay, it’s true enough what they say of you, Guest One-eyed. God’s blessing, man.”

“We’ll have Grimur drowning his lice in floods of tears,” grumbled the Bishop. “See them swimming around and saying their prayers, Amen!”

“You, Bishop,” said Grimur warningly—“well for you this good man’s here. If it weren’t for him, I’d send you swimming and saying your prayers in earnest for less than you’ve said.”

“Filthy beast,” said Gudda scornfully, and spat at the Bishop, who only laughed.

Guest the One-eyed turned to him with a keen glance.

“Have you ever thought,” he said quietly, “that one day must be your last—that your tongue may be silent for ever after any word you have spoken?”

“Ho, yes. And I’ve got it all ready what I’m going to say. When I get to the Gates of Heaven—if the Devil hasn’t pinched my soul all hot on the way—I’ll say to the Lord: ‘Here you are; Behold the Son of Man!’ That’s my words.”

“You also are my brother,” said Guest the One-eyed. And he held out his hand.

The Bishop spat in it.

Guest the One-eyed stood silent gazing at his extended hand. Then he sat down and sobbed.

The Bishop’s laugh of derision died away. He stood for a moment breathing heavily, then slunk out of the shed and went away.

The other three stood silently watching, afraid to look at each other, uncertain what to do.

After a little Guest the One-eyed regained his self-control, and, looking up at them, he said quietly:

“Friends, do not hate him; believe that he is not worse than others. Only, the way to his heart is longer and harder to find.”

“I have far to go,” he said, after a pause. “Good-bye.”

“God’s blessing,” murmured the others as he left.

He stood for a moment outside the shed, uncertain which way to turn. He would have liked to go to Hof, to the vicarage on the other side of the fjord, but it was too far to walk. This was his last day, and already a good part of it was gone, though he had lost no time.

He hobbled down to the beach to see if there might chance to be a boat going across. Just as he neared the slope, he perceived a little group of people gathered round something he could not see. Close by, a small rowing-boat was drawn up on the sand. Going closer, he saw a man bending over a heap of clothes. Presently the man rose up, and said:

“He is dead.”

Those near bared their heads and made the sign of the cross.

Guest the One-eyed needed but a glance at the ragged heap to recognize it—it was the body of the Bishop.

“And only a moment since I was with him,” he said.

“We were too late,” said a fisherman. “Saw him throw himself into the sea, and hurried after. But he held on to some weed down below—look, there’s some of it in his hand still.”

And, true enough, the dead hand clutched a tangle of weed.

“So he is gone already to stand before the Lord,” he murmured. “Poor soul—God grant him peace.” And he made the sign of the cross above the body.

The men were running the boat out. He went up to them and asked:

“Are there many going across?”

“Only myself,” answered a young man. “I am working at the vicarage, and going back there now.”

“Will you take me with you to the other side of the fjord?”

“Gladly,” answered the young man, and flushed with pleasure.

The day was fine now, but clouds were racing across the sky. Rain and hail had ceased, only the shadows of the clouds darkened the water as they passed.

Guest the One-eyed sat still, gazing around him as the boat shot out into the fjord. His eyes took in the landscape; there, nestling in the valley, lay the homestead of Borg.

The sight of it moved him; this was the place that had been his home. Strange to think of it now. There his infant limbs had learned to walk, and thither he turned now, for the last steps on his road of life.

He was roused from his meditations by the youth, who nodded over towards a steep cliff rising from the water.

“That was where Sera Ketill killed himself,” he said. “You’ve heard of Sera Ketill?”

“Yes. I knew him. Better, perhaps, than many did.”

“A monster of wickedness he must have been,” said the young man, as if inviting the other to tell what he knew.

For the moment, Guest the One-eyed was dull to the pain which condemnation of Sera Ketill usually caused him. He was about to answer absently, “Judge not ...” but checked himself and sat gazing vacantly across the water.

“I never thought to sail on the sea again,” he said, as if to himself.

“Again?”

“Yes. I have sailed far in my time, and seen many lands.”

The young man seemed to take this as a jest.

“You mean in thought, I take it?” he suggested.

Guest the One-eyed looked at him. “You are not without sense,” he remarked. “Do you travel in thought yourself?”

The young man laughed, and shook his head. “Not much. But I am going to America this winter.”

“Do not do that,” said the other quietly.

“Why not? There is good money to be made there.”

“True. But it is easiest to die in the place where one was born.”

“I have not thought of dying just yet.”

“Maybe not. But life leads only to death. Death is the only thing we can be certain of gaining; perhaps the only gain.”

“I had heard that Guest the One-eyed preached the Gospel of Life,” said the young man seriously.

“And you are disappointed to find that Guest the One-eyed is only human after all?”

The young man did not reply, and they went on in silence. They were more than half-way across the fjord by now. Guest the One-eyed sat thinking of the strange currents beneath the smooth surface, and the marvels of life in the hidden depths. All seemed incomprehensible; the sea, the life of man—they were much alike. Human existence was merciless, restless, as the restless tossing of the waves.

It was a relief to step out of the boat and tread good earth again; for a moment his mission was forgotten.

But the sight of the churchyard brought it once more to his mind. He passed through the gateway. The church was new—a more imposing edifice than the old one. Bright in colour, and clean and pleasant in appearance—as he looked, memories of the old, dark, forbidding little place rose to his mind.

At the entrance door the old stone steps remained. He knelt down upon them, and pressed his forehead against the stone. Then he rose, and went to the burial-place of Borg. He found the stone he was seeking, and laid himself down beside it in silent prayer.

When at last he rose, he was so weak that he could hardly drag himself along. He would not enter the vicarage, however, though he needed rest and food. Passing on, he took a narrow, unfrequented path down towards the valley.

The man who had rowed him over had at once told the household that Guest the One-eyed was come, and had gone into the churchyard. Soon, as he did not appear, they went out to look for him, searching in every corner where a man might be. But Guest the One-eyed was nowhere to be seen.

Keeping to the side track for some time, Guest the One-eyed made his way down from the vicarage lands unobserved, but soon turned off across the hills towards the main road. Step by step he dragged himself towards his home, shivering in fever, weary and exhausted, leaving the rest to God.

The journey must be made; this road he must travel to the end, no matter what greeting he might find. Curses only, it might be; a death without a single kindly word. But his way to death lay through Borg—and he was nearing the end of it now.

Home to Borg! home to Borg! home to Borg! The words beat in his blood like a promise of release, his heart sobbed with joy, and a new hope filled him, driving all doubt away. Peace and forgiveness were near.

Home to Borg! home to Borg! home to Borg! All was brighter now; a childlike happiness came over him. He had sinned and fled, fearing his punishment; now he was returning home to be forgiven.

He made such speed as he could, despite his waning strength. Homeward! homeward!

Rain and hail began to fall once more, but he did not heed. His mind was full of the thought that he was nearing a kindly end, a peaceful passing into eternal rest.

Home to Borg! home to Borg! home to Borg!

His feet stepped in time to the ring of the words, that sounded like sweetest music in the ears of the wearied pilgrim. Never before had there been such a welcome message for any on earth. Only a bruised and tortured soul could feel the joy of it: home to Borg! home to Borg!

Great is the glory of the sun that brings delight, of the spring that fills the world with sweetness, but nothing to the wonder of returning home after years of struggle, years of suffering in body and soul, to die among those one loves, those who will forgive.

Home to Borg! home to Borg! home to Borg!

... Only the stream to cross now ... only the little slope to climb ... only a few steps more....

The household at Borg were all within doors. There was no working outside on such a day. The sheep had to be looked to now and again. During the storms they took shelter where they could, but these once past, they scattered about to graze once more.

Ormarr had set his men to work repairing stables and cowsheds, taking a part himself in what had to be done. But there was no such pressing haste; the hands went to their work with gossiping and laughter, telling stories of all sorts, from gruesome ghost-tales to amusing anecdotes from near and far. There was hardly work enough for all. And the wild weather out of doors made it more cheerful to be within.

Ormarr and Ørlygur took no part in the general gaiety. It was not their way to be gloomy, but no one seemed to notice that today they kept, as it were, somewhat aloof. The masters might well have something that occupied their minds, for the moment, as might any one else. And no one thought anything of their silence, least of all attempting to intrude on their reserve.

As a matter of fact, neither Ormarr nor Ørlygur was in the slightest degree depressed, but each had that in his mind which claimed his attention beyond all else.

Ørlygur could not forget his visit to Bolli the day before. Time and again the various impressions of what had passed recurred to his mind—how he had sat waiting, how clean and tidy everything had been in the place. And the girl—every single movement of hers was fixed in his memory, even to the ever-restless little finger of her left hand. He repeated over and over again the words he had heard her speak; even the intonation was still fresh in his mind.

So deeply was he occupied with these recollections that he found little thought for Guest the One-eyed, and yet he longed to see the old man again. He felt an ever-increasing desire to talk with him, and, in particular, to learn from a reliable source whether his father had really been so evil a man as was generally declared to be the case. Possibly Guest the One-eyed might be able to recount something at least to the credit of the former priest. Had there been anything good in him, Guest the One-eyed would surely have found it. And Ørlygur earnestly hoped that his father might prove to have been not altogether bad.

Ormarr was thinking of a dream he had had the night before. It was hardly any connected dream, only a sudden vision that had come while he slept. He had seen his father and Sera Ketill standing hand in hand at the foot of his bed. That was all. But Ormarr could not get the vision out of his mind, and was superstitious enough to attach some importance to it. The more he thought of it, the more he felt sure it must mean something—what, he could not say.

Was it that his father had wished to declare to him that he had forgiven Ketill, and no longer desired any feeling of enmity to exist between the brothers? It seemed the most reasonable explanation.

But how could his father ever expect him to forgive Ketill, after he had witnessed the terrible scene in the church, and all it had cost? Not only the life it had taken; there was also the tragedy of the poor woman who had dragged through twenty years of life a mental wreck. Ormarr had seen his brother denounce their father from the pulpit for the sin he, Ketill, had committed; the consequences of that sin had been left to Ormarr to mitigate as far as he could.

Ormarr himself had only known his brother as a boy. All the time he had been abroad they had never met, until the time when Ketill appeared in Copenhagen about to enter on his priesthood. And on that occasion, despite the claims of relationship, Ormarr had found it impossible to feel any real liking for him. Now, knowing as he did that even at that time the avowed servant of God had a sin upon his conscience of which he showed no sign, it was impossible to feel any regard for him. Since then they had had no intercourse with each other, and it had never occurred to Ormarr that Ketill could ever feel himself unfairly treated in the apportionment either of material inheritance or of affection. Ormarr had never sought to probe the workings of his brother’s mind, and had no idea of the way he schemed and wrought in secret. He had seen only the outward effect of action, knowing nothing of the inner cause, and all that he had seen had been evil. So evil, indeed, had Sera Ketill’s actions been that they seemed to justify the name that had been given him—the Devil’s Priest.

No. He searched his mind and heart, but could not find a single spark of kindly feeling towards his brother, much less affection. No matter how hard he tried to be impartial, he was forced to admit that the expression even of any other feeling than that of hatred would be falsehood. It was easy to say, “Forgive the dead,” but—he still hated his brother and loathed his memory. The man was dead, and had already heard his judgment pronounced. Ormarr himself might die, but he felt that even on the point of death he could not feel otherwise than he did now.

Ketill had been evil all through; no act had been so mean but he could stoop to it, no redeeming feature could be found in all his doings. He had violated all the laws of love and kinship, and trampled all that was sacred underfoot. Lying and fraud had been his chosen weapons, and his methods were as foul as his soul. Forgive him? No—it was all beyond forgiveness.

To forgive him would be almost like becoming himself an accomplice in his brother’s evil deeds; his soul would be tarnished by the mere toleration of such a memory.

The Devil’s Priest had been his brother, blood of his parents’ blood; it did not help him. It was impossible to forgive. It seemed natural and inevitable as the breath of life to curse him, hate him, and condemn him.

Even his death had been that of a coward—a fitting end. And the last attempt to win the hearts of the people after death by leaving his fortune to the poor—that, too, was a meanness entirely in keeping with the rest. It had gained him nothing, after all, for the poor accepted his gifts, but reserved the right to curse him, all the same.

No—even though his father took Ketill by the hand, and led him forward to ask his brother’s pardon, though the vision were to come a hundred times, night after night for the rest of his life—he could not forgive him.

Thus Ormarr thought, and his heart grew ever harder towards his brother. Later in the day, passing by Alma’s window, he saw her sitting there, with eyes staring emptily out into space. And his indignation rose anew; he muttered between his teeth a curse on the name of the Devil’s Priest.

The household were sitting down to the evening meal when Guest the One-eyed came crawling on hands and knees up the slope towards the house. Ørlygur, seeking solitude for the enjoyment of his thoughts and dreams, was the only one out of doors; he at once noticed the approaching figure, and hurried towards him, heartily glad at the meeting. He no longer felt awkward or shy, but promptly seized the beggar’s sack to carry up to the house himself.

“I am glad you have come,” he said, shaking hands warmly.

The old man stood up with difficulty; his legs were tottering under him. He looked earnestly at the young man with his solitary eye, evidently noting with satisfaction the unfeigned pleasure in his face.

His brain throbbed still to the words: Home to Borg! home to Borg! And he returned the young man’s greeting in a voice hardly audible.

He had come home—and his son was glad to see him.

Then suddenly he realized that his son did not know him, and the thought dashed his gladness to the ground in a violent reaction.

Ørlygur took him by the arm, and led him through to the courtyard. They had nearly reached the house when Alma came out, leaning on old Kata’s arm. Kata had seen him coming, and had brought her mistress out to meet him.

At sight of the two women, Guest the One-eyed all but fell. With an effort, Ørlygur led him to the big slab of stone that stood in the middle of the courtyard and could be used as a seat. The old man sank down on it, covering his face with his hands.

Ørlygur, alarmed at the old man’s evident illness, hurried into the house to call his father.

Kata was in high spirits, and talked volubly to her mistress.

“I knew he would come; it was to be. Not a doubt of it but God has brought him here, at the end of his wanderings. Truly God is Almighty.”

But the beggar sat on his stone, sobbing and murmuring brokenly:

“My God! my God!—this is my doing; I have put out the light of her soul. Those empty eyes! O God, a dreadful thing! And Thou hast willed it so, that I should see and understand there could be no forgiveness, for all my prayers no mercy.... Lord, Thy will be done!”

The two women came up to him; he raised his head and looked at them, with fear in his eyes.

The Danish Lady came nearer, and stroked his hair.

But old Kata took his hand, and said:

“Welcome now! God has forgiven you.”

The man sat still, with a face of despair, the tears pouring down his cheeks.

“God can never forgive me,” he said.

“He can,” said old Kata earnestly. “God can forgive all sins of all mankind. And you have borne His punishment with patience.”

“I have borne His punishment, yes. And now there is only death.”

The old woman’s wrinkled face lit with a smile.

“Be glad of that,” she said.

Guest the One-eyed sat drinking in the peace that flowed to him through the gentle touch of Alma’s fingers as they stroked his hair. Old Kata watched him, and understood.

“See,” she said, “she does not know—and yet she knows enough. That is her way with all who she feels are good at heart and suffering. No other would she touch. And never has she come to any with such tenderness as now. Heaven bless her.”

“Heaven bless her,” repeated the broken man.

Just at that moment Ormarr came out from the house, Ørlygur close behind him. The boy had whispered to his father that Guest the One-eyed had come, and was evidently ill. Ormarr had risen immediately and came striding out now with a friendly smile on his face.

The beggar rose to his feet, looked him in the face, and bowed his head. Ormarr stood rooted to the spot, and deathly pale. This old man, this wandering beggar, was his brother, the one-time priest—the Devil’s Priest. And in a moment all the stories he had heard of him passed through Ormarr’s mind—his wisdom, his unselfishness, his generosity and self-sacrifice. Ormarr saw the depth of his misery, how deeply he was crushed and humbled, body and soul. And he had seen Alma caressing him, thus placing him at once among the “good.” And this living witness to Life’s vengeance upon sin, with its merciless humiliation, wiped away all hatred from his heart. But a moment ago he had hated his brother; now all was changed. Ormarr sought down into the depths of his heart to see if any vestige of hate remained, but found none; all unkindliness was gone, and only pity and sympathy remained—yes, and love. Once more the vision of the night before rose to his eyes.

Swiftly he stepped towards the pitiful figure and raised him up; the two stood sobbing in each other’s arms. Two sufferers under the heavy yoke of life; two creatures with whom life had played its pitiless game of love and hate; two brothers in strife and sorrow.

And when they had stood thus awhile, Ormarr kissed his brother and stroked his cheek, and said:

“Welcome home, brother.”

And Ketill answered: “God bless you, Ormarr. I have come from our father’s grave, and I felt in my heart that you would forgive me.”

Ørlygur had been watching the scene with deep emotion. At first he saw in it nothing but an unusually hearty welcome on the part of Ormarr towards a wandering beggar. But gradually it became clear to him that it was more than this, and as their words revealed the truth, he stood half wondering if it could be real.

Then Ormarr turned to him and said:

“Ørlygur, it is your father.”

For a moment the young man stood still, his face twitching in the effort to control his feelings. Then he gave up and, sobbing openly, embraced the old man in his turn.

Here was a new joy, a thing undreamed of. From childhood he had believed his father dead, and in death remembered only with execration by all who had known him. And here was his father alive, a man whom all who knew him blessed. No longer any need to ask if it were not possible to find some little good in all his father’s deeds; Guest the One-eyed was a man whose good deeds were told on every side. This was his father; one whom the whole country blessed and revered for his Christian spirit and unselfish life. A man who left with all some kindly memory of every meeting; one who knew better than all his fellows how to bring out the good in every man. However terribly he might have sinned, it had been more than atoned for in those twenty years of humility and self-sacrifice. Surely the life of Guest the One-eyed was enough to expiate all.

So Ørlygur thought, as he wept in his father’s arms, and his heart trembled to think how wonderful were the ways of life.

Suddenly the old man shivered and sank down, unable to stand. They helped him to a seat on the stone, supporting him tenderly. His body shook with a convulsive fit of coughing; his mouth filled with blood, and he smiled as he saw what it was.

Ormarr and Ørlygur carried him into the house, Kata and Alma following behind.

As soon as they had laid him on the bed, Ormarr left the room, saying he would return directly.

He went into the large dining-room, where his wife was still busy with supper for the workers. A girl who was helping her left the room as he entered; Ormarr closed the door behind her.

Runa glanced at him, laid down the things she was holding, and sat down on a chest.

“What is it, Ormarr?” she asked in a low, anxious voice.

Ormarr opened his lips to speak, but could not. He took her hand and sat stroking her hair.

“This,” he said at last. “Guest the One-eyed has come. And he is ill—very ill—I fear he is dying.”

“Dying—oh, what can we do? What is it? Can we get a doctor to help?”

Runa had risen to her feet as she spoke, but something in Ormarr’s look checked her, and she sat down again.

Ormarr’s voice was hardly recognizable as he went on:

“There is more. Guest the One-eyed is ... is my brother ... Ketill....”

“Ketill! Alive?”

Ormarr was silent.

“He lives,” said Runa, as if to herself. “Thank God—thank God for that!”

“You—you are glad of that,” said Ormarr eagerly. Then he turned away. “He is here,” he went on, “and dying. I have forgiven him—and Alma ... she was stroking his hair....”

“Alma?” repeated Runa, deeply moved. “Oh ... and that is Guest the One-eyed. No wonder that he never came here before.”

Ormarr sat down beside his wife, then rose again. “Shall we ... will you come and see him?” he said. “We have put him to bed in the little room.”

“Yes,” said Runa. “Do you think he will die?”

“I am afraid so.”

“If only death may bring him peace. It has been a weary way for him.”

They entered the room together. Ketill lay very still, and the others were careful not to disturb him. He opened his eyes as they approached, and at sight of Runa he covered his face with his hands.

She bent over him, and kissed his forehead gently. Then, sitting down at the bedside, she said in a calm, soft voice:

“Look at me, Ketill.”

She laid her hands on his and said again:

“Look at me, Ketill. It is all forgiven.”

But he kept his face turned from her, and only muttered, sadly:

“How could you ever forgive me?”

“Look at me, Ketill, and see.”

And he looked up into her eyes.

“It is true,” he said. “Love—only love and kindness there. You have forgiven me—thank you for that, Runa. Heaven bless you.”

He lay still for a while, and his breathing seemed easier. Then suddenly he raised his head and looked round.

“Nothing left now but to die,” he said. “I can see it is getting dark already. Let me see it to the end—the end of the day; the twilight and dear faces round me. I shall not see tomorrow.”

“Do not talk,” said Runa gently. “Do not tire yourself.”

“Let me talk,” he answered, with a smile. “My tongue will not have long to talk at all; it will last me the little that is left. Perhaps it might speak some little word that would live in memory—if only that might be. My friends, do not think I fear to die—that I would put it off a single second if I could. It would be good to live with you, but there is more than that to think of. Only death can make atonement complete—and blessed be death for that it does. Forgive me for my words—I would not hurt you, any one, or make light of your goodness—you, who have forgiven me. But it is true that only death can give me peace and forgiveness of all.”

He looked from one to another of those standing round.

“Friends—beautiful faces,” he went on. “And I can see the souls of all through your eyes, and all your thoughts. My heart bleeds for all the pain and sorrowing that I who was Sera Ketill left to you. Even you, my son, young as you are, have found suffering already in life. Shall I tell you what I read in your eyes now? Sorrow—sorrow that you cannot feel all regret now that your father is to die. Do not grieve that I tell you, Ørlygur; your thoughts are the clean, good thoughts of a child, and I love them. There is more in your mind too. I know what it means to you to learn now that your father did not die as you thought—a suicide. But Sera Ketill died then, only a Guest on earth remained behind. And there is one thing more, that you yourself perhaps would not have said before so many—you are thinking of the girl you have chosen, and how she, too, will be glad to hear what you have learned today. Come here to me, Ørlygur, and take my blessing.”

Ørlygur rose, and the tears he had been trying bravely to repress flowed freely now. He fell on his knees beside the bed, and hid his face in the coverlet. The old man laid his hand on his son’s head.

“Best that it should be said,” he went on. “And you may be glad of your choice. Her heart is pure, as yours is. And she will be faithful—as you. Clean and pure in heart....”

He broke off, weeping.

“Clean and pure in heart,” he murmured brokenly. “Oh, that I had been so ... that I had been....”

His voice was lost, and for some time he could not speak. Then with an effort he controlled himself, and spoke again:

“Nothing done can be undone. By the grace of God it may seem that wrong has been atoned for and forgiven. I do not know whether I have atoned for my sins, or whether they can ever be wiped out. Ormarr, you are wondering yourself now how it can be that the hatred of me that still glowed for a moment in your eyes when you found me before has vanished so suddenly. Shall I tell you why it was? It was because you saw and understood how I had suffered—suffered the pains of hell, more than a man can bear. And because you had suffered too. In suffering all hearts meet; more than all, when death and the ties of blood are there to help. And you, Runa, you are thanking God that I am still alive, and that I have suffered as I have. Never a doubt in your heart but that God has forgiven me. And so you, too, have forgiven. Kata, you and I can read each other’s thoughts; our thoughts are one. And though you know it before I speak, let me say it; it is you I have to thank most of all.”

He was silent for a moment, turned over on his side, and went on:

“At the moment when it was in my mind to throw myself into the sea—I had thought to drown myself in my despair—I remembered you. I had often thought of you, and guessed something of the sorrow at your heart, though you never let it be seen. I knew your story—knew that one had deceived you, and that you could not forget. I saw how you went about as a blessing to others, though you suffered more than all the rest. And it seemed to me that perhaps your life was, after all, the greatest thing—greater than all else, to put self aside and live for others. And it was then I felt the desire to try if I could not wipe away my sin—try to spread blessings around me instead of despair. And so I fled away to a distant part, hiding at night and travelling by day. ‘Guest’ I called myself, and was the poorest of men, a beggar, a wanderer, living by the grace of God and man, eating with the dogs, and sleeping at night in barns or sheds among the cattle. And I had not wandered long before I found enough for me to do. Wherever I came, I found strife and malice and envy and misunderstanding among those who should have lived together in love. And I took upon me to work for reconciliation between my fellow-men—with one another, and with life and death. For men forget that life is but a speck in the vastness of space without end; that life comes from death and moves towards death in a narrow circle. And so they fight to the death, and seek to wound their fellows, ay, and strew poison in their wounds, forgetting that every hurt a man deals his fellow burns deepest in his own heart. With hands thirsting for blood and souls afire with hate they fight one against another—as they had fought for generations. And the priests—the servants of God? Why do they not go out among the people, speaking to each, and trying to link the souls of all together in brotherly love? Instead of standing up like idols aloof in their pulpits, and delivering the word of God as an oracle. That is the only priesthood that is worthy of its name, the only way to show forth God’s word so that it shall be felt and understood and live in the soul itself. I could have won many a man to leave his home and follow me—to leave his father and mother, his wife, and go with me. But how many are ripe for such a task? And it was not for that I had set out upon my way.”

The fever increased. He lay bathed in perspiration, and his eyes glittered more brightly than before. The others gathered closer round him, trying to calm him, begging him not to tire himself with talking, but he went on:

“And now that I am to go, my greatest sorrow is that there is none to take up my poor work. For what is the work of one man? Oh, if there were enough; if there were many who could understand that the greatest of all is to put aside self and bring peace on earth. That the greatest joy of all is to be a poor man, going from place to place and showing others the way to free their hearts from the yoke of worldly things. But the priests—they have taken office and would keep it; they are paid for their work in money, and grasp at it; they seek a higher and a higher place in worldly things, for their heart is set on worldly gain—not with their people, not with their God. It is much to ask. I know—too much to ask of any in these days. But it is because none will give it that hatred and dissension live and grow. I do not know—forgive me that I say this—I do not know if there is any God, but I believe and hope it. If I should say I know, it would be a lie. But I do know that there is more happiness in peace than in a divided mind. I know that enmity makes the heart evil, and that friendship makes it good. And I know that our life is made richer by love and goodness; easier to bear, more natural. Where all is hatred and strife, who can find any meaning in life at all? The only thing that helps us to understand life at all is our own striving for the best in it.”

The room grew darker. As the sick man spoke his last words, the daylight faded.

“Light,” he said. “The darkness will be long enough when it comes.”

A candle was lighted and placed beside the bed. Silence filled the room, broken only by the old man’s heavy breathing. Those around him were busy each with his own thoughts. Alma sat on the sofa, and had apparently lapsed into her usual state of semi-consciousness, from which the arrival of the wanderer had roused her for a moment. It grew dark and the light was lit, but she did not heed.

Suddenly the old man whispered faintly:

“Help me off with my clothes.”

Runa and Ormarr did so; tears came to their eyes at the sight of his miserable rags. Ørlygur sat apart, his face swollen with weeping. Ketill smiled as the cold sheets touched his body.

Suddenly his expression changed to one of earnest thought. And after a little while he asked:

“If—if Alma would come and sit beside me here.”

The Danish Lady roused herself a little as they helped her to the bedside; she took the sick man’s hands in hers and stroked them. Then after a little while she sank back into helplessness again.

Ketill lay with a smile on his face. Once he tried to lift his head, but could not.

“Only a little while now,” he said. Then, glancing towards old Kata, he went on:

“Lay her hands on my lips, that I may kiss them.”

Kata did so.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, as he kissed the limp hands of her who had been his wife. “And good-bye for a little while.”

“It is time now,” he said faintly—“time to say good-bye to all.”

One after another bent over him, kissed his forehead, and received the touch of his lips.

Ørlygur came last. He threw himself down sobbing on the bed.

“My son—my son,” the old man whispered. Then his face seemed to harden, and he lay as if unconscious. After a while he looked up again, and seemed trying to speak. Faintly at first, then in a stronger voice, he spoke once more:

“God—God—my God!...”

His hands twitched feebly.

“Are you still there? Have they all gone?”

His hands dropped limply to his sides. Those near him touched his fingers, but could not speak.

“I can feel you are with me still. But I cannot move my hands. Is this death?”

He breathed with difficulty.

Suddenly, with his old, powerful voice, he cried aloud:

“Alma, Alma!”

He raised himself up in bed and then fell back. Guest the One-eyed—a Guest on earth for twenty weary years—was no more. And Sera Ketill, priest, had won the peace he sought.

Those who watched and understood had eyes only for the man there on the bed. None noticed the Danish Lady.

When her name was called, Alma clutched at her heart. Now she sat still, looking vaguely round. Then, rising, she asked in a new voice that made the others start.

“Where am I?”

And, flushing slightly, she went on:

“That was Ketill’s voice.”

She pressed her hands to her breast once more, and sank down. Her heart had ceased to beat.

Her sudden, unexpected death came with a shock to the others, and they stopped weeping. For a moment all stood as if turned to stone.

Then they lifted her up and laid her on the bed beside her husband. And all knelt beside the bed in silent prayer.

The candle flickered in the dark, throwing a restless gleam on the pale faces of the dead. The darkness seemed creeping in to cover them.

For a little all was deathly still.

Then old Kata rose and opened a window—“to let the souls pass out.” And, going over to the others, she knelt with them beside the bed.

But the light went out in the draught, and darkness closed about the living and the dead.