CHAPTER I

Snow, snow, snow!

Below and above—here, there, and everywhere! Up to his knees in snow, Pall À Seyru struggled across the wind-swept heights. The snow whirled down in great downy flakes, making it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Stooping, with heavy, weary steps, he tramped on, an empty sack slung across his shoulders.

He had come from the trading station, and was on his way home to his own hut in the mountains; the store-keeper had refused to grant him further credit, and in consequence, he had chosen to return by this lonely track across the hills, where he was sure of meeting no one on his way. It was hard to come home at Christmas-time with empty hands to empty pots and hungry mouths.

His only comfort was the snow. It fell so thickly as to shut out all around, and seemed to numb even the poor peasant’s despair within the dismal prison of his mind.

Now and again he heard a sound—the whir and cackle of ptarmigan flying overhead.

Suddenly a gust of wind sent the snow flying over the ground. Another—and then gust followed gust, growing at last to a veritable hurricane, that swept the very snow-clouds from the sky. And as if by magic, a vast plain of snow lay open to his eyes.

All Hofsfjordur was suddenly visible. Pall turned, and saw the last of the clouds sweep down into the dark blue-green of the sea. To the south-east, the peaks of the Hof Mountains rose out of the water, and over the eastern landscape towered a long range of rocky mountains that gradually merged into the great south-western plateau. His eye rested for a moment on the vicarage farm of Hof—a few straggling buildings clinging to the mountain-side, among which the black church itself loomed out, right at the mouth of the fjord. The houses of the trading station he could not see; they lay beyond, on the northern shore of the fjord, safely sheltered behind the rocky walls of the islets that offered such fine harbourage—to any ship that managed to reach so far.

The parish itself lay between him and the Hof Mountains. A valley two miles farther up was divided into two narrow dales by the Borgasfjall, a steep and rocky height. The rivulets from the two valleys—now but streaks of smooth ice—met lower down, making part of the valley into a peninsula. The southern stream was named Hofsa, and its valley Hofsardalur; the northernmost Borgara, and its valley Borgardalur; but the rivulets, from their confluence to the outflow into Hofsfjordur, still went by the name of Borgara, and the broad valley was called Borgardalur.

To the north, on the farther side of a narrow valley, likewise belonging to the parish, were the faint outlines of broad, slowly rising hills—the Dark Mountains. The ridge where Pall now stood was Borgarhals, and ran for a long way between Borgardalur and Nordurdalen, in the heart of the mountains, leading to the little glen where his cottage lay, close to a brook, and not far from the lake. There were trout in the water there, to be taken by net in summer, and in winter by fishing with lines through holes in the ice. Wild geese, swans, and ducks were there in plenty, from early spring to late autumn.

But Pall’s thoughts had wandered far from all this, settling, as did his glance, on a row of stately gables that rose above a low hill in the centre of the peninsula, formed by the waters of Borgara and Hofsa.

From three of the chimneys a kindly smoke ascended. The storm had abated, and folk were beginning to move about here and there among the outbuildings round the large walled farmyard. Already flocks of sheep were on their way to the winter pasture at the foot of the hills, where some dwarfed growth was still to be found.

This was Borg, the home of Ørlygur the Rich, as he was called. It was by no means uncommon for folk to speak of him as “the King,” for he ruled over scores of servants, and owned hundreds of cattle and horses and thousands of sheep.

Suddenly Pall’s cheeks flushed with a happy thought. It had crossed his mind that he might call at Borg. All knew that Ørlygur the Rich never sent a poor man empty away. But then he realized that today was not the first time the thought had come to him. No, better to give it up; he had turned for help to Borg too many times before; he could not well ask again.

With bowed head, and face grey as before, he dragged himself along the almost impassable track; he was exhausted; his limbs seemed heavy as if in chains.

From early morning to about ten o’clock, while the storm raged, the farm hands and servants of Borg gathered in the women’s hall upstairs. The men had come from their quarters, and sat about on the beds waiting for the storm to abate before starting out to their work. The cowman alone was forced to brave the elements and tend his cattle.

Ørlygur had opened the door to his own room. He sat with his two-year-old son Ketill on his knees, and talked quietly with his men, exchanging views, or giving them advice about the work of the place. He always treated them as his equals. The men sat with their breakfast-plates on their knees, eating as they talked. Some of the womenfolk went to and fro with food or heavy outdoor clothing; others were darning socks or mending shoes.

Ormarr, who was nearing his fourteenth year, sat in his father’s room, on the edge of the bed, facing Ørlygur. It was in his mind that things were beginning to be like they had been before his mother’s death, two years ago. He sat with his hands on his knees, swinging his legs by way of accompaniment to his thoughts.

Never before had he missed his mother so sorely as this morning, when every one else seemed to have forgotten her; never before had he felt her loss so keenly. He sighed, checked the swinging of his legs, and sat motionless for a while. Tears rose to his eyes. He felt he must go out, or he would be crying openly in a minute, and disturb the comfort of the rest. For a moment he sat pondering where to go, then he remembered that the cowman would by now have finished work in the shed, and taking down an old violin from a rack, he left the room.

Reaching the cowshed, he sat down in his accustomed place, on a board between two empty chests, and commenced tuning his instrument. It was an old thing that had been in the family for generations, but no one could remember having heard it played. Then, seven years before, Ormarr had been taught the rudiments of music by a wandering fiddler, an adventurous soul, who tramped the country with his fiddle slung over his shoulder in a calfskin bag. Since then, Ormarr had given all his spare time to the music.

His father had marked with grief how this one interest had gradually swallowed up all else; the boy cared nothing for the management of the estate, or indeed for any other work. Possibly it was this which had led Ørlygur, in spite of the doctor’s advice, to wish for another son. And his wife had sacrificed her life in giving him what he wished.

Hard and self-willed as he was in many ways, Ørlygur had yet a profound belief in the right of every human being to determine his own life, to follow his own nature and develop his gifts as long as it involved no actual harm to others. And he made no attempt to coerce the boy; Ormarr had his way.

About ten o’clock, when the snow had ceased, Ormarr slung his gun across his shoulder and walked off toward Borgarhals to shoot ptarmigan.

On the way, he met Einar À Gili, a troublesome fellow, who, in defiance of the general feeling, had so little respect for the uncrowned king of Borg that he had several times thrashed his son Ormarr without the slightest provocation. It was the more unpardonable, since Einar was about ten years older, and strong as a giant. And now, at sight of him, Ormarr’s fingers fumbled in passionate helplessness at the trigger of his gun.

Einar hailed him, to all appearance innocent as could be. “Hey, Ormarr, out shooting? Let’s go together?”

Ormarr had no desire to go out shooting with Einar, but was curious to know why the other had suggested it.

“Then we can see who’s the best shot.”

This was irresistible. Einar was a proverbially bad shot with a gun, and Ormarr knew it. He made no protest, and they went on together.

Every time he fired, Ormarr brought down two or three birds. Einar got at the most one bird at a shot, and often sent the birds fluttering away with broken wings.

Nevertheless, Einar picked up all the birds that fell, and stuffed them into his own bag. Ormarr demanded his share.

“Oh, you’ve no bag, and there’s no sense wasting time tying your birds together at every shot. Wait till we’ve done.”

Ormarr had his suspicions, but said nothing.

After a while they came to a good-sized rock, with two paths round. Ormarr knew that the paths to the south was the longer.

“Let’s go round and meet on the other side. I’ll go this way,” he said, taking the northern path. And Einar agreed.

When they met, neither had any more birds to show.

“But you fired, I heard you,” said Einar.

“I missed,” said Ormarr shortly. Einar laughed, but he took no notice.

“Look, there’s one sitting on that rock,” said Ormarr suddenly, pointing to a boulder some hundred yards away. “I’ll take him.”

“No hurry,” said Einar; “I’ll bag that one myself. We needn’t go on any longer—I’m going home now.”

“How many have we got?”

“Oh, twenty.”

“Good, then give me mine.”

“Ah, yes—next time we meet! I’m off. My love to the cattle at home.”

Somewhat to his disappointment, Ormarr did not seem to be greatly annoyed, but merely walked off, calling quietly over his shoulder: “Mind you don’t miss that bird, Mr. Clever-with-your-gun.”

Einar turned round angrily. “Don’t shout like that—you’ll scare it away. That’s my twenty-first.”

“All right. It’s too frightened of you to move. Go and see.”

Einar took careful aim—his hand shook a little, but only because he was inwardly chuckling over the trick he had played Ormarr, and the thought of telling what he had done. Though, indeed, he might get little credit for it all; people were rather apt to side with the lordly folk from Borg. Still, it was good to have fooled that brat Ormarr again.

The bird was sitting close on the rock. Einar fired, and, raising his gun, saw that the bird was still in the same position. Seeing no feathers fly, he thought he must have missed, and loaded again. Then creeping cautiously forward, he rested his gun on a stone, and fired again. The ptarmigan did not move. Einar felt sure his shot must have taken effect. He went right up to it. The bird was dead enough, but what was more, it was cold. And lifting it, he saw a piece of paper tied to one of its legs, with a few words in pencil. “Clever shot, aren’t you? Thanks for a pleasant day’s sport.—Ormarr.”

“Curse the little jackanapes!”

Einar never told any one after all how he had scored off Ormarr that day.

Ormarr hurried along up hill and down, firing and reloading rapidly, scarcely seeming to take aim at all, but never missing his bird. His narrow sunburnt face was flushed with exertion, and drops of perspiration trickled down from his forehead. His eyes searched eagerly about for game, and in a very short time he had a bag of twenty-seven. Then suddenly, coming round the corner of a rock, he stood face to face with Pall À Seyru. Pall tried to avoid him, but Ormarr called him back. He sat down, wiped the perspiration from his face, and smiled as Pall came up.

“Puh—I’m warm enough, for all it’s fifteen degrees of frost. You look half frozen.”

Pall muttered something, and tried to hide his empty sack, which had the effect of drawing Ormarr’s attention to it.

“What’s that—going back home with an empty bag? Won’t Bjarni let you have things any more?”

“I’m in debt there already. And I couldn’t promise to pay before next autumn.”

“But at Christmas-time—and you’re not a rich man.”

“That makes but little difference in his books.”

“Ho—who says that—you?”

“’Twas Bjarni said so.”

“And you had to go and ask him—beg of him—like that?”

“Our cow didn’t calve, and we’ve no milk. And there’s no food in the place beyond.”

“H’m. What were you going this way round for? ’Tisn’t any short way home.”

“I didn’t want to meet anyone.”

“And going back empty-handed? Why didn’t you come to us?”

“I’ve been a burden to many this long time—to your folk more than any. And I’ll not ask for help from the parish.”

Something in the man’s face made Ormarr catch his breath. The blood left his cheeks, and in a hushed voice he asked:

“You mean—you’d....”

Pall nodded. “Yes. There’s times when it seems better than living on this way.”

Ormarr sprang to his feet.

“Pall... here, take these birds—just from me. And come home and talk to father. You must. He’ll be just as glad to do anything as you could be for it. As for Bjarni, he’s a cur. You can tell him so from me next time you see him.”

Pall was silenced, and tears rose to his eyes. Ormarr understood, and said no more. They divided the birds into two lots, though Ormarr would gladly have carried the whole, and in silence they started off down the slope.

Ormarr slept in a bed next to his father’s. It had been his mother’s bed. When the light was put out that night, Ormarr had not yet found courage to tell what he had been thinking of since his meeting with Pall that day. Nor did he know what had passed between his father and Pall.

Half an hour later, perceiving that his father was still awake, he managed to whisper, softly and unsteadily:

“Father!”

It was as if Ørlygur had been waiting for this. He rose, and seated himself at the boy’s bedside.

“’Twas well you met Pall this morning, lad. His wife and two little children were waiting for him to come home.”

The words gave Ormarr the courage he had lacked.

“Father, may I give him Blesa? His cow won’t calve for six weeks, and they’ve no milk.”

“I’ve promised Pall to send him Skjalda, and a few loads of hay the first fine day the roads are passable. And I am going to take little Gudrun to live here—they’ve enough to do as it is.”

Ormarr’s heart was full of thankfulness to his father for his kindness to Pall. But he was shy of speaking; words might say less than he meant. And there must be no misunderstanding between his father and himself—this thought was always in Ormarr’s mind, for he loved his father deeply. Now in the darkness of the room, he could hardly distinguish his features, but in his mind’s eye he saw him clearly, sitting there on the bedside. He knew every line in the calm, composed face, finely framed in the dark hair and brown beard. Often he had been told that there was not a handsomer man to be found than his father. He had the physique of an athlete, and Ormarr knew his every movement and attitude. He strove now to breathe all his love towards the loved figure, vaguely seen in reality, yet clear as ever to his mind. He felt that his father could not fail to perceive the mute expression of his loving gratitude.

For a while both were silent. Then Ørlygur rose, and smoothing his son’s hair, he said:

“You know, Ormarr, that all I possess will in time belong to you and your brother. Then you will be able to give away more than trifles. At present, you have little to use in charity, but what you have, you may do with as you please. Remember that it is our duty to help those who are poorer wherever we can. And when you hear of any one that needs a helping hand, always come to me. Wealth is not lost by charity. And now good-night—it is time we were asleep.”

He went back to his bed, and a moment after, spoke again.

“Ormarr, you remember how generous your mother always was. You seem to grow more like her every day. I think she would have been very happy tonight.”

Ormarr burst into tears, hiding his face in the pillow to make no sound. And after a little while, he fell asleep.

When he awoke next morning, he felt for the first time since his mother’s death as if she were invisibly present among them—as a link between his father and himself.

And he was filled with a proud sense of having entered into a secret covenant with his father; it gave him a feeling of manhood, of responsibility.

Bjarni Jonsson, the trader, and Daniel Sveisson, the parish priest,—Sera Daniel, as he was called,—sat drinking in Bjarni Jonsson’s front parlour. They were seated by the window, looking out over the fjord.

The sun was setting, and the shadow of the house was flung far out over the smooth sea. The smoke from the chimney had already reached the rocky haunt of the eider duck. The cliff was the home of immense flocks of many-coloured birds, for it was spring, and the breeding season was at its height. Numbers of gorgeous drakes were swimming round the rock, and amongst them a few plump and comely eider duck, taking an hour’s rest from their duties before sunset, leaving the nest and eggs to the care of the father birds.

Sera Daniel enjoyed the view, for he was looking out over his property. The eider-duck cliffs, even those farther out, were by ancient custom regarded as belonging to the living. And they brought him in a very nice little sum.

He puffed away at his long pipe in silence.

Bjarni noticed his contented air, and was not pleased. Surely it would be more reasonable that the revenue from the eider-duck cliffs should come to him, Bjarni, as owner of the shore lands. But priests were all alike, a greedy lot! For ages past they had been petted and spoiled with all sorts of unjust privileges and unreasonable perquisites. And what did they do for it all? Nothing in the least degree useful, nor ever had—unless it were something useful to grow fat themselves in a comfortable cure.

Such was Bjarni’s train of thought. And he meant it all quite earnestly. But he said nothing, for, outwardly, he and Sera Daniel were the best of friends—drank their grog together, and played cards in all good fellowship. At the moment, they were only waiting for the doctor to come and take a hand.

No, in his inmost heart Bjarni detested the priest; the portly figure of the man was a continual eyesore to him. Sera Daniel was a man of imposing presence, there was dignity and calm authority in his carriage and bearing, and Bjarni, having no such attributes himself, found herein further cause for jealousy.

It would be hard to find a less imposing specimen of the human male than Bjarni Jonsson, trader, of Hofsfjordur. Outwardly, he resembled more an ill-nourished errand boy than anything else. His face was grey and angular, the top of his head was covered with a growth of colourless hair, and his pale blue eyes were as a rule void of expression, for the reason that he was in constant fear of betraying his ever-present jealousy of every one and everything round him. And the struggle had marked his face, his eyes, every movement of his puny, stunted body, with a stamp of servile cunning. His clothes hung about him like the rags of a scarecrow in the field, the draggled moustache that hid most of his mouth added to the general impression of meanness and insincerity.

At a first glance, Sera Daniel presented a complete contrast.

His burly, well-fed body seemed to exhale an atmosphere of cordiality——an ecclesiastical cheerfulness which gave his whole bearing something of the stamp of the prelate. His fair hair carefully brushed back from the broad, arched forehead, the blue, beaming eyes, the frank expression of his clean-shaven face, which, however, never for a moment relapsed from the bright, superior, yet mild professional mask of dignity, of healthy godliness attained through inward strife and by the grace of Heaven; the placid, yet telling gestures of his somewhat large, plump hands; the sonorous voice with its echo of sanctity; and last, not least, his faultless black attire—in short, his whole outward appearance seemed to combine human forbearance and lofty understanding with the rare power of living a full and yet exemplary life, kindly chastening himself as well as others—all the qualities that go to the making of a true servant of the Lord.

But the simple, canny folk among whom he lived, and from whom he himself was sprung, had not been long in penetrating beneath these externals. They realized that he played his part well, and with a suitable mask, which they tolerated, even respecting him for the same—at any rate, in his presence, or when young people were about. But the elders among themselves were not afraid of unmasking Sera Daniel with a sly wink, as it were, in a manner of which he would certainly not have approved, nor found consistent with the respect due to their spiritual guide.

Men played their parts well in the parish of Hofsfjordur.

And in the opinion of his parishioners, Sera Daniel was not the only one who played a part at variance with the character behind the mask, though Sera Daniel himself might have believed so.

There was one family, or more exactly, a single figure, that did not fit in with the cast of the local comedy. A keen observer could not have failed to notice that the life of the community centred round this one man: a dominant figure among the rest, who knew how to shape their views according to his will. And he was a source of much annoyance to the actors proper, more especially those who had cast themselves for leading rÔles. That man was Ørlygur À Borg.

Ørlygur was in his forty-second year. From early youth he had been the natural leader among his fellows; first and foremost, of course, as only son and heir to Borg, but also by virtue of his personality, which was excellently suited to bear the rank and wealth and responsibility inherited from his forebears, who had, as far back as the memory of man, been the self-appointed and generally respected leaders of the community.

Ørlygur À Borg, apart from being the greatest landowner in the district, was also chairman of the local council, and led the singing in church—in short, all that an Icelander combining wealth with intellect and personality could attain.

Moreover—and this was perhaps the corner-stone in the edifice of his absolute authority—he was a conscientious adviser, an untiring and disinterested helper of the poor, and an experienced and successful, albeit unlicensed, veterinary surgeon. In this last capacity he was consulted not only by the district, but also by many from other counties, who were glad of his unfeed advice and skilful aid.

It was generally recognized that Ørlygur À Borg was ever ready to serve and assist any one, however humble, provided they accepted him as a ruler. He never tolerated any attempt to place others on a footing of equality with himself, or any violation of his privileges, however slight. To those who submitted to his sway, he was a mild and gracious god; to those who forgot the deference he demanded, he was a merciless tyrant, swooping down on them in defiance of all generally accepted notions of justice—though he would forget and forgive readily enough when it was over.

The peasants did not mind this. To them, Ørlygur À Borg was a kind of human Providence—no less inevitable, and probably more pleasant, than the divine. They knew, of course, that there was a King who ruled over all, including the King of Borg. But they were nevertheless inclined to place both on the same level. In the event of conflict arising, doubtless Ørlygur À Borg would be a match for the other—even to gaining for himself the armlet of sovereign power, as Halldor Snorrason had done in the fight with Harold Hardrada. Ørlygur was equal to that at least.

Their faith in him amounted almost to a religion. They felt themselves, under his protection, secure and well provided for.

Some few there were, however, who did not approve of the unlimited power generally conceded to Ørlygur À Borg, and disliked what they considered his unjustifiable assumption of superiority. This spring, there were at least three such discontented souls within the parish. Two of them we have met already—Sera Daniel and the trader, drinking their grog in the parlour looking over the sea. And the third of the rebels was the doctor, whom they were expecting to join them in a hand at cards.

The priest and the trader, when alone together, spoke but little. They had no interests in common. Their intellectual sphere was very limited, and both had the same characteristic of the narrow-minded: concentrating every atom of thought and will each on his own well-being. Consequently, all talk between the two was obviously insincere; so much so, that even these two not very sensitive beings realized the fact, and instinctively shrank from any intimacy of conversation.

On this occasion, as ill-luck would have it, the doctor kept them waiting longer than usual, and Bjarni, as host, could not well sit all the time without a word. At last, by way of saying something, he asked how the wool was getting on.

“Dry and packed three days ago,” answered Sera Daniel.

Bjarni’s eyes flashed, and a smile flickered for a moment over his wooden face.

Sera Daniel read that smile, and marked the scorn of it. But as the scorn, he knew, applied no less to the smiler than to himself he refrained, on principle, from taking offence.

Bjarni looked him straight in the face, and their eyes met. Then suddenly both realized that this innocent and haphazard attempt at casual conversation had opened up common ground between them, an unexpected community of interest where each had only thought to find the altogether unwished-for company of the other.

Bjarni did not quite know how to improve the opportunity at first. He decided on a gambit of innocent raillery.

“Yes, we’re ready to weigh it now, I suppose... that is, of course....”

Sera Daniel looked searchingly at him, unwilling as yet to take any definite step himself.

“What are you paying this season?”

“Sixty-five for best white, forty-two for black and mixed.”

Sera Daniel glanced at him with a curious smile. “Is that—ah—the ordinary price, or what you are paying Ørlygur À Borg?”

The trader’s face flushed violently; the hand holding the glass trembled a little. Without waiting for an answer, Sera Daniel made another shot.

“Or perhaps you are thinking of paying the same price to all—for once?”

Bjarni eyed him awhile in silence. He seemed to be turning over something in his mind. The priest felt the glance, and knew what lay behind it, but evinced no discomfiture. On the contrary, he met the trader’s eyes with a smile of irritating calm.

At last Bjarni spoke.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “if you can let me have your wool tomorrow morning.”

That same night Ormarr sat on the slope of the hill looking down to Hofsa—just above the spot where the wool from Borg was washed every spring. He was keeping watch over the clip. Large quantities were already dry and stowed in bags; the grassy slopes were dotted with little white piles of that which had still to be spread, waiting till the morning sun had drawn the dew.

Silently, filled with emotion, Ormarr gazed at the beauty and peace of the spring night. The sky was clear and blue, and bright as day.

Below him flowed the crystal rivulets, and farther off, above green mountain slopes veiled in the glistening web of dew, rose stark grey cliffs, furrowed by glimmering waters, higher up again, the luminous white of the snow peaks, tinted all the night through with the gold of dancing sun rays.

From his childhood Ormarr had claimed the privilege of keeping guard during the spring nights. In the earlier part of the season, he took his post on the freshly growing pasture lands, keeping the sheep and horses from straying in to nibble off the first blades of the young grass. Later, when the sheep were shorn and driven up to the mountains, he mounted guard over the wool, keeping a keen look-out for prowling vagabonds, and covering up the heaps with tarpaulin in case of sudden rain.

To him, the vigils of these quiet nights were as hours of devotion. During the lonely watches, he bared his soul in worship of the majesty of nature, free of the restraint he always felt in the presence of others. He drank in the fresh night air, with its sweetness of spring, like a precious draught. And at times, the depth of his feeling brought great tears to his eyes. Alone, he could allow himself to some extent thus to give way to emotion, yet even then not without a certain sense of shame.

Tonight he was sadder than ever. It would be fine tomorrow, the last of the wool would dry during the day, in time to be fetched away before evening.

That meant it was his last night’s watch this spring.

His eyes took leave of the wild duck swimming in the stream near their nests, that he had cared for and protected; several times he had waded out to see how they fared. He looked the hillside up and down, bidding good-bye to the buttercups and dandelions—every morning he had watched their opening, a solitary witness, as they unfolded at the gracious bidding of the sun. He noted, too, the great clusters of tiny-flowered forget-me-nots that grew everywhere around.

At five o’clock he rose to go. From one of the chimneys smoke was already rising, thin and clear as from a censer; old Ossa had hung the big kettle over the fire for early coffee. A big plate of new bread would be waiting for him, with butter, meat, cheese, and a steaming cup of coffee—a delicious meal.

From force of habit he glanced round before moving off; counted the chimneys from which smoke was rising, and looked about for any other signs of life. Then suddenly he realized that something unusual was going on. With trembling hands he adjusted the telescope he always carried, and looked towards the spot.

A moment later he lowered the glass and stared in bewilderment towards the fjord. In a flash he realized what was happening, and set off home at full speed.

Heedless of Ossa and the meal she had already waiting for him, he dashed up to his father’s room, not even stopping, as was his wont, to caress the fair curly head of tiny Gudrun, the three-year-old daughter of Pall À Seyru, whom Ørlygur had adopted. Ormarr loved the child.

He did not stop till he reached his father’s bed. When Ørlygur opened his eyes, he saw Ormarr standing before him, very pale, and breathless with his speed. The sight startled even the King of Borg out of his habitual calm; he sat up with a start. Realizing instinctively that something was wrong, he reached out for his clothes at once.

“What is it, my son?”

“Father... Sera Daniel... carting his wool in already to the station....”

Ørlygur was already getting into his clothes. He stopped motionless for a second; then a faint smile passed over his face, and he seemed to be thinking. In less than a minute he had made up his mind.

“The horses!”

Ormarr did not wait for any further order. He hurried out of the room, snatched up a bridle, and ran out calling:

“Gryla, KØput, Kondut!”

Barking and delighted, the farm dogs clustered round him, and followed him out into the paddock, where he caught his father’s horse and vaulted into the saddle.

Ten minutes later, forty horses were stamping and neighing ready for work. Swiftly they were brought round, the pack-saddle put on, and loaded up with the finished wool.

Ormarr had overheard his father’s brief, sharp orders to the foreman, a man he could trust. He had kept close at hand all the time, listening eagerly to what was said. At last, when all was ready for the start, he looked up earnestly.

“Father—may I?”

Ørlygur À Borg looked at his son in surprise.

“You? Nay, lad, I’m afraid that would hardly do.”

But his voice was not so decided, harsh almost, as it was wont to be when he refused a request. He even glanced inquiringly, as it were, at the foreman, who smiled back merrily in return. That seemed to settle it. Ormarr’s eyes were bright with anticipation.

Ørlygur laid one hand on his son’s shoulder—not patting his head or cheek as he generally did—and said:

“Good. You can do the talking. You heard what is to be said and done—you are sure you understand?”

Ormarr did not give himself time to answer. But his leap into the saddle was enough; evidently he had grasped the spirit of his father’s commands.

They did not take the usual route to the trading station; anything moving along that road would be visible from below for the greater part of the way. And they were to come unexpectedly. Therefore they took the road across Borgarhals and Nordurdal, so as to reach the station before any knew of their coming.

It was the unwritten law of the district that no wool should be brought to the station before the King of Borg had sent in his. The custom dated back further than any could remember, it was part of the traditional precedence generally conceded to the masters of Borg. At first, it had sprung from a natural desire among the people to show their respect for their chieftain and benefactor. Then, when it had grown to be a time-honoured custom, the men of Borg had taken care to have it maintained, regarding any violation as a personal affront, a challenge—and none had ever known such challenge to remain unpunished.

There was, moreover, another custom in connection with the sales of wool—to wit, that Ørlygur À Borg fixed his own price for his, while the others who had wool to sell had to be satisfied with what the trader chose to pay them. Ørlygur took no heed of ruling market prices, but based his figures on the prices he had to pay during the past year for goods he himself had bought from the trader.

No one grumbled at the arrangement. Ørlygur always paid cash for what he ordered, while every one else found it necessary to take goods on credit; all had an account, great or small, with Bjarni, and were in consequence dependent on his good-will. They knew, that in the event of Bjarni’s good-will failing, there was always Ørlygur, ever ready to help whoever asked.

Truth to tell, Bjarni, the trader, was not a little nervous when Sera Daniel arrived with his wool early in the morning. He did his best, however, to conceal his uneasiness, but the false jocularity with which he strove to hide it was belied by the anxious glances wherewith he scanned every now and then the road from Borg.

The weighing in was done in the big warehouse. Sera Daniel was smiling and confident as usual, though his eyes showed signs of having slept ill the night before.

“Well, Sera Daniel,” said Bjarni, who was watching the weighing with mock earnestness, “this is a bold stroke of yours indeed.” He glanced hurriedly in the direction of Borg as he spoke. “Frankly I was not at all sure that you would have ventured, when it came to the point. Anyhow, I fancy this marks the end of ‘the King’s’ supremacy.”

The doctor came up, yawning, and rubbing his eyes.

“Aha—this looks nice,” he observed. And then, referring to Bjarni’s last remark, he went on: “And it’s high time we did start acting for ourselves. Rebellion, eh? I tell you what, I’ll stand drinks all round when you’ve finished here.”

There was great commotion at the station; folk hung about in crowds outside the stockroom. A few only dared to enter; the rest preferred to wait and see what happened. They were not without a certain satisfaction at the act of rebellion, albeit aware that it was their duty to feel indignant. There was a general atmosphere of excitement—what would happen next?

“And this year the price of wool is the same to all,” said Bjarni exultantly to the doctor. “If he doesn’t care to deal with me, he can go to Jon Borgari.”

The doctor laughed loudly, and Sera Daniel smiled approval. Jon Borgari was a man of sixty, who had set up on his own account in a small way, some five years back. On payment of fifty Kroner, he had acquired a licence to trade. His store was a mean little place, his whole stock-in-trade hardly amounted to more than one of Ørlygur’s ordinary purchases from Bjarni. He had found it impossible to do any considerable business, as the peasants were all in debt to Bjarni already, and could not transfer their custom elsewhere. Jon was considerably older than Bjarni, but the latter’s business was of longer standing. Bjarni had moved to Hofsfjordur twelve years before, and partly, at least, by his industry and smartness, he had compelled an old-established house in the place, a branch of a foreign firm, to close down. This he could never have done had it not been for the patronage of Ørlygur À Borg.

It was commonly supposed that Jon Borgari had saved a good sum in his time—and the idea was further supported by his recent marriage to a maiden of eighteen, who had accepted him in preference to many eager suitors of the younger generation. But no one ever dreamed of considering Jon Borgari as a possible “purveyor to the King.”

Bjarni’s warehousemen were busy weighing in the priest’s consignment. There was still no sign of life on the road from Borg. And gradually even Bjarni himself began to forget his fears.

Then suddenly the blow fell. Ormarr with his five men, and the laden horses, came galloping up: Ørlygur À Borg had sent his wool.

Bjarni was struck with amazement; for a moment he could not grasp the situation. Sera Daniel retired prudently to the back of the room. The doctor joined him, with an expression of pleasant anticipation on his puffy face. This was going to be amusing. And, fortunately, he himself had nothing to do with the affair.

When the first shock had passed off, Bjarni realized with a feeling of relief that Ørlygur himself had stayed at home. To the onlooker this was a wonder in itself. Never before had Ørlygur À Borg sent in his wool without accompanying it in person.

For a moment all sorts of wild conjectures passed through Bjarni’s brain. And then—he committed the fatal error of coming to the conclusion which best suited himself; Ørlygur must have stayed away in order to avoid being present at his own defeat, in the setting aside of ancient custom.

Ormarr did not dismount. He rode straight up to the trader, and said:

“My father has given orders that his wool is to be weighed in at once.”

He spoke without the slightest trace of emotion; as if it were a matter of course that the trader should stop the weighing of any one else’s wool and attend to Ørlygur’s forthwith.

Bjarni again indulged in an erroneous inference: Ørlygur À Borg had stayed away because he feared his demands might be refused. And if “the King” himself thought that possible—why, then, it could be done!

A wave of joy swept over Bjarni. He felt as if he had already won a decisive battle against heavy odds. And his reply was given in a tone more overbearing than usual—though he regretted it the moment he had spoken.

“We can’t very well stop weighing in this lot now. What do you say, Sera Daniel?”

Sera Daniel said nothing at all. His friend Bjarni would have to carry the matter through without assistance.

Bjarni turned to Ormarr once more—the boy was still in the saddle—and adopting a fatherly tone, went on:

“But it won’t take very long, you know. If you start unloading the horses now, and get the bales undone, while we’re finishing this, there won’t be much time lost.”

But before any one could say more, a new development occurred. Ørlygur À Borg, on his snorting, fiery mount, Sleipnir, dashed into the stockroom.

His entry came like a thunder-clap. The onlookers, who had kept their distance up to now, drew closer in, holding their breath. No one, not even Ørlygur’s own men, with the exception of Ormarr, had expected this.

Bjarni, Sera Daniel, and the doctor greeted him in servile fashion; he answered with an impatient gesture, as of a sovereign in ungracious mood towards importunate underlings. Then riding up to Ormarr, he asked quietly:

“What are you waiting for?”

“They are weighing in Sera Daniel’s wool.”

“Has Bjarni refused to take over mine at once?”

“Yes. He asked us to unload and wait.”

“Good. We will take it back to Borg.”

Then, having given his orders, Ørlygur rode up to Bjarni, pressing him so close that the foam from his horse bespattered the trader, forcing him to retreat step by step.

“Now mark you this, Bjarni Jonsson. You can hire horses yourself to fetch that wool from Borg. But do not come until you are prepared to pay a heavy price. I warn you, my wool this year will not be cheap.”

Then, without a word of farewell, he turned his back on the speechless and astonished trio, and with a cheery smile to the crowd, rode homeward, followed by his men.

That day messengers were sent out from Borg to all the farmers round, to say that Ørlygur À Borg was willing to buy wool for cash, at the same prices as offered by the trader.

Next morning, he sent off one of his men with a letter and a saddle-horse to Jon Borgari. Jon read the letter, mounted at once, and rode back to Borg, where he was closeted with Ørlygur for some time. When he left the place, he looked as if ten years had fallen from his shoulders.

The farmers understood that Ørlygur’s offer to buy their wool for cash was equivalent to a command—they must choose between him and the trader. And they did not hesitate a moment.

Ørlygur paid them in gold and silver. Then, with his help, they wrote out the lists of the goods they required, the lists being subsequently handed to Jon Borgari. Jon was now Ørlygur’s ally, and in a very short time his unpretending little store was threatening the trade of Bjarni Jonsson’s own.

Bjarni Jonsson’s trick had recoiled upon himself. He got Sera Daniel’s wool—but not a pound from any one beside.

One burning hot afternoon, late in the summer, Ormarr was sitting up on the edge of a high ridge of Borgarfjall, to the west of Borg. A great flock of sheep grazed on the plateau below.

Ormarr, as shepherd, found his task light. It was just after lambing-time, and for the first two or three days the sheep had been difficult to handle. Full of anxiety, and bleating piteously, they rushed about in all directions, vainly seeking their offspring. Now, however, they had more or less accustomed themselves to the new state of things, and kept fairly well together, so that Ormarr was free to devote most of his time to his favourite pursuits: playing the violin, and dreaming.

He made a curious picture, this fourteen-year-old peasant lad, as he sat there, clad in rough homespun, his clothes fitting clumsily, and hiding the lithe beauty of his frame. The clear-cut face, the strong chin resting on the violin, and the lean hand with its supple fingers running over the strings, contrasted strangely with the everyday coat, darned and patched in many places.

Often he fell into a reverie, his dark eyes gazing on the distant mountains, the fingers relaxing, and the slender brown hand with the bow resting on his knee. The face, too thin for a boy of his age, bore a grave and thoughtful expression, with a touch of melancholy. The black masses of curling, unruly hair, and the faint coppery tinge in the skin, suggested Celtic descent.

Yet despite the trace of something foreign in his appearance, he was at heart a true child of his country. The wistful, dreamy thoughts that burned in his dark, passionate eyes, betrayed that rich and abundant imagination peculiar to the sons of Iceland, fostered by the great solitude and desolate yet fertile grandeur of the land itself. So deeply is the sense of that grandeur rooted in their hearts, that even those who have roamed the world over, and lived most of their lives in milder and richer climes, will yet declare that Iceland is the most beautiful of all.

Another typical trait in Ormarr’s nature was the melancholy that consumed his soul—a product of youthful self-absorption without the corresponding experience.

His descent from the ancient and noble race of Borg was apparent in his chariness of words, in his credulity,—it was a thing inconceivable, that he or any of his should tell a falsehood,—in his self-reliance, and strong belief that he was in the right, as long as he followed the dictates of his own conscience. Young as he was, every look, every feature, betrayed the born chieftain in him.

This was evident most of all in his music—which consisted mainly of dreams and fantasies he had himself composed. From the first day he had learned to hold the instrument, he had thrown into his music a burning interest and an overwhelming love. It gave him the only possible outlet for the longing that filled him.

Loneliness and despair sobbed in the sweet and passionate strains; the strings vibrated with a deep desire, that yet had no conscious aim, but the sound brought relief, though never satisfying to the full.

His playing revealed his soul as a wanderer in the wilderness—as a giant whose strength is doomed to slumber under the weight of unbreakable shackles; it showed that, to him, life was a slow, consuming pain, the purpose of which he could not grasp; that he was born with a wealth of power, yet found no single thing to which he could devote it. Here he was, heir to the estate, and yet—perhaps for that very reason—born in bondage.

Despite his youth, Ormarr was alive to the danger of his changing moods, which, as he often thought, bordered on insanity. Proud as he was of being heir to Borg, he nevertheless felt a smouldering hatred of his heritage, since it fettered him from birth. With all these longings in his soul, he was conscious of being himself part and parcel of Borg; something told him that here, and here alone, was the soil in which his personality and varying moods could grow into one harmonious and united whole. He had only to follow in the steps of his fathers. But this, again, seemed too easy a solution of the riddle of life—he preferred a struggle to the death. It was as if his descent, and his natural prospects, excluded him from all the adventures he longed for; the part for which he seemed cast was beneath the level of his strength and ability.

But he realized that any outward expression of such thoughts would compromise him, and bring disgrace upon his family: he must conceal them, hide them in silence, never breathe a word of it all to any other. Only in his music, where he could speak without betraying himself by words, could he venture to ease his heart of its burden.

He felt like a galley slave, chained to the oar for life, without hope of escape. The idea of rebellion, of emancipation, had never crossed his mind. Had any one suggested such a thing, he would have risen up in arms against it at once, for, in spite of all, he felt himself so at one with his race that to desert it thus would be nothing less than to betray himself.

That same afternoon an unexpected event took place at Borg. The Vicar, Sera Daniel, accompanied by Bjarni Jonsson, came to call.

Ørlygur À Borg was resting on his bed, which in the daytime was covered, like a couch, with a many-coloured rug, when news was brought him of the visit. The girl informed him that she had asked the visitors into the big hall. Ørlygur smiled when he heard their names. He had just returned from a sale of driftwood, held at the instance of one of the farmers whose lands ran down to the shore, and who yearly gathered in large stocks of washed-up timber, which was subsequently sold, either privately or by auction. He was tired, and felt too comfortable where he was to care about moving.

“Let them come in here if they have anything to say,” he told the girl.

The two men exchanged glances when the message was brought them. Each found a certain satisfaction in witnessing the humiliation of the other, which helped him to bear his own. Nevertheless, on entering Ørlygur’s room, both were visibly embarrassed.

Ørlygur himself did nothing to set them at their ease. Without rising, he took their proffered hands, answered their greetings with a murmur of something inaudible, and indicated that they might be seated.

There was but a single chair in the room, placed between the two beds. Sera Daniel would willingly have left it to Bjarni—though he considered it due to himself and his superior social position to take it in order not to be too close to his host. Bjarni, however, had a similar disinclination, and forestalled his companion by taking a seat at once on the edge of the bed, well pleased at having attained his end, while seeming to act from sheer natural modesty.

For a while no one spoke. Ørlygur stretched himself, and smiled faintly, awaiting the explanation of the visit.

Sera Daniel cleared his throat for an introduction he had prepared beforehand. But he got no further than a slight cough. And, looking at Bjarni, he perceived that the latter was in a like predicament, his usually grey face turning a fiery red.

Ørlygur was enjoying the situation, and maintained a ruthless silence.

Sera Daniel soon realized that he could look for no assistance from the trader, who apparently considered that the priest’s closer proximity to the enemy carried with it the obligation to deliver the first attack. At last he stammered out:

“Er—we have come—to tell the truth—to see you. H’m—about a matter that—er—distresses us somewhat. And we thought that—perhaps—it might be not altogether pleasant to yourself—that is to say—of course—I mean, considering....”

Ørlygur slowly rose to a sitting position. Then setting his hands firmly on his knees and leaning forward slightly, he looked straight into the other’s eyes.

“To tell the truth, Sera Daniel, I am not aware of any matter which distresses me in any way at the moment. I fancy your idea of something mutually unpleasant must be due to a misunderstanding. Your troubles are hardly mine, you know; the more so since we have seen very little of each other for quite a long time now.”

“No, no, of course not. But—you know better than any one else that it is you who set the example to all the parish.”

“If that is so, you explain yourself badly. I stay away from church, certainly—for the simple reason that I prefer to avoid meeting a clergyman whom I dislike. My affair with you will keep me away from church until it is settled—possibly as long as you conduct the service there. If the rest of your parishioners elect to do the same, it merely means that your conscience will soon forbid you to remain as spiritual guide to a flock who avoid you. If, on the other hand, your conscience should prove more accommodating in this respect, I have no doubt that the authorities will discover in a short time what you are unable to see for yourself. You take my meaning, Sera Daniel?”

“I am not sure that I do. I cannot see why a thoughtless action on my part last spring—which I deeply regret—should embitter you to such an extent that you stake the spiritual welfare of the congregation in revenge.”

“Oh, that’s rather too much. You say you regret your thoughtlessness last spring. I translate that as meaning simply that you regret having managed so badly; that you realize the failure of your clumsy conspiracy against me, with our friend the trader there—who seems worn out by the heavy business of the summer season, since he apparently can’t open his mouth. And then you haven’t even the decency to keep this sordid affair to itself, but must mix it up with the spiritual welfare of your congregation. Well, it simply shows that you are more impudent even than I had thought.”

“If it were not that my position as incumbent here forces me to set aside my personal interests—for the sake of the parish, you understand—and to avert if possible the disastrous consequences—”

“Disastrous? My dear Sera Daniel, you are a marvel. Unless you take ‘the parish’ as meaning yourself and some few others, I cannot see your argument at all. I do not regret, and see no reason to regret, what has taken place, and I am afraid ‘the parish’ takes the same view. I am not one of those men who act hastily and afterwards regret their folly. Candidly, Sera Daniel, your ideas are too vague and too complicated for me to care to discuss them further. I have had quite enough of empty talk; let us come to facts. And here I imagine that Bjarni Jonsson will be better able to speak. How very fortunate that he happened to come at the same time.”

Then, turning to Bjarni, Ørlygur went on:

“As far as I remember, we arranged last time I saw you, that you could come out here and buy my wool when you were prepared to pay a decent price.”

“Certainly—yes, of course. That is, I am ready... to discuss....”

“Very well, then. I hope the discussion will be brief. Let me make it clear at the start that my terms are fixed, and not intended as a basis for negotiation. You can, of course, refuse them if you prefer, but I must insist on the matter being settled quickly. I need not tell you, I suppose, that I bought up all the wool I could last spring, when I realized that prices would be exceptionally high—your books have no doubt made that evident to yourself already. I am willing to let you have all my wool at a reasonable price, as I know that many of the peasants hereabout are in your debt, and that you are anxious for a settlement. I myself am not in your debt. I do not owe you money, and certainly very little consideration. My peasants, on the other hand—you must excuse my calling them ‘my peasants,’ we are linked, you know, by friendship and common interests—my peasants owe you money, and I am willing to offer my wool in clearance of their debts, or as much of their debts as it will cover. The debt will thus be transferred to a creditor who can perhaps afford to give them longer credit. You, I take it, are chiefly anxious to make money.”

Bjarni sat with downcast eyes. The word of “the King” cut him like a knife. He realized well enough that his business at Hofsfjordur would be entirely ruined. Up till now he had cherished a faint hope that Ørlygur would spare him, if only he humbled himself sufficiently. At length he realized, that though Ørlygur had mercifully saved him from absolute ruin, and reduced his loss by paying the farmers’ debts, he would never have another customer unless he could succeed in winning him over again. And the present reception did not seem to offer any great hope of re-establishing that connection.

Yet he still clung to the hope that by absolute humility he might work on Ørlygur to extend his leniency still further. Therefore, without a murmur, he agreed to Ørlygur’s terms. He could not reconcile himself to the idea of leaving the place and throwing up the excellent position he had toiled and planned so many years to gain. He could not bear to think that all was absolutely lost through his own stupidity.

His blood boiled at the thought, but he dared not show it; his fate depended now on Ørlygur’s next move. And meanwhile, his little cunning soul was on the alert for any opportunity of showing “the King” what a loyal subject he could be, and would, if only he might be forgiven this once.

Nevertheless, his heart was filled with a vindictive hatred—first and foremost hatred of Ørlygur, then of Sera Daniel and the rest of the community. Fate had been cruel to him, and was mocking him into the bargain—the one consolation about the whole affair was that things seemed as bad at least, if not worse, for Sera Daniel.

Had Bjarni, the trader, but known that Ørlygur À Borg was at that very moment filled with loathing for the servility he displayed, he would have given vent to a burst of rage on the spot—and it might have saved him, as nothing else could.

Ørlygur certainly felt sorry for the fellow; he knew how much Bjarni had at stake, and how harmless and altogether inferior he really was. He decided, therefore, to spare him, if he could, by unreasonable demands, lead him to give up his servile attitude and lose his temper in honest fashion.

“Well, then, my horses and men are at your disposal for carrying the wool, if you wish to buy it—the price of transport, of course, being in addition. I can let you have fifty horses for the work, so it will not take long. The price—well, it will simplify matters to fix one price for all wool of the same colour. That is to say: one Krone for all white, and half a Krone for the rest.”

Bjarni turned pale; for the moment he found it difficult to control his features. He looked at Ørlygur with the eyes of a wounded dog. But Ørlygur seemed not to notice his imploring gaze, and went on carelessly:

“Well, what do you say? Is that fair?”

“Yes,” stammered Bjarni in reply. Then, quickly, and with an assumption of easiness, he added:

“Well, then, that is settled. Tomorrow?” He nodded as he said the last word; he felt that the moment had come to change the tone of the conversation. This cheerful acceptance on his part of an absurd price was a friendly hand, which he expected Ørlygur would grasp at once.

The effect, however, was contrary to what he had looked for. Ørlygur seemed to take it as a personal affront; he rose quickly, and said in an angry voice:

“Very well, then!”

The two visitors also rose, and without a word all three walked from the room.

Sera Daniel also was highly dissatisfied with the result of his visit. Both he and Bjarni were in a state of painful suspense with regard to the future; they could not persuade themselves that this was Ørlygur’s last word in the matter. It was too dismal a failure for them to accept it as final. Sera Daniel had hoped that the threatening cloud of Ørlygur’s displeasure, which had darkened his work and prospects all through the summer, would be dispelled. He fretted inwardly over every word he had said, and the manner in which he had spoken. Bjarni, too, had cherished similar hopes; an amicable settlement meant even more to him than to the priest.

As if by common instinct, both men hesitated to leave; their manner showed plainly that there was more in their minds. But Ørlygur pretended not to understand their anxiety, and left it to them to make any further move.

Meantime, they had reached the stables. And here they stopped. Ørlygur seemed only waiting for them to take their leave; but the visitors still hoped for some opening—something to happen, they did not quite know what.

Then suddenly the quivering notes of a violin were heard. Here was a welcome excuse for delaying their departure. Ørlygur was listening with delight, as so often before, to his son’s playing; for a while all three stood motionless.

Ørlygur smiled; a smile that covered, perhaps, both his admiration and his aversion—the two conflicting feelings which Ormarr’s playing always seemed to awaken at the same time.

Then Sera Daniel spoke—simply and naturally:

“How beautiful!” But at the same moment he reflected that he ought to know Ørlygur’s character better than to say things like that. And by way of altering the impression of his words, he added, in an entirely different tone:

“There is the making of a fortune in that music.”

Ørlygur À Borg did not grasp his meaning. And though he knew that Sera Daniel would never dare to make fun of him, “the King,” to his face, he was on his guard. He looked at the speaker with a glance of cold inquiry.

Sera Daniel went on:

“In foreign countries there are artists who make fortunes by playing the violin. I have often wished that I were an artist like that... it must be wonderful to travel from one great city to another and be rich. I have heard such men in Copenhagen, when I was studying there.”

When Ørlygur À Borg realized that the priest’s words pointed, not to impossible realms of fancy, but to a world of beautiful reality, the look in his eyes changed. So strange was his glance, so complete the alteration, that Sera Daniel flushed with pleasure at the effect of his words.

For a while Ørlygur stared straight before him, as if in thought. Great things were passing in his mind. Where others would deliberate at length, Ørlygur À Borg was capable of taking in a situation in a moment. He was thinking of Ormarr’s and his brother’s future, and with his wonted respect for sudden impulses, which he was almost inclined to attribute to divine influence, he made up his mind quickly.

He turned to the priest.

“While I think of it, Sera Daniel, there is a matter I have been wanting to talk over with you for some time. Are you going back home by the shorter road? Then I will go with you part of the way.”

The trader took the words as a hint to himself to disappear. Bidding good-bye to Ørlygur and the priest, he rode off with a troubled mind. This was worse than all; an understanding between Ørlygur and Sera Daniel left him utterly hopeless.

Sera Daniel, on the other hand, was delighted at the honour conferred on him by the King of Borg. Leading his horse, he walked down the road with Ørlygur, waiting for what was to come.

Ørlygur had made no mistake in calculating that the fright he had given the priest would suffice to keep him from any further attempts at revolt. After that lesson in the unwritten law of the parish, Sera Daniel would be ready to serve him to the utmost, if need should arise. And as things were turning out now, the priest might well be useful to him, in regard to the future of his sons. Ørlygur determined to make peace.

They walked on for a while in silence. Then Ørlygur spoke:

“Sera Daniel—would you undertake to teach Ormarr Danish? He knows a little, and it would be as well for him to improve on it before he goes away. He will be leaving for Copenhagen this autumn.”

Sera Daniel was almost moved.

“A pleasure indeed—a very great pleasure. I am glad to hear he is going. There is a great future in store for him—of that I feel sure. I have rarely heard any one play so well; he seems far in advance of his age. You should send him to the Conservatoire at Copenhagen—they will make a great artist of him there.”

“Yes—or to some eminent teacher.”

“At first—yes, of course.”

“From first to last,” Ørlygur corrected, with a smile. “He must have the very best teacher throughout. I am going to give him every possible chance. And with regard to his stay in Copenhagen, and matters generally, perhaps you could give him some hints....”

They discussed the matter at length. And when Sera Daniel rode home, his fickle heart swelled with love and admiration for Ørlygur the Rich, who had become his gracious patron after the long, dreary months of enmity.

That evening when Ormarr had driven the sheep into the fold, he saw his father coming slowly towards him, and realized that Ørlygur wished to speak to him.

The two sat down on the grassy wall of the paddock.

“Bjarni Jonsson has been up to buy the wool.”

Ørlygur spoke without any sign of triumph in his voice, and Ormarr evinced no excitement at the information. To both it seemed only natural and inevitable that the matter should have ended thus.

“Sera Daniel came with him.”

After this there was a pause. Then Ørlygur looked his son in the eyes. “Ormarr,” he went on, “I have something important to say to you. You are growing up now, and we must think of your future. Not yours alone, but that of your brother and the estate as well. In short, it concerns Borg. Have you any wish to take over the management of the place?”

“I don’t know....” Ormarr gazed thoughtfully before him.

“Well, I will tell you what I have been thinking of today. Sera Daniel tells me that there are men in foreign countries whose whole work in life consists in playing the violin. You understand, of course, that first of all they must learn to master it thoroughly. They are taught at schools, or by private teachers. Would you care to do the same—to learn to play properly—rules and notes and everything?”

“That means—going abroad?”

Ormarr’s voice trembled, and he turned a little pale. The golden bird of fortune and adventure flashed into the vision of his mind.

“Yes. I spoke to Sera Daniel about teaching you English as well as Danish. While you are in Copenhagen, you might find time to study other languages, without neglecting your music. Languages are always useful: if you become a great artist, you may have to travel in many countries, play your violin everywhere. Anyhow, you shall have the chance. Perhaps your liking for it may not last, or you may find you have not talent enough. If so, you can come back to Iceland again—to Borg if you care to. What do you think—would you like to try?”

“Yes, father—if you will let me. It would be wonderful.”

“I pray God I may be allowed to live a few years more. If you come back here, you will still have your birthright to the estate. But if you prefer to give up your claim, I will see that your brother is brought up to take over the place himself. The next few years will show what is best.”

Ormarr could not sleep that night. He lay weaving dreams about his future.

To him, it all appeared one bright, sunny vision. He pictured life as one grand triumphal procession. He knew that the country he was going to abounded in forests of bright-hued beech and dark pine woods; with lovely orchards, where ripe fruit hung on the trees ready for one to pick and eat. He had read of Danish gardens, where roses and lilac filled the air with their scent.

He counted the days now till he should be able to look with his own eyes on palaces he had known hitherto only from pictures in books—real palaces of kings! They would be no longer castles in the air to him, but real; grand piles of solid stone and mortar. He could walk through their halls, breathe the air of bygone centuries that hung there still; could touch with his hands the very walls that had stood there for hundreds of years.

He painted for himself a future like that of one of the old Icelandic bards. He would play to kings and nobles. There was a lust of travel in his blood, of wandering through life by the royal road of glory and fame. It was almost painful to remember that he had ever thought of living all his days at Borg, as his ancestors had done.

The great world called to him, and every fibre in him answered to the call. He knew that there, where he was going, were wonderful machines contrived to do the work of men. He had never been able to think of such machines as really inanimate things; he longed to see with his own eyes the arms, hands, and fingers they must surely possess. Yet, at the same time, the thought of it made his flesh creep.

Think—to fill a room with light by the mere turning of a switch! And to talk with people through a wire—which he imagined as hollow. And there were places where conjurers worked miracles, and acrobats performed impossible feats; clowns jested and played tricks.... And gardens filled with cages of strange beasts from countries even farther off....

All these and many other things which he had read of, and grown to consider as accessible only to a favoured few, were now to be part of his own surroundings in his daily life. He would live in a city with streets like deep chasms between unscalable cliffs—cave-hollowed cliffs peopled with human beings, instead of giants and goblins. He would go to theatres, where actors seemed to kill one another, and thunder, lightning, and snow could be brought into play within four walls. He would travel endless miles in machine-driven cars that raced along over rails of steel....

Ormarr lay in his dark room, his eyes wide open, letting his fancy paint all manner of visions in the richest colours. His mind was overwhelmed by a turmoil of new sensations.

He tried to recall, one after another, all the pictures he had seen of things in foreign lands; even to portraits of celebrities, of jockeys galloping over turf, and sordid lithographs with impossible figures in ridiculous postures, such as he had seen stuck up in the local stores.

A fever of anticipation burned in his veins. And when at last, towards morning, he dropped off into a broken sleep, he was still surrounded by a crowd of the impressions he had conjured up while awake. They vexed him now; he found himself being thrown from cars that raced away from him at full speed, losing his way in gloomy streets and labyrinthine passages, being snatched up by the steel arms of strange machines and crushed to pieces; standing with one end of a wire between his teeth and vainly trying to speak to a famous man at the other end; he switched on a light and set the house on fire, and was only saved from being burned to death by waking to find the sun shining full in his face.

When a youth is thrown from the realm of fancy and solitude into a world of realities, one of two things takes place: either a process of reaction sets in, and he fortifies his soul in some faith or tradition; or he clutches greedily at life, becomes intoxicated by it, and loses his foothold. Whatever happens to him depends less upon strength of character than upon chance.

In Ormarr’s case, reality fell short of his expectation in some respects, and in others exceeded it. He felt, also, as if he were born anew, entering upon an existence based on new principles.

With all that he had looked forward to most keenly he was frankly disappointed. On the other hand, he found an order of things, of people and their actions, so alien to his own mind and development that he felt himself an outsider, uncultured and inferior. It seemed to him then, that the only possible way to make up for lost time was to fling himself headlong into this human maelstrom and swim for dear life. And before he was himself aware of it, he was floating with the tide. He soon proved to have all the requisite qualifications for drifting so on the waters of life; he had means enough, and withal a pleasant manner, with a certain air of distinction, gay and yet self-possessed....

It did not occur to him to consider whither he was drifting; there was no time to think. That he saw no land ahead or to either side did not trouble him in the least. Life was pleasant enough—and since its essential aim seemed to be that of making it pleasant, why trouble one’s head about anything?

Fortunately, there was always one plank at hand to which he could turn for safety in case of need—unless he wilfully thrust it from him. And as this resource in itself possessed an extreme fascination for him—the chance of becoming a great artist, a world-famed master—Ormarr never quite lost touch of it, though he found it at times somewhat burdensome, a check upon his natural movements towards pleasure and enjoyment.

His consistency in this respect was largely due to the personality of his teacher, Abel Grahl, who had taken a kind and fatherly interest in the boy from their first meeting. On the day after his arrival at Copenhagen, Ormarr set out from his hotel at a very early hour, and went in search of Grahl. Sera Daniel had instructed him to seek out this man and not rest until he had persuaded him to become his teacher.

“Your career may depend upon it,” were the priest’s parting words.

Abel Grahl was an elderly man, and life had used him hardly. At twenty, he had stood on the threshold of fame: his first appearance as a violinist, in London, had created an unusual stir. Offers of engagements came to him in plenty, but the day before he was to start on a tour, embracing the principal cities of the world, he had managed to hurt his finger slightly while out boating with some friends. Blood-poisoning set in, and the finger had to be amputated. Then for three years he was lost to the world; his friends and relations believed him dead. Suddenly he reappeared in his native town of Copenhagen, a silent, retiring man; no one ever learned where or how he had spent the intervening years. Even his intimates refrained from asking, partly out of regard for his grief, partly for fear of reopening some trouble not yet healed. He made his living as a teacher of music especially with the violin; but his pupils were few, since he mercilessly rejected all save those who showed unusual promise.

He lived a solitary life, in a suite of rooms badly in need of repair. The landlord had given him permission to remove the inner partitions, and turn the whole place into one big studio; the kitchen he used as a bedroom.

Grahl was not in the best of tempers on being awakened at six in the morning by a continued and vigorous ringing at the bell. But at the sight of his visitor, a lad in ill-fitting homespun clothes, with a calfskin bag tucked under his arm (Grahl at once divined that it contained a violin), he found some difficulty in keeping his countenance. He looked at the boy with a faint, good-humoured smile.

Ormarr endeavoured to explain, in very imperfect Danish, the object of his visit.

The old man burst out laughing. Then, noticing the boy’s confusion, he asked him in, and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Do you mean to say you have come all the way from Iceland to learn the violin? What did you say your name was?”

“Ormarr, son of Ørlygur À Borg.”

“I see, Ormarr À Borg, then.”

“Yes, Ormarr Ørlygsson.”

“Ormarr Ørlygsson. And how did you manage to find me?”

“It was quite easy. I had the address written on a paper, and asked the way.”

“Yes, yes—but I mean, who told you to come to me?”

“Sera Daniel—the priest. I was to come to you and get you to teach me—you and no other. He said my career might depend upon it. And he said if you refused, if you sent me away once or twice or more, I was to try again.”

“H’m. Seems clear enough. And you look as if you were the sort to do it. Well, let me hear what you can do with that instrument of yours.”

Ormarr took out his violin. He was visibly nervous, and it took him some time to tune up.

Abel Grahl could not help remarking to himself that the boy seemed awkward—and perhaps he did not even know his notes. Anyhow, he refrained for the moment from further questioning.

At last Ormarr ran his bow across the strings, put down his bow and violin, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.

Grahl watched him, making no sign. He was rather surprised to find himself really interested, and waited impatiently for the boy to begin.

As Ormarr took up his instrument again, the old man asked:

“How old did you say you were?”

Ormarr hesitated. “Fifteen,” he said at length.

Grahl shook his head in despair. Then he checked himself.

“Well, well, we shall see. Go on now, if you are ready.”

Ormarr began to play, without watching the other’s face. He did not see how the man’s expression changed from mere resignation to intense feeling, that drove all the blood from his face. Now and again he frowned, and started slightly, but repressed himself, and left Ormarr to finish at his will.

Ormarr played for ten minutes. At the last stroke of the bow, Grahl leapt to his feet.

“Who wrote that?”

“It’s—it’s only about a sunset.”

“Yes, yes, but where did you get hold of it—the tune?”

“I made it up myself.”

Grahl stared at him, but the boy never flinched. No, those eyes could not lie!

“What else can you play?”

“There’s all the songs they used to sing at home. And the hymns from church.”

“Can you play at sight?”

Ormarr shook his head doubtfully.

“I mean, do you know the written notes?”

“No; I was never taught.” Ormarr felt crushed at the confession.

For fully a quarter of an hour he was kept in suspense; it was like waiting for the summons to execution.

Abel Grahl walked up and down. Now and again he stopped full in front of the boy, scrutinizing him from head to foot. Then he shook his head as if in dismissal, turned away abruptly, and stood for a while at the window, whistling softly to himself; came back and stared at Ormarr once more, looking hard into the dark, glowing eyes that seemed to have grown dim. Who could say how much it might mean to this lad if he sent him away? He felt, too, that those eyes could express something more than despair.

He felt himself drawn toward this child of nature who had been flung at him, at it were, like a ball, from hundreds of miles away—if he did not take it but threw it back, would it land safely, or would it be lost in the sea?

At last he spoke, though he had not yet made up his mind.

“It is a difficult thing to study—and it means years of work. Also, it will cost a great deal of money. Where are you to get that from?”

“From my father.”

“And what is your father?”

“A farmer.”

“Is he rich?”

“Yes.”

“What is he worth, about?”

“He owns all Borg, and....”

“I mean, how many thousand...?”

“Three thousand.”

“Three thousand—is that all?”

“Yes. No one in Iceland has more than three thousand sheep. He has more than any one else there.”

“Sheep—I see. A biggish place, then. Many horses?”

“I don’t know how many exactly. There are many—stodhross.”

“Stodhross—what’s that?”

“Horses that live out on the hills. But we’ve a hundred and twenty at home, on the place.”

“The devil you have. And how many cows?”

“About a hundred most times.”

“Do you know any one here in Copenhagen?”

“No. But the priest, he gave me a letter to a man I was to ask to keep my money for me, if you did not care to be troubled with it.”

“Have you much with you now?”

“I have a thousand Kroner in my pocket-book, and a few small notes in my purse.”

“H’m. I suppose you can look after your money all right yourself?”

“Oh yes, I have it....” He thrust a hand into his pocket.

“No—I must have left it under my pillow.”

“Under your pillow—where?”

“At the place where I slept.”

“What on earth—Here, we must go along at once. Put on your coat—no, never mind the violin. Where are you staying? What street?”

“I don’t know what street it is.”

“But good heavens, child—the name of the hotel, then?”

“Hotel H——, it is called. Sera Daniel told me to go there the first night.”

They reached the street, and Grahl hurried on ahead to where some cabs were standing. Hailing one, he gave the address, hurried the boy in, and followed himself.

In the vestibule of the hotel they were met by the porter, who advanced with a discreet smile, and handed a pocket-book to Ormarr.

“You don’t seem to care much for your money, sir. The maid found this little sum under your pillow.”

The little episode was not perhaps, in itself, the decisive factor in establishing the ultimate relationship between Ormarr and Grahl. But it certainly did much to link them closer, and from that time forth, Grahl assisted the young Icelander in many other ways, apart from merely teaching him the violin.

Ormarr succeeded from the first in winning the old man’s affection, and making him interested in his career. He was a constant source of surprise to his teacher. First and foremost, there was his sudden transformation from chrysalis to butterfly—from a peasant lad to a man-about-town.

And Ormarr caused his teacher grave anxiety during those years. But he never betrayed the confidence the old man had shown at first. And in point of musical development he surpassed all that Grahl had ever hoped for.

By the tenth winter, Grahl considered his pupil as perfect at least as he himself had been when he had first appeared in public. All that was needed now was to introduce him to an audience. The day for his dÉbut was fixed, and the large room at the Concert Hall engaged.

For some time past, whispers had been current in musical circles about Abel Grahl’s wonderful pupil. All were eager to hear him, and every seat in the big hall was taken far in advance.

Ormarr had rooms on the outskirts of the town, looking out over the Sound. In course of time, he had managed to get the apartments furnished to his taste. The walls were hung with rugs, an enormous divan occupied the centre of the room, a few small tables stood about here and there, and the four big chairs were packed with cushions. The divan served as a bed at night; in the daytime it was covered with a splendid Persian rug. Black, white, and brown sheepskins were spread on the floor, and in front of the divan was flung the pelt of a huge white bear.

Not a single picture was to be seen. But on the walls, hidden behind the hangings, Ormarr had placed large reproductions of well-known portraits of great composers. And when playing, he would uncover the picture of that particular master with whose work he was occupied for the moment.

On the day before his first concert, Ormarr was resting, fully dressed, on the divan. He was smoking; a bottle of wine and a glass stood within reach on a small table.

He had been out for his usual morning walk. But for the last three hours he had not moved. It was now drawing towards twilight. His glance moved idly from one window to the other, following the race of clouds against the background of a dull blue sky.

There was a knock at the door. Languidly Ormarr rose to open. He recognized the voice of his friend, Aage Blad.

Save for Grahl, Ormarr’s only intimate friend was the young poet, Aage Blad; the two were constant companions. Blad’s earnest love of life had endeared him to Ormarr, and though the latter, true to his adopted rÔle of insincerity, often made fun of his friend’s seriousness, the poet had soon realized that it was not meant, and as a rule paid no heed to it. But if ever he found that he had gone too far, Ormarr always relapsed into silence, and his friend understood that this was his way of asking forgiveness.

Blad glanced at Ormarr’s face as he entered, and gathered at once that his friend was not in the best of spirits. He shook hands in silence.

Ormarr flung himself down on the divan once more, leaving his visitor to make himself at home. Blad moved up a chair, and the two friends smoked in silence for a while, watching each other.

“Nervous?” queried Blad at last.

“Wish I were!”

“Curious thing to wish. Thank your stars you’re as cool about it as you are. Anything wrong?”

“Oh, everything.”

“Oh, that’s no trifle, anyway.”

Silence.

“I tell you what, Ormarr, I shan’t feel comfortable myself until this concert’s over. Honestly, I’m getting quite feverish about it. I’ve never been so excited about one of my own things coming out—not even my first book.”

“No need for you to get excited that I can see.”

“No need at all—you’re right, of course. It’s bound to go off all right.”

“On the contrary—there’s everything to be anxious about. Everything—everything. Oh, well, hang it all—have another drink.”

Ormarr threw himself back and closed his eyes.

Aage Blad sat watching him; there was a dull, resigned expression about the corners of the mouth; the forehead was already deeply lined. There was strength as well as weakness in the face, he thought. “A strange fellow,” he told himself.

They smoked in silence for a while. Then, without opening his eyes, Ormarr said:

“It is a long time since I saw my home. Funny thing, not feeling home-sick all these years. Can’t understand it just now. I never longed for home till this winter. As soon as the summer comes I must go back. Like to come too?”

“H’m—I don’t know. Iceland—the very name of it makes me shiver. Anyhow, you’ll have to redeem that fur coat you gave me—extravagant person that you are.”

“But it’s not so cold at home. Not in the summer, at any rate. The coldest thing about Iceland is its name. And the nights there—so wonderfully calm and light they are in spring.... It’s a long time to wait till the spring. I wish I were back home again now. I’ve never seen a sky so blue and deep as there. Before I came to Denmark I had an idea that in a flat country one would see more of the sky than at home, with all the mountains and their shadows. But then the mountains are so far away. And once you get there... Aage, I would give all the forests in the world, all the orchards and cornfields and flower gardens, for a single mountain. But a real one, mind you, with huge rocky ridges, and green plateaus, and snow at the top. Good heavens, man, to think that I have one all to myself—yes, I own a mountain. I never thought of it before. Can you understand how I ever could stay away from it all so long? But I’m going back now—going home.”

“There’s the concert first, don’t forget—tomorrow. And you’re going to be famous.”

“Tomorrow... yes....”

Ormarr had sat up, resting on his elbow, while he spoke of his home. Now, he threw himself back once more, as if exhausted, and lay with closed eyes as before. For a few moments neither spoke.

“Aage,” said Ormarr at last, “I feel tired—deadly tired. I’ve been idling here all day. Tomorrow? I feel as if tomorrow were already a thing of the past.”

He got up, filled his glass and that of his friend.

“Drink! Aage, I’ve something to tell you. Just let me go on talking, and don’t bother about it, I only want to get it out. What do you think I’ve been seeing all the time, lying here with my eyes shut? This is no life for me. I have been counting. It is my tenth winter here now. Ten years, man—think! And today it seemed as if I had come yesterday. I have been asleep—fast asleep. But it can’t go on. There’s something hurting me, a sort of longing——Oh, I know it sounds all nonsense, but you needn’t worry about that.... No, this won’t do. I don’t go on drinking and enjoying life in this wasteful, silly fashion—and forgetting. I wasn’t made to live like that. I was made to think, and to work. And now here have I been living for ten years—yes, and working hard, I know—but all for nothing. It means nothing at all, really. Famous? If I found myself famous after tomorrow, I should be no better off than I am now. I’ve no ambition of that sort any longer—not a scrap. I never realized it before—it’s only just lately I’ve seen it. And think of dear old Abel Grahl! Do you know, honestly, I believe he’s jealous—the dear old boy! He’s fond of me, I know; and now that I’m on the eve of my ‘conquest,’ as he always says, he thinks of the time when he made his conquest—and fate overtook him after. I’m sadly afraid that old trouble’s cropped up again now with him. And after all, what is there to envy, anyway? What sort of a future if I do succeed? The life of a flunkey—a menial in gold lace, playing for money—and to whom? I’ve been studying my fellow-creatures this winter—musical people—my audience-to-be. Copenhagen’s not the world I know; but human beings are much the same everywhere, I take it, though their looks and manners may differ somewhat in detail. Grahl has been taking me about. He hates ‘society,’ I know, but he took it all up again for my sake—that’s the sort of man he is. It all helps, he says. Oh, and you should have heard their talk, their hard-and-fast opinions, and the views of the professional critics. Sometimes I feel I simply can’t go on living. Simply can’t stand it. What wretched caricatures we all are—myself included. No I’ve finished with this sort of life. There’s not a thing in the world I care for now, except to go back home. If only I could be sure that was a genuine feeling, and not another delusion. Don’t look down on me, old man—Heaven knows, I’ve no great thoughts about myself just now. You know me well enough to see that I’m not drunk. But I feel—oh, just worthless. All these years—and living like this—it’s too contemptible. I feel as if I hadn’t an atom of will-power left. Just sick and tired of everything... and longing, aching for something.... Good of you to listen so patiently. Have a drink.”

Blad was silent for some time, and when at last he spoke it was in a low voice.

“There’s something I should like to say to you,” he said quietly. “And I’m half afraid to begin. I’ve been thinking a lot, and some of it I mustn’t say at all. But I will say this: When we have been together anywhere—out in the country, or on the sea, or in the town—anywhere, I always had a feeling that we lived as it were on different levels, you and I. To me, you were always the born leader; I felt if you took it into your head to order me about, I should have to obey. Things seemed somehow to belong to you. Then at other times, I could feel as if you were a distinguished visitor—one can’t help these stray thoughts, you know—as if Nature herself put on her best and did all she could to please you—while I was just an ordinary person, not worth making a fuss about. I belonged to her, as one of her children, and could stray about unnoticed among the trees like any other creature in the forest; it never came into my head to look on her in that gay lordly way of yours. And sometimes it seemed you were the better off; sometimes that it was better to be as I was. It’s all only fancies, of course, but still it does prove one thing: that we are utterly different. I am quite content to live an ordinary uneventful life; as long as I can ramble about in Nature’s garden and cultivate the modest growths of my art, it is enough for me. I don’t care for anything that calls for greater energy than I generally give, whether it be the way of pleasure, or pain, or work. I’ve no ambition worth mentioning. I can sit in my garden, and enjoy the scent of the flowers, or go out in a boat, and watch the sunlight on the water; walk in the woods in spring and see the delicate green of the beech leaves against the sky—I am happy enough with such things. There are heaps of little trifling things of that sort that please me every day. But it’s all different with you. It may sound theatrical, perhaps, but it’s as if you had mountains—glaciers and volcanoes—in your soul. And I shouldn’t care to change with you—it’s all too big for me. But then again, if you were like me, I shouldn’t care about you. You must live and act in a different way; I see that. You could stand suffering better than I; I’m sure of that. But I’m not quite sure that you have the power of being really happy. Anyhow—well, you know I’m your friend, and always will be.”

“I know that, Blad.”

Ormarr got up, switched on the light, looked through a bundle of newspapers and found the one he was looking for. Nervously he turned the pages till he came to the shipping intelligence.

“There is a boat leaving the day after tomorrow.”

He dropped the paper, walked up and down the room several times, shaking his head defiantly, as if at his own thoughts, then threw himself down in a chair. A moment later he glanced at his watch, and rose reluctantly.

“It’s time I went round now—to Grahl. The final rehearsal....”

In the big room where, ten years before, a curious figure of a boy in ill-fitting clothes had called on him for the first time, Abel Grahl sat at the piano accompanying the later stage of that same youth—now a slender, pale-faced young man. They were playing a nocturne—the only one of Ormarr’s own compositions on the morrow’s program. The theme was that same one of the sunset with which Ormarr had introduced himself to his master, only the technique was different.

Ormarr looked out through the window as he played, seeing nothing in particular. As long as he held his violin, his soul lived only in the magic world of melody that flowed from the strings.

Grahl’s accompaniment was strangely absent and mechanical. His figure was bowed at the shoulders, and the black coat he wore accentuated his thinness. He had aged much of late, and looked haggard and worn. Now and again he turned his head towards his pupil with a searching glance.

When they had been through the whole of the programme, Grahl remained seated at the instrument, striking one chord repeatedly, his eyes fixed on nothing. The corners of his mouth dropped in a bitter smile. Then, turning to Ormarr, he said in a queer, strained voice:

“Play that Andante once more, will you? Not that you need it—it couldn’t be better. Just play it for me.”

And Ormarr played.

When he had finished, Grahl spoke, without looking up, as to himself:

“That was one of the things I played at my first concert. I did not play it as well as you—no, not half so well. I doubt if Beethoven himself ever played it better!”

For a while he sat with bowed head. Then raising himself suddenly, he ran his fingers over the keyboard, and the gay tones of the “Valse d’Espagne” danced like demons out upon the silence that had followed Beethoven’s Andante.

Ormarr, who had been standing deep in thought, looked round with a start; Grahl rose from the music-stool with a harsh laugh.

“A fancy of mine,” he said shortly, “to let Waldteufel loose on the heels of Beethoven.”

He went across to the table, lit a cigar, and slipped into an easy-chair.

Ormarr followed his movements intently. There was a strange expression in his eyes, and the lines on his forehead and face seemed deeper than usual.

Grahl paid no heed to him; he was smoking, and evidently occupied with his own reflections. When Ormarr moved, he looked up, and pointed to a chair.

“Sit down, Ormarr; not time to go home yet. Take a cigar.”

“Thanks.”

Ormarr took a cigar and lit it, covertly watching the expression of the old man’s face.

“Sit there, Ormarr, where I can see you; that’s it. I was thinking, there’s not much left of the peasant lad who came up here that morning ten years ago. The eyes are the same, yes; and a look about the face—I’ve noticed it the last few days.... Anyhow, it was as well I didn’t send you away that day after all.”

Ormarr felt his cheeks flush, and bent forward in his chair.

“My dear Grahl, I feel myself a man now in most things, but there’s one thing that has stuck to me since I was a child. I never could thank any one in words. And I don’t know how to thank you in any other way.... I’m sure no father ever did more for his son than you have done for me. I hardly know how any one could do more for a fellow-creature than you have.”

“Oh.... And what is this, if you please, if not thanking me in words?”

“You know yourself how much I owe you—you know I don’t exaggerate things as a rule....”

“There, Ormarr, that’s enough. You must have seen what it meant to me all along—the joy and delight of teaching you. No more pupils now for Abel Grahl. You are my last—and my greatest. If I could find one greater still...? I don’t think I shall live to be roused from my bed a second time at six in the morning by a lad with his fiddle in a calfskin bag and the promise of fame in his eyes.”

Ormarr laughed at the thought. A moment later he was serious once more. And Grahl went on:

“You’ll go travelling about the world, giving concerts here, there, and everywhere. I wish I were strong enough to go with you.”

Ormarr laughed again, but without heartiness.

“Grahl, my dear master, why not? Come with me! Nowadays, with trains de luxe and floating palaces, it will be pleasant as could be. And at least I should have some one to play for.”

“I... to travel... after all? It’s late in the day... and not exactly the way I had once thought....”

Ormarr sprang to his feet, but sat down again.

“Grahl, you are my friend—the best I have, I think. I must tell you something now—something that has happened to me. Listen: I do not care about the concert tomorrow—it means nothing. Fame is nothing to me now. To tell the truth, I shudder at the thought of going about playing for people I do not know, and should not care to know. Strangers—foreigners! It makes me a piece of common property; one of the artistic wonders of the world. And then to see my name, my portrait, on huge posters everywhere... read interviews with myself, criticisms of my art—Grahl, the thought of it sickens me. I won’t—I can’t—oh, if only I could get out of it now, before....”

“Why, boy... Ormarr, my dear lad, what is this? what has come over you? Surely you do not—you could not think of throwing everything away now—burning your ships? Ten years of hard work—yours and mine.... If there were any risk, I could understand perhaps your being afraid... but as it is... you have only to show yourself—one first appearance, and the thing is done. No, Ormarr, you could not draw back now. It would be madness—nothing else.”

“That may be. But none the less, that is how I feel. I have lost all desire to show myself, to appear in public. I do not care for any ‘conquest.’ I could do it, I know. But that means that in reality I have already conquered. It is satisfaction enough to me; I need not show myself on a platform to utter strangers who have paid so much for the right to hear me play this or that. Every item on the programme as a right—and extras in return for their applause. No—if you cared, I should not mind playing to you every day, for hours together—to you alone. Or to any others that I cared about. Come back with me to Iceland. I will look after you, be a son to you, take care of you, in every way. But spare me this; release me from the burden of that concert and all that should come after it.”

“Ormarr—you must be out of your senses.”

“Whether or no, I am what I am. And I can’t be otherwise. I am furious with myself too; blind fool that I have been—oh, you don’t know what I feel at this moment.”

Ormarr noticed that Grahl was feeling for his watch.

“Don’t,” he put in hastily. “I don’t want to see any one tonight. I can’t stand it. I don’t know what may happen....”

Abel Grahl rose from his seat. When he spoke, his voice was calm and earnest.

“Ormarr, remember I stand to you in a father’s stead. You cannot get away from this. Where is my son, who had grown to be a man of the world? We had grown out of stage fright, nerves and all that nonsense, surely? Tomorrow is our concert. We must not forget it, we must be there in time. But beyond that, we need not give the matter a thought. There—that’s the way to look at it. Don’t forget.”

Ormarr paled slightly.

“Very well—have it your own way.”

A car was heard hooting outside, and they went out.

Ormarr stood on the platform of the Concert Hall, playing the Andante from Beethoven’s Sonata. This was the third item on the programme. The first had been a show piece, from Tchaikowsky, which had given him an opportunity of displaying his extraordinary skill and masterly technique. After the second, his own nocturne, it seemed as if the applause would never end. The audience was delirious. The atmosphere of the nocturne, with its melancholy depths and wild heights of joy, its bewildering beauty and strange transitions, moved the dense crowd as if by magic.

The appearance of the young artist had fascinated his listeners from the outset. Despite the air of superiority and composure, there was nothing of arrogance in his bearing. At the first entry of this young man, with the pale, lean face and the half-closed eyes that yet seemed to see everything, and see through every one, the audience felt the magnetism of an extraordinary personality.

Success was certain, inevitable. From the very first, the audience had surrendered unconditionally.

As he stood there playing, Ormarr appeared quite calm and collected. Not the slightest tremor of the body, no trace of expression on his smooth face, betrayed the struggle raging within. But Ormarr himself knew that it was merely a question of time; up to a certain point he might control himself—after that, the deluge.

Two men there were, however, among those in the hall, who suspected something of the strain it cost him to keep his rebellious temperament in check: they knew that his apparent calm was but a mask. The two were Blad and Abel Grahl, sitting together in the front row.

The serene progress of the Andante was undisturbed by any sound from those in front. Ormarr felt as if his listeners were turned to stone, and his playing was caressing them like a gentle breeze.

Then suddenly there came over him an irresistible desire to jerk them back to life—to startle them, set them fluttering and cackling like a pack of frightened fowls. To tear at their sense, to render their innermost souls, to fling at them, like a fiery volcanic eruption, something unexpected and terrible—something unheard of.

In a fraction of a second it had come. A bursting of all bonds that chained his ungovernable mind: reason, duty, ambition, the fear of consequences. It was as if in a moment he flung from him the prejudices and traditions in which men are wont to dress, and stood there before them in primeval nakedness.

He saw Grahl trying to rise: trying to prevent something he knew was coming....

And half unconsciously, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world, he plunged blasphemously from Beethoven’s Andante into Waldteufel’s “Valse d’Espagne.”

Ormarr was cool and calm as ever, but pale as a ghost. The music raced away madly into the waltz, laughing and crying in complete abandon.

A feeling of something uncanny seized the audience for a second; as if icy waters had overwhelmed them in flood, depriving them of movement, suffocating all cries for help.

Grahl rose to his feet, and opened his mouth as if to cry aloud. Then he fell back in his chair, without a sound.

Suddenly Ormarr stopped playing; his arms fell to his sides, and he stood on the platform laughing—a tremulous, uneasy laugh. Then he turned and fled.

A storm of shouts and noise rose up from the audience. The silence of enraptured listeners had given place to the confusion of a disturbed ant-hill. Some questioned, others raged, a few broke down entirely.

“Scandalous!” “Mad!” sounded through the din. Several minutes passed before any thought of leaving. Then suddenly the word “dead” began to circulate. And gradually the crowd grew quiet, and dispersed, moved to forgiveness by the thought that the madman had ceased to live. Only a few were aware that it was not the player who was dead.

Ormarr reached home and let himself in—not until then did he notice that he had walked all the way without hat or overcoat, still carrying his violin.

After all, what did it matter? His mind was in a state of utter indifference to everything; completely numbed.

His shoes were muddy, his dress coat wet through; he raised his hand to his forehead and wiped the rain from his face.

His throat was parched; he felt nervous and ill. He fumbled about for whisky and a syphon, drained one glass at a draught and poured out another. Then, drenched and dirty as he was, he threw himself down on the divan, without a thought of changing his wet things.

The blood throbbed in his temples; there was not a clear thought in his mind. When he shut his eyes, he felt as if a wheel were tearing round at a furious rate inside his head.

The door bell rang—it was Blad.

“Grahl is dead!”

Blad threw down Ormarr’s hat and coat, which he had been carrying; he himself was out of breath, and overpowered with emotion.

“Grahl—dead?” Ormarr sat bowed forward, his hands clasped, his eyes staring vacantly before him. Blad stood watching him for a moment. Then he burst out:

“You—you must be mad!”

“I suppose so—yes.”

“And—you don’t care in the least?”

Ormarr made no reply.

“Think of the scandal of it all!”

Still Ormarr said nothing.

“And then—Grahl! That ought never to have happened.”

“I suppose not.”

“Do you mean to say it is all nothing to you—that you have ruined your own career for ever, and killed Grahl—your friend—your teacher? After that—oh, but you must be insane, there’s no other word for it.”

“Very well, then.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Drunk? No, I wasn’t drunk. But do let’s talk of something else. It’s no good discussing this any more. It’s done, and can’t be undone. I am going back home—to Iceland. There’s a boat leaving tomorrow. Take off your coat, won’t you—you’re going to stay now? Mix yourself a drink, man, do.”

“No, thank you.” Blad spoke coldly, flinging out his words, and pacing the floor excitedly.

“Have I hurt you too? I can’t think how I could have done that. Surely you can’t feel hurt at my being what I am, and doing what I can’t help doing? I asked you to stay just now, because I thought you were my friend. If you are no longer my friend, then you had better go.”

“Really, I almost fancy you would like to turn me out now because I decline to drink with you to Grahl’s happy decease. By Heaven, you do not deserve that I should stay.”

“Oh, you damned fool—who’s talking about what I deserve!”

Blad stopped suddenly, as if paralysed by the word. Then in a voice heavy with emotion, he said:

“Ormarr—that was the first ugly word I have ever heard you use. And it was said to me—to me!”

“To you—yes. But you made me angry, you know. Up to then, I was only miserable—and so hopelessly tired. And here you are reproaching me for things I could not help. And really, you know, when you are so utterly foolish as to measure me by your standards, I can’t call you anything else. I don’t repent what I did tonight. How can a man repent things that happen—things over which he had no control whatever? But I do repent—or at least, I am sorry—for what happened before—for what brought it all about. Grahl was my friend and benefactor—and yet I cannot feel any grief at his death. I simply can’t think at all at the present moment; haven’t a single atom of emotion in me. I’m just a wilderness. Oh, if you knew what I am suffering now—death would be welcome; a relief. There’s just one thing that grows and grows in me now—the need to go back, to go home.”

“And your father—what will he say, do you think?”

“My father? I don’t know. I wonder what he will say. It will be a big disappointment to him, this. How could I ever have done it? I don’t understand myself now—it all seems so ridiculous; to lose control of oneself like that.”

Blad started.

“Then—then you didn’t do it on purpose?”

“Good heavens, no! Did you—could you think that of me? I suppose you fancied it was a new sort of advertising trick—well, why not?”

“Ormarr—forgive me. But you were so cool about it all—I never thought....”

“All right, never mind. We won’t worry about it any more. I’m dead tired. Stay here tonight, won’t you? I’m not going to bed; no good trying to sleep. Stay and see me off; the boat goes at nine. Thanks, that’s good of you. Get some sleep, if you can, yourself. There’s a lot of things I’ll want you to do for me while I’m away. Send me—no... no, I won’t have any of these things here. You can take them over—keep what you care about and sell the rest. I want to forget these years—as far as I can. Though I’ve learned much in the time—and paid dearly for it. Now I am going home—going home to Iceland, and then... what next, I wonder?”

It was a bright wintry day when Ormarr, watching from the captain’s bridge, saw his native land rise snow-clad from the blue-green sea against a high, clear sky. The captain noticed that the fur-clad man who had been up on the bridge since early that morning to get the first glimpse of land, seemed strangely moved at the sight of it. Well, it was none of his business....

Never before had Ormarr seen Iceland rising thus out of the sea; he had but a dim notion of the grandeur of the sight. Unconsciously, he had always thought of Iceland in the green of spring or summer, and had looked forward to seeing it so on his return. Being winter, of course, there would be snow. But he had never thought to see it all so white and clean and brilliant as now.

A vague joy filled him as he looked; he felt that his soul was come of the race of those great mountains, as of a line of kings.

Iceland—his country! Like a cathedral, a consecrated pile of granite, pure and holy in the seas of the far north. And the snow—how he loved it! And the rocks, the hills and valleys... the brooks and streams, sleeping their winter sleep now, under the ice. And fire too, the marvellous, merciless fire, smouldering quietly in its lava bed, yet strong enough to melt the ice of a hundred years in less than a minute and hurl it in huge floods of boiling water and redhot rocks and lava down the mountain-side, through the valleys, out into the sea. What did it care for men, or their goods or their lives! All had to die. And better to die by fire or ice than on a bed of sickness. Far better to die young in some mighty upheaval than to drag palsied bones through a dreary wilderness of old age.

Ormarr smoothed his brow.

Why think of dying now? He was still young, and fit for action. Yet if Mother Iceland should think fit to crush him to his death in her embrace, well, he was ready. Well for him, perhaps, to find death on her icebound, fiery heart, if the road of life proved too wearisome.

Strange thoughts—was he mad, after all? He was thinking now as he had done so often when a child. But his dreams had changed. Then, Iceland had been the starting-point of his imaginings; it had been as a weight at his heel, keeping him in bondage, holding him back from all that he thought made life worth living. Now it was changed—now all his dreams turned towards it, centred round it—Iceland now was his home. Home? No, he had no home anywhere on earth. Yet he felt drawn towards it none the less; longing for his country....

But what was this—Iceland—hovering above him, looking down at him—would she no longer receive him? Was he her child no more? Had the world worn away the marks by which his mother had known him?

Foolishness—his brain was running wild. And yet—how was it with him, after all? Was it not true that he was unworthy of love—a failure, self-condemned?

Iceland, towering in shining armour, in glittering floes and spotless mantle of snow. And one coming to her from the outer world, with the dirt of alien countries on his feet, and the pain and weariness of the world in his heart. Her sacred places were no longer open to him now; closed, locked; the keys hidden far away, not there. Perhaps in the place whence he had come, perhaps far distant, on some other continent. Or hidden, maybe, on the other side of life.

Iceland! As he watched the land rise from the cold blue waves, he felt that he, who once had been her child, was no longer worthy to be so. He had sinned in coming back at all. And he vowed in his heart to set out once more in quest of the key that might unlock its holy places to him once more. Whatever happened, he must go away again. And if he could not find what he sought, then there could be no return. Only let him first breathe the air here for a little while, tread the soil that had been his father’s—men who had never shamed their native land.

Again he smoothed his forehead—the movement had become a habit with him whenever he wished to check or change a train of thought. And he laughed harshly.

“Well, Ormarr Ørlygsson, my friend and brother,” he thought to himself, “this time you are certainly mad... mad beyond cure... caught in the act—hysteria pure and simple.”

He sighed deeply—there was an ache at his heart.

“What is it?” he thought. “If I go on like this... if I let my thoughts and fancies play at will like this, I shall end as a lunatic: lose all control over myself, and be shut up somewhere—a pleasant prospect! Or at best, be allowed to go about at home in a living death: a beast with instincts and no soul, on the place I was born to rule. And father—to see his son an object of pity or contempt.... No: I must get away now, before something happens. Better perhaps not to land at all, but go on round the coast, and back with the steamer to Copenhagen.

“Well, we shall see. Most likely it would be the wisest thing to do. On the other hand, it would be cruel to father....

“Wait and see. Let me at least feel the soil of my own country under my feet: touch the snow, drink its water, and breathe its air—satisfy myself that it is not a vision merely, no fairy tale, but a reality.”

At the first port Ormarr went ashore. He felt happy as a child, and laughed and joked with the crew. And when the boat neared the pier, he waved his hand to the crowd there, though he did not know a soul among them. They shrank back a little at the gay familiarity on the part of a stranger—but Ormarr did not care.

He set out on foot to explore the neighbourhood, a poor enough place it was. It was only with an effort that he restrained himself from walking up to the windows of the little houses and looking in, or knocking at the doors, just to breathe the atmosphere of a home in his own country.

On an open space some boys were racing about playing snowballs. This was too much for Ormarr; before he knew it, he was in the thick of the fight, and in a moment he had all the lads on top of him. With shouts and laughter they pelted him from all sides, and ended by fairly burying him in the loose snow.

The boys stood around laughing heartily when at last, gasping for breath, he emerged; this was a first-rate playmate that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. Eager queries were hurled at him.

A tall, freckled peasant lad came up and asked his name, others equally inquisitive put their questions without giving him time to reply to the first. Was he from the steamer just come in? Where had he come from? From Copenhagen? What had he been doing there? Was he going on with the steamer again? If so, he would have to hurry; the second whistle had already gone.

And the whole crowd followed him down to the harbour, two of the smaller boys taking each a hand. When he gave them some small coin, they decided that he must be the new Governor at the very least, and felt some tremors at the disrespectful manner in which they had treated such a personage.

As the boat rowed off to the steamer, they stood on the pier waving their caps, and stayed there, waving and shouting as the vessel moved off.

Ormarr felt unspeakably grateful for this welcome from his country—a welcome of smiles, and snow, and youth; the glowing warmth that was in its element amid the biting cold. He felt himself akin to these lads, with their hands and faces warm and wet from perspiration and melting snow; who rolled about in the snowdrifts despite their clothing, braved the cold and the roughness of the elements, enjoying themselves in the depth of an arctic winter as well as in any tropical summer heat. They had no idea of modern precautions against climate.

There they stood, waving to him, acknowledging him as one of their own, never dreaming that he had been about to drift away into an artificial life that nursed the frailties of the body regardless of health, until the body became a thing to loathe, unless the soul itself were cynically hardened.

This was the moment for action, the time to pull oneself together and decide; here was the way to follow—follow it!

But first of all, to find the right way.

Ormarr felt now that he could go back to his father. Could tell him all, confess that he had chosen a wrong path, a way whereby his body might have passed unscathed, but his soul never—it was never meant that the two should be divided. He must rest and think for a while and find a new road.

Once more Ormarr had climbed to the bridge, and remained there till the steamer touched at the next port. It would be a couple of days before he could reach home.

The day wore away, and night came down, but it was still quite light. The moon was high, right over the land, its white glow hovering over the landscape and giving it an air of unreality, like a spell that held all things in the bonds of sleep. The ship itself, chained to a silver beam, was the captive of this enchanted country, for all that it kept on its course; sooner or later, it seemed, the time would come when it must crash on a rocky coast.

Ormarr turned from the moon, forgetting the base designs which he had just attributed to its dull red bridge of rays. He looked at the stars—and suddenly he remembered the summer nights at home, when he had lain out among the hay in the fields, unable to draw his eyes from the twinkling golden points of light.

The northern lights flickered and faded, and showed up anew; like fiery clouds, appearing suddenly on one horizon, to vanish in a flaming trail behind another. Ormarr loved them—their restlessness, their capricious, fantastic shapes, the play of mood through every imaginable shade of colour—it was a silent musical display of heavenly fire.

Next day, the captain and Ormarr were alone on the bridge. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, and both were gazing towards the shore.

The captain broke the silence.

“See there, Hr. Ørlygsson—that ring of mist there round the peak. Now, mist, I should say, is white as a rule, but looking at it there, against the snow, it looks just grey.”

Ormarr made some brief reply; he was studying the face of the little Danish captain.

The latter spoke again:

“I don’t know if you know this part of the country at all. When we round that point just ahead, you will see one of the strangest fjords all round the coast, though that’s saying a good deal. Rocks sticking up out of the sea, sharp as needles some of them, and some all tumbled about in groups; some look like houses, and there are a few that make gateways, as it were, real arches, that you can take a ship through if you like.”

“Then we shall be in very soon, I suppose—and up to time for once.”

The little Dane drew himself up stiffly, glanced coldly at Ormarr, and said:

“Begging your pardon, sir, my ship is always up to time.”

“Why, then, it is I who must ask your pardon, Captain Jantzen.”

“Always excepting pack ice and being hung up by a gale,” added the captain in a milder tone. “Otherwise, I admit you’re right about being up to time generally—my ship’s an exception, that’s all. I put it plainly to the owners: either give me a time-table that I can keep to, or find another skipper. It’s a point of honour with me, as you might say. As a matter of fact, there was another Iceland boat once came into port on the day fixed—only it was just a month late.”

The captain laughed at his own jest, and Ormarr joined in. Then Captain Jantzen went on:

“Really, you know, it is a shame that there should be such a wretched service of steamers in these waters. There are several companies, I know, but they simply agree that there’s no sense in competition, so they keep up freights, and run their ships as they please. You may often have to wait weeks for a boat, and then find the sailing’s cancelled for some reason or other. Yes, there’s a chance for a man with energy and capital, that’s certain.”

Ormarr started at the other’s words; it was as if a mist faded from before his eyes; here before him was a chance to redeem himself.

He turned to the captain and looked at him searchingly; a good man, by the look of him, and with determination in his face. Suddenly he noticed that the man lacked one finger on his left hand—strange, Abel Grahl too had lost a finger. The coincidence seemed to form a bond between himself and the captain. Fate, perhaps—why not?

He shook his head, smiling at himself for the superstition. Nevertheless, he asked the captain:

“Ever taken a turn with Fate, Captain Jantzen?”

The captain smiled, a mirthless smile that might have been a setting of his teeth.

“I should think so,” he said, with an air of definite certainty, as if answering question about a harbour he knew blindfolded. “And if you haven’t, I’ll give you a bit of advice: take it by the horns straight away; don’t wait on the defensive, attack at once. There’s this about it: when luck favours a man, and he’s sound enough not to get spoiled by it at once, sure enough, Fate will try to get a foot on his neck.”

He stretched out his left hand towards Ormarr, showing the index finger missing, and went on:

“It cost me that. I was a deck hand on a fishing-boat at the time, though I knew the sea, and had many a rough turn with it, and saved more than one from drowning. And that’s a thing the sea won’t forgive. One day I was alone on the foredeck, getting the anchor ready, when there was a hitch in the cable. And then a thing happened that I’ve never known before or since—my feet slipped sheer away from under me, as if some one had pulled them. I came down headlong, and the anchor tore away to the bottom of the sea, taking me with it. My finger was caught between two links of the cable—there was no getting it free. I thought to myself, ‘Not this time, anyway,’ and managed to get at my knife, and hacked it off. It didn’t seem to hurt much while I was in the water—but when I came up—the men—believe me or not, as you will, but they started back when they saw my face. I hurried down below—I had a sort of feeling what it was. And I tell you, sir, there was the mark of death in my face when I looked; the mark Fate puts on a man before handing him over. And it was twenty-four hours before it passed off.”

Captain Jantzen laughed.

“Since then, Fate’s left me alone. Maybe she never found out how I’d cheated her. And if she has forgotten, why, maybe I shall live to be an old man after all.” And as if repenting his levity, the little captain became serious once more.

“All the same, it’s not right to joke about that sort of thing.”

Ormarr had listened with interest to the captain’s story. When he had finished, he was silent for a moment, then asked:

“How long have you been captain of ‘BjØrnen,’ Captain Jantzen?”

“Why, it’ll be twelve years this spring.” And in a tone of some resignation he went on:

“It’s not likely I’ll have her for another dozen years. Though I’d like to. She’s a fine boat, and somehow we sort of belong to one another. But the owner’s getting on now, and his health’s not what it might be. And no sons. I fancy the other shareholders are not quite pleased with things as it is.”

Ormarr walked up to the captain, and looking straight at him, asked abruptly:

“What about buying them out?”

Jantzen started, and looked inquiringly at Ormarr.

“I mean it.”

“Well—yes, I dare say. It’s a limited company. The biggest shareholder is the owner—and if any one were to buy up all the other shares on the quiet, well, there’s no saying....”

Ormarr and the captain seemed suddenly to have become remarkably intimate with each other—so, at least, it seemed to the others on board.

They remained for a long time in the captain’s cabin, bending over a map of Iceland, discussing routes, tariffs, and traffic in a half-whisper. They talked of nothing but how many vessels and what size would be needed if one company were to take over the whole of the goods and passenger traffic between Iceland-Denmark, Iceland-Norway, and Iceland-Great Britain.

It was late when Ormarr shook hands with the captain and went to his bunk, with the parting words:

“Then the first thing you have to do is to buy up all the shares on the market. After that, get the old man to sell his holding—but to me and no one else!”

The following morning, Ørlygur À Borg was standing on the borders of his land, deep in thought. He had dreamed a strange dream the night before, and was trying hard to remember the details. One thing only stood out plainly in his memory. He had been standing on this very spot, a little hill just outside Borg, one day towards the end of summer. And there he had fought—with what, he could not say. But it was against something stronger than himself, something which would overpower him unless Ormarr, his son, came to his aid. Then suddenly he had seen a viking ship rounding the point, steering straight up the fjord. The sight of the vessel gave him new strength; he knew that Ormarr was coming to help him, and the ship was sailing faster than any he had ever seen.... Here the dream had ended abruptly.

Ørlygur stood on the hill, trying hard to recall more of the vision. As if to aid his memory, he looked out in the direction of the fjord....

A steamer was rounding the point.

Ørlygur À Borg lost no time; he ran to the stables, and saddled his horse. He was about to saddle another in addition, but checked himself—possibly it was only an important message. Anyhow, instead of mounting, he had a sleigh brought out, and drove off towards the snow-covered valley at full speed, reaching the trading station just before “BjØrnen” came in.

Ormarr was not a little surprised to find his father among the crowd of people gathered on the shore. Most of those present had recognized Ormarr where he stood on the bridge, and there was a general surprise at his appearance. No one had expected him. Only his father seemed to regard his homecoming as natural, and showed no sign of astonishment.

Ormarr was in high spirits and full of pleasant anticipation; he shook hands right and left. Ørlygur found it hard to conceal his emotion at the meeting.

Ormarr introduced Captain Jantzen to his father, but the latter spoke only a few words to the captain; he seemed intent on getting home without delay, where he could have his son to himself.

Before taking his seat in the sleigh, Ormarr took the captain aside:

“Remember,” he said, “you must get everything ready beforehand. First of all, a detailed scheme and tariff rates, for our calculations. I shall be here all winter. After that, I am going to England and France, to get the money. I shall get it, never fear. Anyhow, I shall see you next summer in Copenhagen. And then we can set to work in earnest. Be ready for a struggle when the time comes—it will take some doing, but we can do it. Au revoir.”

On the way out to Borg, the horse was allowed to choose its own pace; father and son were too engrossed in their talk to trouble about anything else.

Ørlygur could not quite understand his son’s attitude towards music and fame—possibly because Ormarr himself was loth to lay bare all the trouble of his mind. Moreover, he felt a different man already, far healthier in mind and body, after the last few days, as if separated by a wide gulf from the Ormarr who had left Copenhagen after the scandal at the Concert Hall, a broken man, to seek rest and idleness in his own country.

Ørlygur could not altogether grasp his son’s changed attitude towards the question of his musical career, which had cost ten years of his life and several thousand pounds. But he thoroughly understood and approved of his new plan for a better and cheaper and more reliable service of steamers between Iceland and abroad.

Ormarr pointed out the advantage of having an independent national steamship service, and Ørlygur at once perceived the possibilities of the scheme for furthering the development of Iceland commerce and industry. The idea of excluding other countries from participating here appealed to him, and gained his entire support for the scheme. The very thought thrilled the old chieftain’s heart. Ay, they deserved no better, those slack-minded, selfish traders—they would only be reaping the results of their own shortcomings. They should no longer be allowed to monopolize trade, send up prices, make unreasonable profits, and do what they liked generally. There would be an end of their ill-found, ramshackle vessels, coming and going at their own convenience without the slightest regard for the public or their own advertised times. It was war—and he rejoiced at it. No question but that the people of Borg must win in the end.

As they were nearing home, Ormarr said:

“I am going to stay here this winter, father, before I set out again—Heaven knows how long it may be before I come back after that. I should like to live to enjoy one more spring here in Iceland. But after that, I must go abroad; work, work. It will take best part of the summer, I reckon, to raise the money—it will need a lot of money.”

Ørlygur gazed thoughtfully at the landscape, and answered:

“Well, well—I suppose you are right.”

For a while no sound was heard but the beat of the horse’s hoofs and the creaking of the sleigh. Then Ørlygur said in a half-whisper:

“But—we have some money here, you know, ourselves.”

Ormarr looked at his father keenly, and after a moment’s thought he said:

“Look here, father, I will tell you what I have thought of doing about the money part of the business. I want to get the money without offering shares. It will be difficult, I dare say. But I must be independent here; I cannot bear to be bound by considerations of credit, or other men’s interests, and that sort of thing. It would spoil the whole thing. The business must be my property; I will not have a thing that can be ruined by others after I have built it up. But if I should be unable to get the capital in the way I want it—why, then, I may come to you. Provided, of course, I can be sure of running no risk in the investment. I owe you too much already.—My inheritance, you say? I have not come into the property yet. But suppose we put it that way; that I owe so much to the estate. Anyhow, I owe it; it is money that must be paid, if things do not go altogether against us. For the present, I must fall back on you. But I shall not want much—nothing like what I have been drawing up to now. And I am proud that you are willing to help me, when I know I must have disappointed you by what I have done up to now.”

“I trust you, Ormarr,” his father said. “I do not quite understand, but I feel sure you were obliged to act as you did. The rest does not concern me. I know that you are honest and sincere, and I know that your aim now is not a selfish one.”

For a time no more was said; both men seemed anxious to let it appear that their minds were occupied with anything rather than with each other. But for all his apparent calmness, Ormarr was overwhelmed with gratitude to his father; to the fate that had given him such a father; given him Borg for his inheritance, and suffered him to be born a son of this little nation. Ørlygur, on his part, concealed beneath an expression of indifference a feeling of pride and love for his son.

As the sleigh drove up in front of the house, all the servants came out to welcome Ormarr, with a heartiness that showed plainly enough for all their quiet manner. A tall girl of about thirteen, with lovely flaxen hair flowing loose about her shoulders, appeared; this was Gudrun, a daughter of Pall À Seyru, now adopted by Ørlygur. Ketill was nowhere to be seen; Ormarr asked where his brother was.

Ørlygur smiled.

“Have you forgotten already? I wrote you in my last letter that I had sent him to the school at Rejkjavik. He wants to enter the Church, I understand. And I have been thinking that it would not be a bad idea later on, if he took over the living here. If, then, you decide to live abroad, as seems likely, and give up the estate here, then he could manage that as well. For the present, I have my health and strength, and hope to look after it myself for many years. We shall see.”

Of Ormarr’s stay at Borg that winter there is little to be said. Every Sunday the people of the parish came up to hear him play the violin. He was delighted to play to them, and touched at their grateful, almost devotional, reception of his playing.

Spring came. The snow melted, and the rivers sent floods of muddy water and blue ice towards the sea. A great unrest came over Ormarr, and he left earlier than he had planned. So, after all, he missed the soft purity of the Iceland spring, the beautiful white nights with the glow of light on the fields and ridges pearled with dew. He missed the sight of the butterflies fluttering in gaudy flocks, and the birds among the little hillocks where their nests lay hid.

He had already felt the grip of spring at his heart when he saw the wild swans and other fowl heading for the still frozen heights farther inland, driving their wedges through the air, and crying aloud in joy of life. And that same viking spirit which had driven his fathers before him came on him now and drove him abroad in haste.

As he left Iceland for the second time, his father stood on the pier with moist eyes. Ørlygur remained there, watching till nothing was to be seen of the vessel but a few grey wisps of smoke. Then he tore himself away, mounted his horse, and rode home, deep in thought.

If his blessing carried any weight, then surely matters would go well with his son.

He slept but ill that night; he was sorry he had not prevailed upon Ormarr to accept the money from him. It would have saved much trouble, and, at any rate, a certain amount of time.

If only Ormarr had come to him, rather than procure the funds he needed from others, and upon doubtful terms....

The cold, pure light of an autumn morning found the electric lamps still burning in a villa by the Sound. It was the residence of Ormarr Ørlygsson, company director, a man well known in the business world, and bearer of sundry decorations.

The light shone through the rose-coloured curtains of the French windows opening on to a verandah facing the sea. The room was large; the arrangement marked its owner as a bachelor. It served as office, sitting-room, and study. The wall opposite the window was occupied entirely by shelves filled with books: works of reference and lighter literature. The other walls, each with a heavily curtained door, were hung with paintings, all representing Icelandic landscapes. In one corner was a heavy piece of bronze statuary, likewise Icelandic, “The Outlaw.” The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet.

Ormarr sat at the big writing-table, his head buried in his hands. Lights burned in a crystal globe above his head, and in a reading-lamp at his elbow. The glow from the green shade of the latter, blending with the light of day, created a weird effect.

Ormarr had been sitting at his desk the whole night, going through piles of accounts and business papers.

For some time he sat thus, motionless. When at last he looked up, it was plain that thirteen years of work as a business man had left their mark on him. His face was thinner; his dark, rough hair was longer than was customary among men on the bourse, and the fact gave a touch of independence to his otherwise faultless appearance.

His expression was changed; the large, dark eyes were restless—a dreamy, far-away look alternating rapidly with a glance of keen alertness. When alone, his look varied continually with his varying moods, but in the presence of others he kept rigid control over his features; the severest scrutiny could detect nothing of the workings of his mind. Two deep furrows slanted down on either side the mouth, completing the impression of resolute firmness combined with melancholy resignation and bitterness.

As he looked round the room, his eyes betrayed the trouble in his mind. He glanced deliberately at each of the things around him, works of art and furnishings, as if in farewell, dwelling now and then on some single item as if trying to fix it in his mind.

Gradually he began to realize that his first impression of the previous day was correct—he was a stranger in his own place. And he shuddered at the thought. Unconsciously he picked up the cable he had received the day before, smoothed it out before him, and read it over with bitter, scornful eyes.

“What a fool I have been!” he muttered. “I might have known....” And he laughed—a choking, unnatural laugh, and rose slowly to his feet. Languidly he drew back the curtain, opened the window, and stepped out on to the verandah.

Leaning on the railing, he looked out over the shore, with the troubled sea and the Swedish coast beyond. The view had calmed him often, but there was no rest in it now; he looked at it all impatiently, no longer able to find any comfort in visions.

All was changed now.

His clothes irked him; his hands were soiled with dust from the papers he had been busied with; a general sense of bodily discomfort pervaded him. And as if to escape from his emotional self, he left the room hurriedly; a bath and a change of clothes would be something at least....

The housekeeper received her master’s orders to serve lunch on the verandah with some surprise. It was a way of hers to appear mildly surprised at things and today there certainly seemed some reason for astonishment: for thirteen years her master had never been at home to a meal at that hour of the day—why was he not at the office as usual? Ormarr’s manner, however, forebade all questioning, and she did not venture to ask if anything were wrong.

Ormarr went to the telephone, and rung up the office, speaking coolly enough.

“That you Busck? Good morning. Captain Jantzen there? Morning, Captain.... No, nothing wrong, but something has happened. Yes... listen! You must hand over ‘Bjornen’ to the first mate this voyage.... What? Lose half an hour? Can’t be helped; I want you here. Come out here at once, please, but first get the chief clerk to tell you what I want done about the shares, and do as he says. Then out here to me as quick as you can. I’ll tell you all about it when you arrive. Right—good-bye.”

A few minutes later the telephone bell rang. Ormarr took up the receiver with a gesture of annoyance, but on recognizing the speaker’s voice, his manner changed.

“Yes—yes. Morning, Ketill. Ill? No, not a bit. Are you both there? Well, come out and have lunch with me instead. Don’t know what we’ve got in the house, but come anyway. Eh? No, not a bit. I have been rather busy—up all night.... No, never can sleep in the daytime. Right, then. Au revoir.”

Ketill, now getting on for thirty, was already in orders, and was to be presented to the living of Hof in Hofsfjordur in the autumn, Sera Daniel being about to retire on account of age.

The original plan had been that Ketill should have spent a few days only in Copenhagen when going abroad in the spring, on his way to Switzerland and Italy, returning via England. But Ketill, who had preferred staying at an hotel rather than at his brother’s, had soon found friends, largely owing to his brother’s introductions. One of the acquaintances thus made was that of a banker, Vivild, whose daughter Alma had quickly captured Ketill’s heart.

His tour of Europe, then, came to consist of but a few short trips, with Copenhagen as his headquarters. Ormarr had been surprised at this, but his brother gave him no enlightenment as to the attraction which drew him constantly back to the capital. Until one fine day Ketill announced his engagement and forthcoming marriage.

Ormarr had always looked on Alma as a tender plant, that could never be transplanted and live; the news surprised him. But he made no comment. Without realizing it himself, he had been deeply in love with dainty, sweet-natured Alma, but for no other reason apparently than a sense of his own unworthiness, had said no word of it to her. And here was his brother, holding the blossom himself, and tantalizingly inviting him to admire its sweetness.

The part of brother-in-law was by no means a pleasant prospect to Ormarr, but he reconciled himself to the thought.

Ketill—Sera Ketill, as we should now call him—was young and good-looking, with a pleasant and genial bearing. At times Ormarr could not help feeling that there was something a trifle insincere in his brother’s geniality. Still, Ketill was a nice enough fellow to all outward seeming, albeit a trifle stouter of build than need be.

There was never any exchange of confidence between the two brothers; they knew, indeed, but little of each other. Ormarr was conscious of an involuntary dislike of Ketill; he tried in vain to subdue the feeling; it remained unaltered. Ketill, on the other hand, appeared not to notice any lack of brotherly love and sympathy. Neither of the two men realized that Ketill’s nature not only did not invite, but rendered impossible any real confidence.

The first to notice this, albeit but vaguely to begin with, was Alma. The discovery troubled her a little, but she let it pass.

From all appearances, the union was a promising one, and the wedding was looked forward to by both parties with equal anticipation. The ceremony was to take place on the day before Ketill’s entering upon his new dignity, and the bride was to accompany him to their new home.

Alma and Ketill arrived at Ormarr’s house half an hour after Ketill had rung up. Alma promptly went out to assist the housekeeper with the lunch.

The brothers, standing by the writing-table in the sitting-room, lit their cigarettes. Sera Ketill looked with unconcealed scrutiny at his brother’s face, and with his usual affectation of heartiness said at once:

“Well, if you’re not ill, you look precious near it. What’s gone wrong now? Business?”

“That’s as you like to take it.”

“What do you mean by that? Nothing important, I suppose.”

“Important?—well, in a way, it is.” Ormarr passed the wire across to his brother, who read it through.

“Well, what does it mean?”

“It means that since yesterday I am—a millionaire.”

“The devil you are—Heaven forgive me! Well, you are in luck. How did you manage it? Can’t you tell a fellow how it’s done? A millionaire!... Well, I’m.... Lord forgive me! It’s all right, I suppose?”

“Yes, it’s right enough.”

“Well.... And What are you going to do now? Extend the business... new routes?... If you take my advice, you’ll be a bit careful. Buy up the land in Iceland—that’s a sound investment. Buy up Hofsfjordur.... What a lucky devil!... Lord forgive me!... But what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, anyhow, you can do things in earnest now. Monopolize the trade of Iceland. You control the traffic already; the people know you, and trust you—that’s worth a lot in itself. They’re not an easy lot to win—that way, but once you’ve got them... if you manage things properly, you’re all right there. Ormarr, you’re in luck. Look at me now—in orders. And even if I get the estate.... The old man—father, I mean—he’s getting childish already. Gives things away—money, live stock, food—you never saw. And he’s struck off all outstanding debts the peasants owed him—it’s whittling down the power of Borg to nothing. And we ought to have kept it up. Ever since you paid back the money you had from him—it wasn’t quite fair to me, you know, his letting you have all that—but anyhow, since you paid him back, he seems to think he’s a millionaire, and can throw money about as he likes. Well, well, I’m fixed up now, I suppose. But you—millionaire, what are you going to do now?”

“I’ll tell you.... No, it’s no use trying to explain....”

“Yes, yes, go on. What is it? New speculations? I’m interested in that sort of thing; go on.”

“No, it’s not speculation. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Don’t you believe it! When things turn out like they have done here. To tell the truth—I’ve been thinking of a little flutter on my own account. Old man Vivild’s put me on to a good thing... but it seems you know the trick of it, so....”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t. Stick to Vivild if you’re going in for that sort of thing. He’s a sound man, and a clever one.”

“Well, well, as you please. But I can’t get over it.... A millionaire!... the dev—— Lord forgive me!”

After lunch the three sat together in a corner of the garden—Ketill and Alma side by side on a bench, Ormarr a little apart.

The conversation flagged somewhat; a few desultory attempts fell flat.

Suddenly Ormarr realized that his brother’s manner was different when Alma was present. He had noticed something before... a curious abrupt change of mood, from lively jocularity to a sort of dreamy, thoughtful silence. But it had never occurred to him that it was Alma that brought about the change. Could it be a mask? In any case, the mask, if mask it were, suited him a great deal better than his normal appearance.

And as he watched them, Alma with her brown hair and bright dark eyes and Ketill with his heavy face and priestly air of calm, a feeling of resentment rose in him against his brother.

“I love coming out here,” said Alma suddenly. “It’s so different to the atmosphere at home—business.... Ugh.”

Ketill smiled. But Ormarr laughed and said:

“I should have thought one would feel more at home in the atmosphere one grew up in. But, as a matter of fact, you are wrong about the atmosphere here—it is all business really, and nothing else.”

“Father says you are not really a business man. And I think he is right.”

“The facts would seem to prove your father wrong, Froken Vivild.”

“He says you are—extraordinary. And that you’ve a lucky sense.”

“Maybe. It comes to the same thing. I fancy success in business is largely a matter of luck. Do you know what has helped me most all along? Well, before I started in business, I was well known, in a way, from my efforts in another direction. Not to put too fine a point on it—people believed me mad. And, consequently, everything I set out to do was regarded as more madness. It was the best thing that could have been—and I’m very much obliged to the people who thought so....”

A little later, Ormarr saw his guests to the gate, and stood watching them as they left, arm in arm.

“A lovely creature,” he thought. “The graceful way she walks.... But a child, no more. And he—I wonder how he will treat her. I’m afraid she will have a hard time of it with him. Perhaps when all’s said and done, she would have been better off with me.”

He stood watching the dainty figure as it receded, noting the graceful curves, and the mass of brown hair under the wide-brimmed hat.

“A dream,” he mused. “One of life’s lovely dreams....”

He closed the gate and walked up towards the house.

“No one to stop it... life must run its course. I dare not interfere—I may be wrong. And—in my case, it is too late now.”

An hour later, Captain Jantzen was sitting in Ormarr’s room, in his usual place, an arm-chair at one end of the writing-table.

Ormarr passed across a box of cigars, and rang for wine.

Captain Jantzen was obviously ill at ease.

“Well, sir,” he asked, “good news, I hope?”

“No, Jantzen; bad news.” Ormarr hunted out the telegram he had shown Ketill, and passed it over. Jantzen read it through hurriedly, and glanced up quickly at Ormarr.

“If I remember rightly, we’re on the right side here.”

“That is so.”

“Why, then—we are safe. This gives us a free hand now—we can cover all outstanding loans, we can out-distance all competition.”

“Yes—and it puts me out of the game, Jantzen.”

“How? I don’t understand....”

“No, I’m afraid you’d hardly understand....”

“Well, sir, I confess as much. But there must surely be something behind this—I don’t see....”

“Only that victory has put me out of action, that is all. Ever since I started this thing, it has only been the difficulty of carrying it through that kept me to it. Now that is disposed of, I collapse. I can’t live in that fruitful sort of country where you’ve only to plough and change your crops now and again—I can’t work at a thing that runs by itself. It’s not only that it doesn’t interest me; I haven’t the power of self-deception it requires. I’m perfectly aware of that. I feel at the moment like a bow that has been strung and drawn to its limit, and shot its bolt where it should. I’ve no use for repetition. And, take my word for it, if luck has favoured me up to now—in business, I mean—it would surely fail me after this. Once before in my life I have suffered the defeat of victory. And then, I chanced on you—it was Fate that led me to a new task; and with it, at the end, a new victory—a new defeat. True, the result has been somewhat different this time. But it comes to the same thing. I have done with the task—or it has done with me.”

Jantzen watched the speaker’s face intently; he remembered the pale features of a younger man, who had stood with tears in his eyes, on the bridge of his vessel, at the first sight of Iceland from the sea. It was a face he had come to love—so strong it could be at times, and at times so weak.

And a deep despondency, such as he had only known in lonely watches far at sea by night, filled his heart.

Ormarr was absolutely calm and unmoved to all appearances; he seemed to have no regrets. He emptied his glass and nodded to Jantzen.

“There’s no harm done, that I can see. What do you say to taking over the management yourself, Jantzen?”

“Impossible. I could never look after a business like that—I’m not built for it.”

“Nonsense, Captain. Don’t tell me you couldn’t run a line of steamers. The idea! I suppose the truth of it is you’re unwilling to give up your ship.”

“That’s true. I’ve captained ‘BjØrnen’ now for five-and-twenty years.”

“But the business is more important than a single vessel. Let’s stick to the matter in hand—the business itself. I can no longer manage it myself. And you are the only man I can trust to take over. You must take it over. As for ‘BjØrnen’—we can easily find another man. But if the business itself were now to pass into the hands of strangers, all our work will have been in vain; we should, in fact, have done more harm than good.—I suppose you will say that it is my duty to carry on. That’s reasonable enough—as long as the course you propose is possible. But it is not possible any longer. It is simply this: I can control myself only to a limited degree; that you may take for a simple fact. And the limit is reached. What I am to do now I do not know. First of all, I shall go home—it is long since I was there. Anything in the shape of rest, or interruption, is dangerous to me, and that is why I have not been home to see my father for thirteen years. But something tells me that he needs me now, though I have no idea in what way I can be of use. Never mind. I am subject to my instincts; to defy them would be a crime against myself—perhaps against a higher power. We are both of us somewhat superstitious, you and I. Anyhow, to come to the point. You, Captain Jantzen, will now acquire this business by purchase.”

“Purchase? Now you are joking. I might perhaps manage the business, if there’s no other way....”

“That won’t do. You must buy it outright. As to terms, I shall be your only creditor, and you won’t find me a hard one to deal with.”

“But—by that arrangement, the management—the business itself—will be in Danish hands.”

“Where did you learn your trade, Captain? On the coasts of Iceland—working for a people not your own. And you will admit that you have more than a little sympathy with that little island and its people, obstinate though they may be at times. Also, it would be a good thing for my countrymen to realize that they need not always look upon the Danes as enemies.”

Ormarr took up his glass. “Well, here’s to the venture!”

Captain Jantzen’s hand trembled slightly, and he spilt a few red drops on the costly carpet as he drank.

“Since you will have it so, why, let it be. But I’m sorry about ‘BjØrnen.’”

One evening towards the end of summer, two people were seated in the room at Borg which served Ørlygur as bedroom and sitting-room. They were an old man, grey-haired and stooping, and a pale-faced young woman.

The last few years had left their mark on Ørlygur À Borg. The stately bearing and alertness which had distinguished him in days gone by, had given place to a listlessness and an expression of gloom. There was little of the old masterfulness in the man who sat now on the edge of the bed, staring at the ruddy flicker of a tallow candle. His eyes were no longer keen and bright, but dull and spiritless, as at the present moment, or at times wandering anxiously, as if seeking aid against some threatening peril.

The young woman seated near him was finely built, with a wealth of flaxen hair, but seemed in ill-health and troubled in mind. Her whole bearing was one of resignation and despair. Her eyes were red with weeping; dark rings showed up beneath them from the pallor of her cheeks—the signs of restless nights and sad thoughts.

Twelve strokes from the big upright clock broke the silence, and startled Ørlygur from his musings. He glanced at the bowed form of the woman, and then at a letter which lay on the table.

Once more he conned the sentence which had brought such pain to himself and his adopted daughter—as if to make sure there had been no mistake. No, it was right enough: “I am engaged to a girl I met here this summer... Alma... daughter of.... Married in a fortnight, just before I leave, so you can expect us both....”

The letter was from his son Ketill.

And there, before him, sat the woman that same Ketill had ruined—and her state would soon be evident to all.

Some time back the girl’s pale face and mournful bearing had moved Ørlygur to question her, and he had learned the cause from her own mouth. Runa, as she was called by all on the place, was at least as deeply attached to Ørlygur as to her real father, Pall À Seyru. And it had not been difficult for her to confide in him. The truth had come as a terrible shock to the old man, but both had consoled themselves with the thought that Ketill at least had no intention of leaving her thus betrayed; that he would behave as an honourable man. If not—why, Ørlygur would see that he did so.

But now, all unexpectedly, that consolation was destroyed, leaving a dark future indeed ahead.

Runa’s trouble was not the only thing he had to bear; there were other matters that seemed to bode no good. And all were more or less connected with his son Ketill; Ketill, who was to inherit the estate and maintain the honourable traditions of Borg.

To begin with, things had looked well enough; excellent, indeed, in every way. The estate had grown richer since Ormarr had repaid the loans made to him, and the whole trade of the district was in the hands of Ørlygur’s trusted men. The place was flourishing—thanks largely to Ørlygur’s magnanimity in cancelling debts that proved too much of a burden—and the general state of affairs was healthy and promising. Then, in addition to the good name which Ketill would inherit, there was his position in holy orders. Altogether, the outlook for the family was one of dignity and honour.

Now, things looked otherwise. Some months before, Ørlygur had begun to learn something of Ketill’s true nature; his selfishness and meanness; to hand over the estate to him seemed less advisable now than he had thought. Still, it should doubtless be possible to make him realize the duties and responsibilities of his position; to persuade him on matters where any danger threatened.

But the new development had raised an issue of a far more serious character. Once it were known abroad that the master of Borg—as Ketill in time would be—had deliberately ruined a young girl,—a girl, moreover, under the protection of his father’s roof,—and had thereafter married another, probably for selfish considerations also, then the good name of the family, jealously guarded and built up through centuries, would be destroyed as by a flood. It seemed as if the fortunes of Borg were on the verge of ruin.

Ørlygur thought of these things—and the idea of disinheriting Ketill, at any rate as regarded succession to the estate, crossed his mind. If only he himself could be sure of living long enough, then he might perhaps make Runa or her child his heir. The child would after all be his own grandchild, with the blood of his race in its veins.

But as he sat, his thoughts and plans faded to mere dreams and aimless desires. The future was too hard for him to face.

Runa sat trying to pray, her lips moving without a sound, to frame the opening sentence of the Lord’s Prayer.

The man she had loved was far away in a foreign land—at that very moment, perhaps, he held another woman in his arms.

“Our Father....”

He had sworn that he loved her. Neither had spoken of marriage—she had not spoken of it because she had never doubted him.

“Our Father which art....”

He had never written to her—not a line. It was a cruel blow to her to realize that he had never loved her—and yet she bore within her the seed of life he had planted. And her whole future now was ruined and desolate....

“Our father....”

But she could not pray. A flood of thoughts streamed into her mind—memories of mild spring evenings in the past and fears for her present position in one confusion. Her brain could not set either prayer or thought into form.

Ørlygur rose and came over to her; he tried to comfort her, but found no words. One thing only he knew: reparation must be made, at whatever cost.

Sera Ketill was far from pleased to learn that his brother was returning to Iceland on the same boat with himself and his bride. Something told him that it would be to his interest to keep his father and Ormarr apart.

Ketill had come to regard himself as heir to the estate by this time, and already saw himself installed at Borg. He never dreamed that Ormarr’s present journey, which he regarded as merely a flying visit, could prove in any way a danger to himself and his plans. Ormarr had told him nothing of the transfer of the business. At the most, thought Ketill, it would be a nuisance.

His elder brother was in many ways much like his father. Both seemed eternally to regard themselves as owing a duty to all and sundry—simply because they happened to have been born in better circumstances than most of those around them. Ketill thought himself sufficiently a man of the world to be able to destroy this conviction; and he was not far from regarding it as a childish weakness on the part of Ørlygur and Ormarr. Regard for others, indeed!

Ketill was not hampered severely by trammels of faith or morality. He had gone to a school where the general rule of conduct seemed to be each for himself; his studies at college had brought him among students who for the most part made little attempt to conceal the fact that they made light of their calling. One after another, he had seen them go out into the world as priests, in the service of God, spiritually defective, rotten, and corrupt, to their task of leading others by the right way. And all this had left him with but little respect himself for his mission; he enrolled himself with the rest, as a matter of course.

His latest idea was nothing less than to buy up the whole of Hofsfjordur. To own a whole parish—it would be a position of unique power and authority. Priest and sole landlord of the place. And then he could take over the business now run by Jon Borgari’s widow under Ørlygur’s supervision. It was a dazzling scheme.

He was enraged when he heard that his father had cancelled the debts owing to him by the peasants. Carefully handled, they would have made a splendid weapon. And he puzzled his brains for some way whereby he might—when his father had gone—render the old chieftain’s action null and void.

Ormarr’s return now was a serious blow to his plans. He had more than once hinted to Ormarr that Ørlygur was getting strange in his manner and actions of late, and it had been in his mind that afterwards he could break the sad news to his brother that their father had towards the end been not altogether responsible for his actions.

But now Ormarr would see his father for himself, and there was no prospect of carrying out that part of the plan. Moreover, it was likely that Ormarr and Ørlygur, in their talks together, might bring out several little matters not at all to his advantage, and seriously damage his prospects. He must, at all events, try as far as possible to be present whenever the two seemed disposed to talk over things generally. He had, of course, given orders for the vicarage to be set in order ready for his arrival, but he could doubtless stay under his father’s roof for a time on his return, without giving cause for comment.

Ormarr’s arrival with the newly married couple was altogether unexpected. Ørlygur was greatly moved, and embraced his son with tears in his eyes.

Ormarr was deeply touched when he saw how his father had aged. He thanked the Fate that had led him to throw up his work and come home. Also, it seemed that his coming was well timed; for he was quick to note the strained relations between his father and Ketill, though the reason was not at first apparent.

Ørlygur received his younger son with marked coolness, but spared no pains to make his welcome as cordial as possible to his daughter-in-law.

Ketill’s idea of making a stay at Borg to begin with was promptly shattered. Ørlygur had guessed his intention, and soon after the midday meal, went out himself to see that horses were saddled. On re-entering the room, he acquainted Ketill of the fact, and added: “You will want to show your wife over the new home before it gets dark.”

The hint was too direct to be disregarded; there was nothing for it but to go with a good grace.

When the pair had left, Ormarr and his father sat alone in the sitting-room. And now for the first time Ormarr perceived how troubled in mind the old man was. He paced up and down the room, and for some time Ormarr forbore to question him. It was hard for Ørlygur to commence, but at length he pulled himself together, and spoke in a weak and faltering voice.

“Ormarr, you should have been my only son. It would have been better so. I am paying dearly for my disregard of the warning. Had I not been so self-willed, maybe your mother would have been alive now, and your life would have been very different. Not that I’ve anything to reproach you with, no....”

Ormarr grasped his father’s hand, and pressed it. The old man turned his head away, and went on:

“It is hard to see a thing one had treasured with heart and soul brought to ruin; to die, and leave an inheritance of responsibility behind. Ormarr, do you remember Pall À Seyru’s little girl?”

“Runa? Yes, indeed. Why have I not seen her this time? I hope she is not very seriously ill?” Ormarr had inquired after her on his return, but had simply been told that she was not well.

Ørlygur hesitated for a moment. Then he said:

“Runa has been betrayed—by your brother.”

Ormarr started as if struck, and his face paled. His father’s hand slipped from his grasp, and the two men sat for a while in silence. When at last they spoke, it was of other things.

“Yes,” said Ørlygur thoughtfully, “there are many things that will trouble me if the estate goes to Ketill. I have an idea that he thinks of collecting the debts I wrote off for the people here some time back, as still due to the estate. The folk do not trust him, and have certainly no love for him. If the place—and the honour of the family—are left to him.... I could wish them in better hands.”

“But I have come home now, father.”

Ørlygur looked questioningly at his son.

“But—you will not be here very long? Your business....”

“I have sold it.”

“Sold the fleet? To whom?” Ørlygur flung out the question with evident anxiety in his voice, and looked keenly at his son.

“To Jantzen.”

“Ah—that is another thing. You can trust him?”

“As I could myself, or you, father.”

“I thought so, or you would not have sold to him.”

“I had to sell out, because we had succeeded in our aim, and there was no longer any need for me to continue. I could not go on. Once I have mastered a thing, when the element of uncertainty and contest—apart from what is obtainable by all—has gone, then I can work at it no longer.”

“Then you will take over the estate here?”

“Yes. That is—or will be—a task for me; something that others could not do as well. You are old now, father, and your last years should be lived in peace. I may be a little strange here, at first, still, I can feel that I have come home.”

Father and son sat in the growing darkness without thought of needing lights. Each wanted to know all about the other’s life during the years since they had last been together. Ormarr also was keenly concerned to learn about matters in the parish, who had died and what newcomers were to be reckoned with; there were a hundred questions to be answered. Ørlygur, on his part, was eager to hear of his son’s doings during those years, for Ormarr had said but little in his letters.

“There is nothing to tell,” he said now. “I have worked hard—slaved at the work—beyond that, nothing.”

“You are yourself again now—or at least recognizable as yourself,” said Ørlygur. “Changes there are, of course, but mostly in your looks only. Voice, and eyes, and expression have not changed. I have noticed sometimes you smile just as you used to do—it is very long ago now. They have been weary years, since your mother and you seemed so far away—sometimes you too seemed as far off as your mother in her grave. But I see you have been true to yourself all the time. And I am glad you have come home. I thank you, Ormarr. And I thank God for sending you back to me.”

It was dark now, but still no lights were lit. The house was silent; nothing heard save when one of the two men spoke.

They talked on, fitfully, springing from one thing to another. But for all their frankness and sincerity, there was evidently something that preyed on both their minds.

At last Ørlygur brought up the matter himself.

“Worst of all is that about poor little Runa.”

Ormarr rose, walked to the window, and stood drumming with his fingers on the panes. Then, as if ashamed of having shown feeling, he returned to his seat.

“Runa?... Yes. No one must know what has happened. We cannot have her dishonoured. For him I have no pity, except for the sake of his wife. She is a good little soul, father, and we must be kind to her. But Runa... father, I know what I must do.”

Ørlygur was silent. A strange stillness seemed to fill the room.

“I suppose you are right,” said Ørlygur at last. “There is not any one else...?”

Ormarr rose. “No, there is no one else,” he said shortly, and he lit the lamp.

Ørlygur took a candlestick with a stump of candle in, lit it, and kissed his son’s forehead.

“Good-night, Ormarr,” he said quietly. “I am going to bed now.”

As he passed Runa’s bed, the light fell on two wakeful, shining eyes. Making sure that none of the others in the room were awake, Ørlygur bent down and kissed her.

“Don’t be afraid, little Runa. Ormarr has something to say to you in the morning.”

Ormarr sat on, staring at the windows, long after his father had gone.

His own calmness surprised him. He felt as if he were playing himself as a pawn on the board of life—and yet he could play—and let himself be played—willingly enough. Neither he nor his father had considered Runa’s possible wishes in the matter. Ormarr smiled as the thought struck him.

But, in any case, her honour must be saved.

A drowsy weariness came over him. How empty life was, after all! What had he, himself, got out of it in return for all his labour? His years of work had been for the benefit of others. But was his work of any great importance, after all? There had been a time when he had thought only of fame and pleasure. Then he had seen that there were other things more worth regard. At first he had regarded the domains of love as sacred and inviolable, but after a time had plunged recklessly across the border. And since then he had always regarded himself as one who could never hope to meet with his heart’s desire, his ideal. The whole question of love seemed one of but slight importance to him thenceforward. And he had been occupied with other things.

It all came back to him now, as he thought of his brother’s relations with his old-time playmate, the fair-haired child whom he had known later as a tall, bright-spirited girl.

And now he was to marry her. She was a woman now—and his brother had betrayed her. It was a thing that had to be, for her honour’s sake and that of the family name. His brother’s child would be brought up as his. He was to marry, and his wife would bear a child—another’s child.

How strangely the threads of life were woven! Well, after all, why not? It mattered little—nothing really mattered. What would the child be like? he wondered. Boy or girl? And what was the mother like? Again, it did not matter much.

Anyhow, this must be the last phase—the final stage of his life. It must end as it had begun—at Borg. Like his forefathers, he was fated to be a link in a chain, rather than an individual.

Only it meant now that all his dreams of something greater and better were at an end.

He glanced up and saw that it was light outside; the moon had come out from behind a hill. Moved by a sudden impulse, he took his hat and coat and went out.

The sky was cloudy, semi-darkness and bright moonlight alternating in quick succession; the earth looked cold and forbidding under a heavy frost, with the streams showing up as dark lines through the white.

Ormarr took a path he knew, leading to Borgara, where as a lad he had guarded the wool by night. Leaning against a rock, he stood, letting thoughts and fancies play through his mind at random. The happenings of the day, the revelations he had heard, seemed more like a dream than any reality.

Runa lay wakeful long through the night. Ormarr’s unexpected return had thrown her into a state of confused emotion. The simultaneous arrival of Ketill seemed but of minor importance, though why this should be so, she could not have told herself.

She remembered Ormarr from his last visit home, and how she had felt drawn to him at the time. He, on the other hand, had not paid much attention to her, and was doubtless unaware of the impression he had made. To her, he was the greatest and best, the most wonderful of men; an ideal, inaccessible, but nevertheless to be worshipped.

Then he had gone away—vanished as suddenly as he had come, to live thenceforward only as a dream in her heart. And she was firmly convinced that he had never given her a thought. In this, as a matter of fact, she was right.

On learning of his arrival now, she had tried in every way to avoid him, to conceal herself from him. All the others might know, but Ormarr—no, that was too cruel. And now—he would learn it soon enough. His father would tell him, and he would know what she was—the very thought of it made her shudder. She was not what she appeared to be; she was nothing. She hated Ketill, and wished herself dead.

The thought of taking her own life had crossed her mind, but fear restrained her. Now the thought came up again, and when Ørlygur had whispered to her as he passed, whispered a thing she dared not understand, she made up her mind. There was no fear in her heart now, she had taken her decision.

Shortly after Ørlygur had retired, she rose up, dressed herself noiselessly, and crept along the passage towards the room where Ormarr slept. A light showed from beneath the door; evidently he was still awake. With bated breath she passed by, and crept from the house without a sound. She longed to look in through the window, just to see what he looked like—now. But she dared not risk it. She stepped cautiously and quietly until a little way from the house, then suddenly she broke into a run, and made away towards the place she had in mind....

Ormarr saw a woman come rushing down towards the river. His first impulse was to run towards her, but, realizing that she must pass close by where he stood, he remained motionless, waiting.

The woman checked her pace and stood for a moment with hands clasped to her breast. Then she bent down and, taking up one of the sacks that were strewn around, began filling it with stones. She felt its weight, and, apparently satisfied, tied up the mouth. No sound came from her lips.

In a flash Ormarr realized who it was, and what she had in mind. He saw her move down to the water’s edge, the sack in her hand. Then, rising, he called to her softly:

“Runa!”

The girl stood still as if paralysed. He walked up to her without a word; he did not look at the sack, but touched it as if by accident with his foot, sending it into the water. Then, taking the girl’s arm, he led her quietly back to the house.

He took her to his room, led her to a seat and sat down beside her, taking her hands in his and stroking them tenderly. The girl’s breast heaved; she was deadly pale, but she made no sound. So unexpected had been Ormarr’s intervention that she had hardly realized as yet what had happened.

Ormarr held her hands in his.

“Poor child, it is hard for you, I know. Life is hard. I have learned something of that myself. Poor child, poor child! But, Runa, you must trust me... will you try? I will be kind to you. Perhaps, after all, you may be glad of the child and I as well. For we must marry, you know; it is the only thing to do. But only as a matter of form, of course, to save a scandal. The child will be born in wedlock, and it will be understood to be mine. No one knows anything as yet; we can go abroad at once, and stay away a year or so. It is not what you had wished for, I know, not what you had a right to expect, but—there is no other way now. As far as he is concerned it is too late.”

Runa burst into tears, and sat weeping silently, with scarcely a movement of her face; but her breast heaved violently, and the tears poured down her cheeks.

“I know, dear child, it is hard for you; you love him, and me you neither know nor care for.”

The girl drew back her hands and wiped her eyes.

“I hate him,” she said, almost in a whisper. And a moment after, she added passionately, defiantly. “And I never loved him at all.”

She threw herself face downwards over the table, sobbing bitterly.

Ormarr left her to herself for a while. Then going over to her, he stroked her hair, and tried to comfort her, as one would with a child. And when she looked up, there was a light in her eyes, of gladness, as when a child meets kindness from one it loves and respects.

Tears rose to Ormarr’s eyes; the thought crossed his mind that she might at that moment be wishing the child were his. And a pang of vague longing passed through him, such as he had known at times when life had seemed empty for the lack of one thing.

As if by one accord, the two avoided each other’s eyes.

Then resolutely Ormarr threw off his shyness, as if it were a thing to be ashamed of. He went straight to her, and spoke as calmly as he could—though his voice quivered a little.

“Runa, there is nothing else to be done. You must be my wife.”

“Yes,” she answered. There was nothing of bitterness or regret in her voice. But she fell to crying again.

Then said Ormarr: “You will be mistress of Borg, you know, and that means a big responsibility, and much to look after.”

She had stopped crying now, and was evidently listening, though she still hid her face. Ormarr went on:

“I have finished my work abroad now. When we come back from our journey, we shall take over the management of Borg. Father is old, and needs rest. And then it will be for us to see that our child is so brought up that we can leave the place in good hands after us.”

Runa sat for a while without speaking; she had stopped crying now. Then she rose, and carefully dried her eyes to leave no sign of weeping, and murmured something about it being time for her to go. And then tears came into her eyes again, and she blushed.

Ormarr had opened the door, but closed it again and came towards her.

“Well,” he said, “don’t you think we might shake hands and consider it settled? That is, unless you would rather have time to think it over? We could at least promise to give each other the best we can....” Ormarr could hardly speak, so deeply was he moved.

Runa gave him her hand—a warm, trembling hand. He pressed it, and let her go.

When the door had closed behind her, Ormarr began slowly undressing, thinking aloud, as was his wont.

“If life is really only a tiny meaningless flicker, and death the eternal and constant state, if life is only little indifferent momentary things, and death the great and boundless, then why all this complication and suffering? If my soul could perish, could be destroyed by suffering like the smoke of wood consumed by fire, like the scent of a flower shed out into space, like a colour that fades in strong sunlight, then it would surely have become disintegrated long since. Or are we all figures on a stage? If there were any connecting string between myself and the gods above, I fancy I should make a first-rate marionette.”

He put out the light and got into bed.

“It is just like me to try and conceal my thoughts from my innermost self, to breathe a philosophical mist over the windows of my own mind. If I were to be honest now, I should have to confess something different. Be honest for once? And confess! Confess that a new, inexplicable joy had suddenly welled forth within me!

“Just because I have seen the flush of a soul turned towards my own. And here I am already building castles in the air, with golden towers of great anticipation. But, to be honest, I must build here and now, whether I will or not, and trust that the building may stand.”

The moonlight shone in over him; he turned his glance towards it and looked up smiling at the sad, wry face, nodded to it, and then turned over on his side and fell asleep.