Guest the One-Eyed

A pale face showed behind a window in a dimly lighted room. The features were young, but sharply marked, and the eyes had a strange, far-away look. It was as if they were peering into life from within the portals of death, or as if searching into the great unknown, striving to fathom the hereafter, longing for peace, praying for peace, yet finding none. Finding only a growing unrest, a torturing uncertainty that grew and grew, an ever-increasing agony of longing.

That is what the night saw.

But the eyes behind the window looked out over the landscape that lay spread before them in shadowy billows under the dark autumn sky, seeking to recognize something here and there. That way should be a homestead; it was there in the daylight; surely it should be visible now. But the eyes looked in vain; the gazer found himself at last imagining that the great expanse of shadow was that of a cloud on which he sailed across the sky.

There was a sort of comfort in thus letting imagination run its course. Yet unconsciously he pressed his foot to the floor, as if to make sure of being still on earth. Up in the whirling ocean of space there was no lasting foothold anywhere. And yet it was a pleasant fancy—to be sailing through the sky. Clouds were things that came and went, and melted into space under the rays of the sun. When this particular cloud on which he rode should end, and he himself be hurled through space, where would he land? Would he land anywhere at all?

He expected to see the dark shadow change its shape, but in vain. This was a check; the sameness of the outlook irritated him. Evidently both he and his cloud were shamefully dull, that they could not move better than this.

And he looked up towards the heavens, as if to call the attention of his lazy cloud to its swifter-moving fellows above.

No sooner had he done so, however, than his flight of fancy was forgotten. There were the stars—and they fascinated him in turn.

Grey clouds spread their net across the heavens, drifting rapidly from west to east, hiding and revealing the twinkling stars as they raced by.

Suddenly it seemed to him as if the clouds were standing still, and the stars themselves moved across the sky, crawling hurriedly over the meshes of the cloudy net, showing clear in a blue space one moment and vanishing the next.

So intently did he follow the fancied movement of the stars that in a little time his eyes were dazzled; it seemed as if he himself had been drawn into a dance of stars.

He closed his eyes. And, as he did so, sank into oblivion, with a disturbed yet sorely needed rest.

It was only for a moment. Abruptly he again became conscious of his surroundings. His vision returned from its wild wanderings, and crept, as it were, behind him—he saw himself—a pale face behind the window in a dimly lighted room.

The sight came as a shock; grim reality had taken the place of fancy now. And a sensation of horror came over him—he started back from the window as if he had seen a ghost.

His eyes fell upon the two open coffins, with their white draperies, that seemed to take shape as he watched them—the shape of what lay within. The dim light of the tapers helped to bring him back to the present, and even the weight of grief that came with it brought in its train a restfulness of its own.

Silently he crossed the room and sat down at the foot of the coffins, gazing at them till the white of the wrappings pained his eyes.

Then, bending forward, he fell into a fit of sobbing. A sense of utter helplessness came over him; soul and sense were dulled.

Someone was scraping cautiously at the door.

He sprang from his seat, and fear gripped his heart once more. He rubbed his eyes, realizing that he had been asleep, and stared round him to see what had wakened him.

The noise was renewed, this time with a subdued whine. He grew calmer now, and opened the door.

A pair of brown eyes and the sharp nose of a dog appeared in the gloom of the passage. The animal looked up at him pleadingly, waiting for leave to enter. And once inside, it stopped still.

Ørlygur seated himself once more by the coffins, taking no heed of the dog. He had forgotten it. For the moment he was occupied wholly with a sense of dissatisfaction with himself; time after time that night he had allowed himself to be taken by surprise. First, he had let fancy run riot in his brain; then, on coming to himself, he had given way to a sense of fear; sleep had overcome him, and on waking he had allowed himself to give way to fear again. He knew there was nothing to fear; he was no coward—it was only when taken by surprise....

Involuntarily he glanced towards the door, where the dog had lain down. A pair of bright, watchful eyes met his, and the thought flashed through his mind that no human being could be more faithful than this dog. He beckoned it to him, and the animal promptly obeyed. It crept up close to him and laid its head upon his knees, licking his hand affectionately.

For a moment he enjoyed the kindly touch. Then his thoughts went wandering again.

“I can never be happy again,” he thought to himself. “I cannot understand how any one can be happy now. What pleasure is there in anything? Everything dies at last. Eternity—the everlasting—it is terrible to think of. And all one’s life but a drop in the ocean—what does it matter if we live or die? And our joys and sorrows—what are they, after all? All becomes insignificant. Some are glad when the sun shines; others are glad without knowing why. It is simple foolishness. Have they never seen a man die? Do they forget that one day they, too, must die?—die and rot ...”

The tears flowed down his cheeks, but he did not move; his features were set as though already stiffening in death.

“Die and rot in the grave....”

And he breathed softly, as if breathing in the air of death in the room, while the tears still flowed.

Suddenly he closed his eyes, and pictured himself dead and rotting—his flesh pale and bloodless—turning green and ghastly—falling from the bones, hanging in strips from the fingers and stripping like a mask from the face to bare the clenched, grinning teeth.

He opened his eyes with a start; an icy shiver passed through him, and he clenched his hands. But he did not move from his seat.

“God in heaven,” he thought, “I am going mad!”

His tears ceased to flow. And in a moment he was cool and collected once more. It was as if the trouble had passed from him, leaving only a deep earnestness.

And in unconscious effort to protect himself his thoughts turned towards the woman he loved.

He saw her now, in his mind; her lovely figure, her masses of golden hair, her bright, smiling face, and her eyes, that spoke so eloquently when they met his. Involuntarily he smiled.

But no sooner was he conscious of having smiled than the joy was gone, and his face relapsed into the same cold, sad look.

“If she had never seen me,” he thought. “If she had lived far away, or in some other time—then her eyes would have smiled at the sight of another as they do now for me. What is it all worth after all? An accident—a casual chance. Or could it be that, even if both she and I had been different, we should have loved each other still?”

Tears came to his eyes.

“I can never be happy,” he thought again. “Once I was always happy; always sure that the future would bring joy, more joy ... and I never dreamed but that it was good and happy to live. Now I am changed. I cannot understand it all. Everything seems different—even my thoughts are new to me. All changed ... I am like a stranger to myself. And why—what is the cause of it all? Because my father that I believed to be dead comes home alive—and dies.”

He sat staring before him.

Once more he surveyed the varied phases through which he had passed from the time when ten days before he had first come upon Guest the One-eyed in the mountains—not knowing then that the wise and kindly wanderer, beloved of all, was no other than his father, the hated Sera Ketill, who had disappeared twenty years back, and was looked on as dead—from that first meeting until now, when he sat keeping watch over two corpses; that of the beggar who had been twenty years on pilgrimage to expiate his sins, and that of his wife, the Danish Lady at Hof, who during those twenty years had paid the penalty of her husband’s crimes, only to forgive him at the last and follow him on his last long journey across the river of Death.

It was a week now since the two had died. And they were to be buried next day.

Ørlygur had begged and received permission to watch over them on this their last night on earth. It had been his great desire to keep that vigil alone, for he hoped that the night would bring him some revelation of himself; his feelings, his strength, his will.

The succession of unexpected happenings, the complete revolution in his inner and outer life, had left him in a state of vague unrest, a prey to dreams and longings hitherto unknown to him. A strange and mysterious power seemed hovering over him, possessing him completely. All life seemed changed.

The desire for common worldly pleasures and success, the thought of being looked up to by his fellow-men—all seemed empty and meaningless now—or even sinful.

The dying words of Guest the One-eyed had burnt themselves into his heart, filling him with remorse and spiritual unrest. What was it he had said about a successor—one to carry on his work—to show his fellows that the greatest joy in life was a pilgrimage in poverty and humility, setting aside all worldly things?...

Ørlygur could not forget—the dying man’s voice; his intonation remained firmly impressed on his mind; he saw again the look of sadness on the wrinkled face as the wanderer lay back on his pillow.

And to him, the son of the aged pilgrim, it was as the opening of a new world of thought. He had promised himself to take up the task, to continue the work his father had begun, without a thought of the difficulties that might lie in his way.

As long as the undertaking remained as but an inward emotion, a consciousness of his intention, burning within him like a sacred flame that consumed all gloomy doubts, so long did he feel himself uplifted in soul, raised far above to a height where his bereavement itself seemed but a little thing. He almost felt that in thus bowing to his father’s will and vowing to accomplish his desire, he had saved the weary pilgrim from the horror of death.

And for a while the difficulties of realization never crossed his mind.

At times he did remember that he was a lover. But the self-reproach with which he realized that he had for a time forgotten his love passed off again: a momentary remembrance, no more.

During the first days of this his new passion he was as one entranced, lifted above himself in a fervour of resolve. His soul was possessed by one thought, by a mighty dazzling dream. A glorious ray of golden light streamed into his mind, to the exclusion of all else. His soul answered to but one note—the mighty theme of self-sacrifice that rang through it.

Intoxicated with joy, he passed the long nights without sleep. At first the new, strange exultation more than outweighed the physical strain, and the grey days that came and went seemed bright and beautiful. He had never known what it was to suffer from sleeplessness; nights without sleep seemed now but an added treasure, an extended scope for happy consciousness. But soon the climax came, and his feast of dreams was at an end.

The days lost their beauty. He was weary and irritable from the moment he rose; he longed for night to come, for peace and solitude in which to dream again. But when night came and he sought to gather up once more the threads of his imaginings, his brain was dull, and his mind refused to frame new thoughts. At first he tried to content himself with merely recalling what he had dreamed before. It satisfied him for a while, but a repetition showed the things once glorious as dull and faded; he could hardly understand how he had ever been so moved by what now seemed vague and distant. And with sorrow in his heart, as for something lost, he fell asleep. Next day he resolved to watch the last night by the dead, and had obtained his wish to keep the vigil alone.

It had not dawned upon him that he had already been defeated—that the life he had resolved upon was a thing foreign to him, with no root in his soul, an abrupt departure from his natural bent and his former ways. He did not know that suffering was a gift of Fate, granted to many, yet to few in such extent that they are able to forget their own good and ill, and live for others wholly. He did not know that it is only the chosen of Sorrow who are freed from all thought of self.

Even had he grasped the truth, it would not have helped him to relinquish his ideas and admit they were but weavings of an over-sensitive mind. His nature was too stubborn to give in without a bitter struggle.

And his doubts did not come openly to begin with, but in disguise; only later, after long uncertainty and pondering, did they reveal themselves as what they were.

Irresolution, following on the tense pitch of excitement, rendered him distrustful of himself to an unwonted degree.

He sat now with bowed head, as if listening intently in a world of silence. And it seemed as if the silence spoke to him. No natural utterance, this sound that reached his ears, but an unknown tongue, a passing murmur of something mysterious—a wave that rose and fell, now loud, now low.

He strove with all his sense to find some meaning—at times it seemed as if words and sentences were there, but disconnected, without any purport he could understand.

Breathlessly he listened. His brain throbbed; all his faculties were concentrated in one present effort; this thing that was being told him now—he must hear it, understand it. That was all his task. Perhaps it might solve all the riddles of his questioning—give him a key to life.

And suddenly his sub-conscious mind came to his aid, whispering some lines from a poem by Hjalmar à Bolu. And in relief he murmured the words to himself, lifting his head and breathing freely once more:

The stars in the east grew fainter, till they paled into nothingness, and the day rose slowly over the hills.

The clouds had gone, save for a heavy bank that hung becalmed in the west. Daylight spread abroad, and the blue of the sky grew brighter, until it almost lost itself in a shimmering white.

A strangely beautiful morning; the earth seemed aglow with such delight of day as is only seen when its face is furrowed by autumn. The heather shone blood-red on the hillside, as if striving to show the world that its glow was that of life, and not of death. The waters of fjord and stream were calm and still as if storm and turbulence were strangers there. Even the unmown grass of the fields was smiling with dewdrops on every yellowing stalk and blade reflecting the bright rays. And over the close-cropped stretches where the grass had been cut, the dew lay in a glistening carpet. Not a sound on the stillness of the air, not so much as the cry of a sheep or the neighing of a horse.

Not till the farm hands were astir, with an opening of doors and the sound of human voices, was the spell broken, and the almost unworldly stillness gave place to the work and life of common day.

The first to open his door that morning was Ormarr à Borg. And he remained standing with bowed head close outside the house. He was not thinking of the world of nature about him, and paid no heed to the glory of the morning sun that shone on his white hair and slight, stooping figure. His features were strained, and the pallor of his face, the redness of his eyes, showed that he had not slept. He stood a little while, then folded his thin hands, with the fingers that were still those of a violinist, bowed his head, and with closed eyes and compressed lips prayed the Lord’s Prayer.

Suddenly he drew himself up, passed his hands over his face, and smiled.

“Strange,” he murmured. “Why should I have done that now? I have said that prayer aloud in church for years, and at home with the rest. But I have not said it by myself since I can remember.”

The smile left his face, and he grew serious. “What is more strange,” he continued, “is that I should feel almost ashamed of it myself after.”

He shook his head. “Are we afraid of ourselves more than of others?”

He raised his head and glanced round, seeking for something else to occupy his mind. He noticed the beauty of the day, and felt the peace of it with grateful relief.

Then he turned, walked through the passage, and softly entered the room where the dead lay.

Ørlygur was seated by the coffins, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His dog lay at his feet, asleep.

As Ormarr entered, he looked up; his eyes showed that he had been sleeping. Ormarr smiled—a strangely gentle smile—but made no sign of having seen that the boy had slept. But Ørlygur sprang to his feet, flushing hotly, and answered only with an inaudible murmur when Ormarr bade him good morning.

Ormarr stepped quietly across the room and made the sign of the cross above the bodies. Then, turning to Ørlygur, he said, with great tenderness:

“Go in and rest, lad, till it is time to start.”

Ørlygur’s face had paled again; he looked straight in the other’s eyes.

“No!” he said. And his tone was so harsh, so defiant, that Ormarr wondered what could be in his mind. Possibly the lad was hurt at the proposal coming a moment after he had awakened from sleep.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” said Ormarr quietly.

“I know,” answered Ørlygur in a gentler tone. “Don’t misunderstand me. I only meant that—we can always get all the sleep we need—more than enough.”

Silently the two men left the room and went out into the open.

Ormarr was anxious for a quiet talk with Ørlygur, whose manner lately had been strange. He had formed his own opinion as to the reason—but that last defiant “No!” and the frank, conciliatory tone of the following words seemed to require some further explanation.

It had occurred to Ormarr that, as he had never himself referred to the girl Snebiorg, Ørlygur might perhaps imagine he was hostile to any union between them, whereas nothing could be farther from his mind; had not the boy’s father on his death-bed given him his blessing? Ormarr was eager to make his attitude clear in regard to this at least.

As they walked, he studied the young man’s face. There was a strange, far-away look in his eyes that baffled him.

He had intended to open the matter directly, but somehow he felt it impossible to do so now. And, fearing lest Ørlygur should notice his scrutiny, he looked away, and said casually:

“The sun has come to warm the graves for them, it seems.”

Ørlygur glanced up at the sun, and was silent for a moment; then he answered absently:

“Yes. The sun must have been his best friend in life.”

The old man turned towards him; the tone and manner in which he had spoken were unusual.

“Those in misfortune,” he said softly, “have but few friends as a rule.”

Ørlygur’s eyes took on the same fixed, determined look they had shown in the chamber of death a little before.

“He was not one of those in misfortune,” he answered steadily, with a dignity beyond his years; “he was more fortunate than all.”

Ormarr looked at him with his wise old eyes, as if to read his innermost thoughts. But there was a tremor at his heart. “This is Faith,” he thought to himself. “Faith in something that seems sure beyond all doubt. It is the first time it has come to him in life. If the boy were a Catholic, now, he would turn monk; he is convinced at this moment that self-abnegation is the one true way. God alone knows the workings of his mind, but it is a dangerous crisis to pass through.”

And, looking away from him again, Ormarr pursued his own train of thought.

“He is hardly what one would call of a religious bent. That is well. It may be only a slight attack; perhaps it will pass off. After all, he is still a child in many ways. But he needs some one to help him—and must not know it.”

He smiled at a sudden thought. “I am glad I caught him asleep.”

They reached the wall of the enclosure, and stopped. Then, as if he had been thinking of this all the time, Ormarr began:

“There was something I wanted to say to you. I would have left it till later, but it is best to get it said. It is something that concerns you deeply—I mean about the girl.”

Ørlygur started slightly; Ormarr detected at once that he was ill at ease. But he said nothing, and Ormarr went on:

“You have said nothing to me about any relationship with her, and perhaps it is as well. But from what your dear father said, you love one another, and you yourself are fully determined to marry her. Is that so?”

Ørlygur was so taken aback that he was at a loss for a moment. He felt that there were obstacles in the way, that he ought to make some objection now. But he could do no more than stammer out a low-voiced “Yes.”

Ormarr was satisfied. He had gained something at once. And without appearing to have marked the young man’s hesitation, still less divine its cause, he continued:

“Well, then, I don’t see any reason for delay. Once the matter has been decided, the sooner it is accomplished, the better. I will confess that at first I was not altogether disposed to approve of it. You may have noticed that—and for that reason hesitated to tell me of your intentions. But, now, I can only say that both your mother and myself are looking forward with pleasure to your marriage. It will be the happiest day of the life that yet remains to us when we can see you wedded to the woman you love. And as far as we are concerned, there is nothing to prevent your taking over the place here in the spring. We are both a little weary, though we are not so very old. You will understand that ours has not been a restful life, or a very happy one, and it will be a double pleasure to see you happily settled. All that we wish for is to end our days in peace. And so—God bless you. If our wishes could secure it, Borg should be once more a home of happiness and peace.”

Tears rose to Ormarr’s eyes as he spoke, and his hand trembled as he offered it. He was deeply moved, partly by memories of the past that rose up in his mind, and also by the thought that the young man’s happiness depended on the success of his, Ormarr’s, own stratagem before it was too late.

Ørlygur grasped the hand held out to him. He wept at seeing his foster-father’s emotion, and also because he felt that he was here being forced into something; he was in a way defeated. But at the same time the picture of Snebiorg rose to his mind; it seemed almost as if she were there with them. What was he to do? Sooner or later he must either prove false to her or to the promise he had silently given by his father’s death-bed. For the moment he could come to no decision—he could only weep. His helplessness pained him. It was terrible to think that he must choose between giving up his love or betray his promise.

He held Ormarr’s hand in his, and strove to speak, but could say nothing for tears.

Say something he must. And at length he stammered out:

“Not now—I cannot. Another time. But not—not this spring.”

He let go the other’s hand, and hurried away, with bowed head. But the old man stood still, looking after him with tearful eyes.

“Poor lad,” he murmured. “But—thank God, he loves her. And that will save him.”

Thoughtfully Ormarr walked back to the house.

On leaving Ørlygur, Ormarr went in to see to the preparations for the funeral. Ørlygur went off to a corner of the enclosure where he would be out of sight of the house. There he stood, leaning against the wall, and looking out over the valley.

His tears had ceased, and a strange calm crept over him. “So it was that,” he thought to himself. “It was that I could not understand. But I see it now. I must choose between her and—my mission.”

The idea involved in this last word made him start.

“My mission—but how do I know it is that? Anyhow, whether or no, it does not matter. I have promised—I have given my word to one who is now dead—and that my father. I must either break my word to him, or desert her.”

He gazed thoughtfully up at the mountains.

“Those mountains there—how wonderful they are. Peak after peak rising to heaven, and sweet grassy slopes between. But loveliest looking down, on to the glassy lakes. Borgarfjall, with its great masses of rock, rising steeply up towards the sky. No one has ever set foot there—only the eagles have ever reached those heights.”

The look in his eyes faded, and he stood gazing vacantly before him.

“Desert her,” he thought to himself. “She who leaned towards me, and touched my cheek with her own. How could I think of it! She could never be faithless. How would she look if she learned?... Oh, the sight would kill me. Nothing more terrible to see than the eyes of a creature that has lost what it hoped for and believed in. To see that in her eyes....”

He laughed—a cold, forced laugh.

“What a coward I am, after all. I can think of leaving her, forsaking her, and breaking promises so sacred that they could not even be uttered in words. But I dare not even think of meeting her eyes when she knows. What a cur I must be—and I—I would go out into the world as an apostle.”

He shook his head.

“It is madness. How could I ever bring peace to any soul, when I start my pilgrimage by robbing her who trusted me of her heart’s peace?”

An evil light showed in his eyes.

“I wonder ... would she really suffer so very much after all?...”

He clenched his fists.

“Oh, I deserve to be whipped! And, in any case, I am not worthy of her love. It seems I am growing into a rogue. I dare not look her in the face now. Her eyes—so pure ... and her soul, clean and free from any evil thought. And she—she trusts me—trusts me ... it is horrible!”

He drew a deep breath.

“I might go to her, and tell her everything. She would understand. But—her heart would feel but one thing of it all—that we must part. And that is all that my heart can feel now.”

He sighed, but in a moment his face hardened again.

“This is temptation. And I was nearly giving way. Nearly gave in at the first onset. I am too weak. The first thing to do is to take some decisive step, to cut off all retreat. But how?”

A thought came suddenly to his mind, and he shuddered.

“Today—at the graveside. Say it there, say it for all to hear; swear it ... and then I shall be bound for life, for ever. And then—what then?”

His whole body trembled; his teeth chattered; he cried to God in his agony of doubt. But he felt that his prayer was not sincere. And with faltering step he made his way back to the house.

A voice within him spoke, urging him earnestly, clearly:

“Do not do it. It is more than you can keep. You may say the words, but you will not mean what you say from your heart. What can you do or say?”

He would not listen, but he tried in vain to disregard the voice that would be heard. He staggered like a drunken man; his strength failed him.

Then the first voice died away and another spoke scornfully:

“You will make a fool of yourself, that is all.”

He stopped suddenly, and turned pale. But only for a moment. Then he walked on with a firm step.

“That was vanity,” he murmured. “It was only my fear of what others would think. Now I know what I have to do.”

The funeral of Guest the One-eyed and the Danish Lady was to take place at noon.

From the time Ørlygur returned to the house to the setting out of the funeral train, the hours had passed without his knowing it. Great numbers of people flocked to the house; all greeted him when they arrived. Some he greeted in return; others he did not appear to notice at all. He was strangely absent in his manner, but this was readily forgiven, as being due to his grief at the sudden loss.

When he was called in to bid a last farewell to the mortal remains before the coffins were closed, he burst into a violent fit of sobbing. His meditations of the night before on the emptiness of worldly things, the hopelessness of life, returned to him vividly. He was conscious, too, that it was not only the death of these two who had gone that pained him most. He saw himself as a miserably selfish creature. At such a time, there should be no place in his heart for other feeling than sorrow at the double bereavement, and yet in fact he was only sorry for himself. He despised himself; he felt that if others could read his heart they would look down on him in scorn. Their word of sympathy and consolation stung him; he shrank from the thought of the ceremony to come, when he would be forced to take part with all these others.

Why not bury our dear ones quietly, in some secluded spot? Why make an exhibition of one’s grief before the world? In his own case, it was the more intolerable, since his grief was in reality not for the dead.

He heard the lids screwed down, and stood weeping, with his handkerchief to his eyes. Suddenly he became aware of a stir in the room, and looked up. People were standing round with Prayer Books in their hands, turning the pages to find the hymn that was to be sung.

The priest, whom he had not noticed before, was there standing by the coffins, book in hand.

Ørlygur again pressed his handkerchief to his eyes. The priest was speaking, but he paid no heed to what was being said, and continued to weep silently.

Then there was a pause, and the bearers prepared to move. A psalm was to be sung as the coffins were carried out.

Ørlygur dried his eyes and hurried away, all moving aside respectfully to let him pass. He ground his teeth, and could hardly refrain from crying out.

“They should spit on me,” he thought to himself. “It is no more than I deserve. I am unworthy of their sympathy—I do not even care for it!” For a moment he felt as if he must shout the thought aloud.

Outside the house some one handed him the reins of his horse; the animal stood there ready saddled. He stood beside it, one arm thrown over the animal’s neck. The horse rubbed itself affectionately against him, as if inviting the customary caress. But he took no heed, and remained standing motionless. His dog lay at the feet of the horse, and looked up; the two animals exchanged greetings in their own way, sniffing at each other.

The coffins were to be carried by horses, two to each burden. The first pair were brought forward, and planks slung between them. Then a psalm was sung, and the first coffin fastened in its place.

When both were thus secured, the train moved off, the mourners and followers leading their horses until the psalm was at an end. Then all mounted, and rode on in silence towards the vicarage at Hof.

Ørlygur rode behind the second coffin, gazing out over the country with tear-stained eyes.

“It all looks strange,” he thought to himself. “As if it were there only for a time. Or is it only myself that am become a stranger? My mind that has so changed that nothing in it now can last? It seems so. We see things according to the mood of our own mind. I seem like a stone set rolling, knowing nothing of where it will stop.

“Not a pleasant thing to be compared with, either. A rolling stone must needs be on the downward track. Well, after all, most comparisons have a weakness somewhere. A stone rolling down from barren mountains to a grassy valley, where it finds a softer bed, has surely changed for the better. But my path lies the opposite way. And no one ever knew a stone roll upward. Only the glowing rock, hurled from the bowels of the earth by a volcano, comes to a rest in the mountains after an upward flight. Oh, what nonsense!” he broke off. “I am not a stone.

“Or, at least, it is only my heart that is of stone,” he went on bitterly. “Why can I feel no real grief at my loss? Why is there room in my heart for all these things on such a day as this? Am I worse than other people, I wonder? I do not feel unkindly towards any one. Or is it that thinking of sorrow stifles the real sorrow itself? If she were dead....”

He turned pale at the thought, and tears flowed from his eyes.

“God in heaven! That would mean death to me—to live would be impossible. Her body to decay, her golden hair to be soiled by earth—her eyes lifeless and dull....”

His heart beat as if it would burst, and he shivered.

“Death is disgusting,” he thought.

Suddenly he ceased to weep, and a silence seemed to fill him.

“I cannot bear to think of her as dead,” he thought. “And yet I have planned to do that which will ruin her life—to kill her love, and strike her soul the cruellest blow that any human being can inflict upon another. What a desperate tangle it all is. Would it not be better for her to die? Would it not be better if I were to end her life—kill her at once? Surely it would. But it was not her I was thinking of. I was only thinking of myself; not of what would be best for her, but of what would hurt me least. And if it were better for her to die, then what I am about to do is a greater crime than if I took her life....”

Ørlygur was so deep in thought that he did not observe the progress of the party until they had reached the churchyard, and the others dismounted. Only when the coffin in front, on which his eyes were fixed, was lowered to the ground did he come to himself and get down from his horse.

His last thoughts had almost stunned him; his brain seemed incapable of normal action. As if in a trance he followed the coffins into the church, and remained standing with bowed head while the psalms were sung and the priest delivered his oration. He noticed nothing of what was passing round him.

In a few minutes now they would be at the graveside; the coffins would be lowered, and then, as was the custom, he would be expected to say something himself.

What should he say? There was no clear idea in his mind—well, no doubt something would occur to him when the moment came. What he said did not matter much, as long as he said something.

The coffins were brought out, and the mourners gathered close round the double grave. Ørlygur stood just behind the mound of earth that had been thrown up.

The coffins were lowered into the earth, the mourners singing and weeping; the priest cast earth into the grave, and the last hymn was sung. Mechanically Ørlygur stepped up on to the mound. He felt that all eyes were upon him—that all were waiting expectantly for him to speak. He raised his eyes, and looked round.

His gaze fell on a pair of tear-stained blue eyes on the other side of the grave. There was a look in them almost of fear—an anxious uncertainty such as he had never before seen on her face. But no sooner had her eyes met his than her expression changed, and the strange look vanished.

It had never occurred to him that Snebiorg might be at the funeral; he had not noticed her till now. She had been among those who joined the party at the church. It was a shock to him to see her now, so overcome with grief, and with that look of doubt and fear upon her face—it struck him to the heart.

And here he stood, on a mound by the graveside, with all eyes upon him. All were waiting to hear what he would say. Speak now he must. He pulled himself together, but his heart trembled at the thought of what he must say. She was standing there. Well, she would forgive him, when she heard it all—heard the confession and the promise from his own mouth.

He looked round hesitatingly. His foster-father was looking at him with a strange expression—a look that made him lower his eyes.

Ormarr had seen that Ørlygur was about to speak. He did not know what was in the boy’s mind, but something told him that what he was about to say must not be said. He fixed his gaze on the young man’s face with all his inner power concentrated in his eyes, trying to compel his attention. Ørlygur was looking at Snebiorg; Ormarr saw him hesitate. This seemed further proof that there was something which must be averted. At last Ormarr caught his eye, and Ørlygur bowed his head.

Then Ormarr turned and left the grave. It was a sign for the gathering to disperse.

But the thought which had checked Ørlygur when he met his foster-father’s gaze was the remembrance of his having been found sleeping that morning at his vigil by the dead. With that in his mind, and with that look fixed on his face, he could not say what he had planned. It was impossible.

He stood staring down into the grave.

Those present thought only that the boy was too deeply moved to say the words of affectionate farewell he would have uttered. And all, even the men who had come up to fill in the grave, moved away and left him to himself.

He seemed as if turned to stone.

“Too late,” he thought. “And now—what am I to do? Is all to go on as before? That cannot be—I at least am no longer the same....”

And with a sigh he thought of how he had changed not for the better, but for the worse. He was a coward.

And, looking down into the grave, he spoke aloud:

“I am growing less and less worthy to be called your son.”

And to himself he continued:

“Why do you not help me? Why do you not stand by me when you see me so weak? Or is it your will that I should not be aided in this?”

Suddenly he remembered how his father on his death-bed had blessed his union with Snebiorg, and a wave of joy flowed through his heart.

“Father—father!” he cried, with tears in his voice. “Is that your will? But what of my promise?...”

His joy turned to grief at the thought. And so, at issue with himself, he stood looking down into the grave.

The priest came up.

“What does he want now, I wonder?” thought Ørlygur, watching the approaching figure with indifferent eyes. The whole air and bearing of this well-fed, self-satisfied priest were intolerable to him. It was worst of all when he spoke, with dead words and traditional phrases that meant nothing.

The priest came up to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“My young friend,” he began—he was fifteen years older than Ørlygur himself—“I can well understand how you must feel the loss of such a father—a man of rare virtue in this wicked world. Yet it should be a consolation to you to know that he died at peace with God.”

Ørlygur looked at him, thinking still. Here was this man pouring out a stream of words over him. It was horrible to hear. “God” in his mouth sounded worse than devil.

“We should all remember,” the priest went on, “that however much we may grieve at losing the dear departed, there is comfort in the thought that they are beyond the power of evil—that death is but the gateway to the Kingdom of Glory. And to these two especially, death must have come as a blessed deliverance.”

Ørlygur looked at him without speaking. “He thinks he is much wiser than I,” was his thought.

“The burial of the dead,” went on the priest, “should really be an occasion for rejoicing. In any case, the dominant feeling in the hearts of the bereaved should be one of joy at the thought that those who have left us have passed to their true home. And be sure that God looks with more approval on such a thought than on any outburst of uncontrolled grief, which is really nothing but selfish sorrow for the loss we have sustained through His will, and rebellion against His decrees. All is according to the will of God, and we should cheerfully and gladly bow to His divine pleasure.”

Ørlygur let the priest run on. “He is a fool,” he thought. “He means well, no doubt, but is none the less a fool. This is one of his stock prescriptions for cases where some formal consolation has to be delivered. He is a sort of spiritual quack. When a man loses his father, he pours out a dose from a bottle—a big bottle, but containing only a very ordinary mixture. As a student of the human heart, he is ignorant to a degree. He cannot imagine that a mourner standing by a grave should have any other feeling than that of loss. He sees it merely as an ordinary case, calling for the usual nostrums. And he talks of a wounded heart as if it were inflammation of the lungs. What does he know of the range of feeling in a human heart?”

The priest went on in the same tone as before. Ørlygur said nothing.

“He wants me to say something,” thought Ørlygur. “But what am I to say? Tell him it is a fine day? I wonder if he would go away if I did? I wish I could get rid of him somehow; he tires me. I would rather climb a mountain than listen to more of this. Look at Borgarfjall there, lofty and steep. I would sooner climb it to the top than listen to this priest for half a day.”

Suddenly he turned to the man, with a smile, and said:

“Look here, I’ve thought of something. Some day, when I have time, I want to climb up to the top of Borgarfjall there and build a bit of a monument on the top. It’s a fine-looking mountain, but I don’t like the outline of the top. Ought to have something there—don’t you think?”

The priest stared at him, dumb with astonishment.

“I hardly think any but a bird could get up there,” he said hesitatingly.

“Well, it’s certainly no place for silly sheep,” retorted Ørlygur, with a laugh. “Good-day to you.”

And he turned and walked away.

The priest stood looking after him in perplexity.

“Now, was that intentional rudeness,” he said to himself, “or has he lost his senses?”

It was some minutes before he could sufficiently regain his priestly dignity and composure to leave the churchyard.

The men came to fill in the grave, and the mourners flocked round to lay their wreaths on the mound that covered the remains of Guest the One-eyed and the Danish Lady.

Among them were Ormarr and his wife Runa. Snebiorg and her mother were also there, but there was no sign of Ørlygur to be seen. He had met the doctor, a man whom he liked, and was walking with him a little distance off.

Ormarr and Runa went up to the widow from Bolli and her daughter, and greeted them kindly, thanking them for their attendance. They talked for a little of indifferent matters, and then Ormarr said suddenly to the widow:

“I should like to have a word with you alone.”

Snebiorg blushed, and remained shyly standing beside Runa, while Ormarr and her mother went off a little way. The widow’s face revealed nothing of her feelings, but in her heart she was keenly aware that what was coming concerned her daughter’s happiness and her own peace of mind.

“Ørlygur seems strange today,” she thought to herself. “I hope nothing is wrong.” And she strove to repress a sigh.

As soon as they were out of hearing of the others, Ormarr spoke.

“I do not know if you are aware of it,” he said, “but Ørlygur and Bagga love each other. I have only known it myself a few days.”

The widow nodded, and Ormarr went on:

“I only wished to tell you that my wife and I heartily approve of their marrying.”

The widow’s face brightened; the wrinkles seemed smoothed away. Unable to speak, she offered Ormarr a trembling hand. Ormarr grasped it cordially, and then, putting his arm through hers, they walked up and down together.

“I may be frank with you,” Ormarr went on. “We have known each other for a long time now, and I am sure you will not be hasty. First of all, I must tell you that Runa and I were opposed to the idea to begin with. We should never have attempted to stand in the way of his own wishes, but we hoped he would give up his intention of marrying Snebiorg. But my brother, whom we have buried today, gave his blessing to the union, and from that moment I felt that my own reasons for opposing it had only been poor and of minor importance. And now that I have told you this, I can come to what I chiefly wanted to say. Something has happened to Ørlygur; what it is I do not know, for he has not confided in me or in any one else. He is hardly likely to open his heart to any one on the subject, I think. But I have an idea as to what is passing in his mind, and I am anxious about him. Even if he should appear to have changed his mind with regard to Bagga, I want you to do your utmost to encourage her and keep her faithful to him, for I know that in his heart he loves her, and will always do so. But there is something on his mind at present; he is in doubt about something; more, I cannot say. You know he comes of an impulsive race, and if he should now, while he is young, lose control of his feelings and cease to take a healthy interest in life, then the family will die out. It would be a pity. I know that you have suffered, and more than most. I also have known suffering, and I should be proud if I could say I had borne my trials as well as you have yours. If, therefore, your daughter inherits her mother’s courage and strength, it would be a good thing for the race. As yet I am not quite clear what we ought to do. But I wished to let you know my feelings, so that I might have you on my side. The interests of—our children, I had nearly said—are at stake. I always regard Ørlygur as my own son. And it will be a hard struggle, for neither of them, certainly not Ørlygur, must ever realize that we are taking any part.”

The widow was calmer now. She looked earnestly at Ormarr’s face, as if seeking to read his mind. Then she offered her hand. It was not trembling now.

“You can trust me,” she said. “I do not know what it is that troubles Ørlygur, and I do not wish to know. It is enough for me if he continues to feel as he does for Bagga. But if he should desert her, it would kill her. And if he kills my daughter, then, as surely as there is a God in heaven, I will kill him!”

Ormarr started violently. “Woman!” he cried, “God forgive you!”

“I would not have said it—it slipped out,” she went on apologetically. “Such words must seem strange in the mouth of an old woman. But I could not help it. You need have no fear of me; I shall do as you wish. You can trust me as long as I can feel that you are acting honestly. You are now, and I believe you will continue so.”

Ormarr smiled.

“If I did not know it to be otherwise, I might think you were my sister,” he said. Then, speaking more seriously, he continued:

“I should have preferred that you did not come back with us to Borg today. But there are a number of others coming, and after we have stood here talking so long it would perhaps excite remark if you were not to come. Anyhow, to prevent any danger to our plans, it would be best to keep Ørlygur and Bagga from coming together, at any rate by themselves—if it can be done quietly.”

The widow nodded.

They walked back to the grave, where Runa and Snebiorg were waiting. Several others now approached, and the widow and her daughter were formally invited to accompany the party home to Borg.

Horses were then saddled, and they moved off, most of those remaining taking the road to Borg.

Meantime, Ørlygur had left the doctor and was riding on alone. He was deep in thought, and allowed his horse to pick its own way at its own pace. All respected his reserve, and he was left in peace.

The doctor had joined the party with Ormarr. The widow and her daughter rode immediately in front, and Ormarr noted how the doctor’s eyes dwelt on the girl. It appeared, from something the doctor let fall in conversation, that he was again in need of a housekeeper.

Ormarr was struck by a sudden idea, but shook his head a moment after.

“No,” he thought; “it would be too dangerous.”

The doctor was a widower, childless, and lived alone at the trading station, keeping only a girl to look after the house. And many stories were current as to the doctor and his housekeepers. Most of them left after a short time in the house, some of them going out of the country altogether, after which nothing was heard of them. It was also said that he drank in secret, and some believed him to be out of his mind. In any case, it was not a place for a respectable girl.

Ormarr was thinking hard as he rode along.

“She ought to stand the test,” he muttered to himself. “And who knows—perhaps it might be the very thing. A chance that might not come again....”

He found a pretext for entering into conversation with the doctor, and, slackening his pace by imperceptible degrees, managed to fall behind with him, in rear of the party.

It was not long before he had elicited from the doctor the confession that his latest housekeeper had indeed left him.

Ormarr laughed. “You’ve had quite a number of housekeepers these last few years.”

“Yes,” answered the other. “It is more and more difficult to find a respectable woman, and what I am to do now, I do not know. Do without, I suppose.”

“I hope it is not as bad as all that,” said Ormarr. “The work is not so very hard, I take it, and there are generally plenty of girls willing enough to take an easy post. I have an idea, by the way, that the widow there would like her daughter to go out into the world a little; if you like, I could speak to her about it.”

The doctor was profuse in his thanks.

Then they changed the subject, and, whipping up their horses, rejoined the rest.

Later in the day Ormarr spoke to the widow.

“The doctor is in want of a housekeeper,” he said. “What do you think?—would Snebiorg like to undertake the work?”

The widow looked at him searchingly.

“Bagga—housekeeper at the doctor’s?” she said harshly. “Never! Never as long as I live!”

“Why not?” asked Ormarr quietly.

“You know well enough what is said about him.”

“True,” Ormarr returned. “I know his weakness where women are concerned, but I have never heard of his ever having gone to extremes. He is too soft and good-natured for that—certainly, he is no rogue. I do not think there is anything to fear. And you can, of course, rely on your daughter herself.”

The widow was silent a moment.

“I suppose I must do as you wish,” she said at length. “But I shall hold you responsible if any harm comes of it.”

“I can understand that you do not quite like the idea. But Ørlygur is on friendly terms with the doctor, and always looks in there whenever he goes in to the station. And if the knowledge that the woman he loves is in the doctor’s house, and the doctor’s own advances, do not spur him to act on his own behalf, then the case must be worse than I had thought. I do not think there is any risk, really.”

The widow sighed. She did not quite like the idea of Bagga being made use of in this fashion, and perhaps exposed to danger. But Ormarr reassured her.

“With God’s help, all will go well,” she said at last, and gave her consent.

Ormarr had no difficulty in arranging details, and it was settled that Bagga should take over her duties in the doctor’s house next day.