CHAPTER I

Fru Alma had come to Iceland knowing nothing of the language of the country. Ketill and his brother had always spoken Danish; it had never occurred to her that all Icelanders might not understand it.

When she came to Borg on her first arrival, and met her father-in-law, who could neither understand her nor speak to her, she realized that this ignorance on her part would make her lonely and isolated, and she asked her husband:

“Why did you not teach me Icelandic, Ketill?”

But Ketill answered curtly. He was in ill-humour on account of the failure of his first plans, and his reception generally.

“Never thought of it,” was all he said.

Alma, whose womanly instinct had told her at once that all was not as it should be among the family, glanced anxiously from one to another of those round her. Then she observed:

“But I can’t talk to any one.”

“You can talk to me.”

Alma was silent. It was the first time her husband had spoken unkindly to her.

Later on, as they went home to Hof, Ketill rode in silence, with never a word to his wife all the way.

Alma’s heart was full of conflicting emotions. She was sorry that there should be any coolness between herself and her husband; but her conscience at least was clear. And why could he not talk to her; tell her what it was that evidently troubled him? It struck her that he had never really confided in her, save in regard to matters of no account.

Suddenly she realized that they were really strangers. She had never really known him, after all; he had never opened his heart to her. And the distance between them seemed so tangible that it was hard to realize that they were actually married. Despite the intimacy of their relationship, they were separated by a veil of darkness and uncertainty. And so they were to live, side by side, year after year, bound one to another by a bond that could not be broken,—ay, and by another that would soon be evident,—to live in each other’s company through every day. And the thought was so painful to her that she found herself unwilling to contemplate that her children would have to call this man their father.

The change in her feelings, or more properly, her sudden realization of the true state of things, the recognition of her thoughtless rashness in entering upon this marriage, came to her as something overwhelming; she hardly knew herself. All in a moment she was changed; she was no longer the light-hearted, innocent girl, but a creature unknown, with unknown possibilities.

It was done now, and she was helpless. She had given vent to thoughts and feelings which, as her old self, she would never have dreamed of. So unaccustomed was she to act on the dictates of her own feeling and not by custom and tradition, to measure things by her own ideas and not by orthodox, accepted standards, that she felt herself now a dangerous person, a criminal, forced to seek refuge in silence and emptiness from words or thoughts that might lead to disaster.

There was her husband now, riding ahead, and paying no heed to how she managed on the way. Where was the courteous gentleman who had stood by her side at the altar? And she had told herself—and others—that she had found the ideal partner for life! A priest, moreover, a servant of God, set in the forefront of humanity as an example to others!

Little by little she worked herself up to a state of bitter scorn. Once she had let herself go, she knew no bounds.

And she did not spare herself, now that she had once ventured to form her own judgment of things and people, herself included.

Oh, what an irresponsible fool she had been in her self-deception! Trustful and idealistic—yes, and narrow-minded and unwittingly a hypocrite. A doll, a child, a foolish butterfly thing.... Heavens, how little and mean and stupid, wicked and ridiculous, she had been—she and so many others of her kind.

There was her husband, riding ahead... yes....

A reaction of regret at her impetuosity came over her. It was a dreadful thing not to love and honour him. Oh, if only he would make it easier; turn round and nod to her kindly, or say a friendly word. She would be loving and forgiving at once. Who could say what troubles were burdening him all the time? And perhaps it was only to spare her that he said nothing. Men were strange in that way; they fancied that a woman suffered less in such estrangement if she did not learn the cause of it.

Then—oh, it was incredible! They were at the ford now, and he was riding through the stream without so much as a look behind him.... Well, perhaps there was nothing so strange in that, after all; possibly it had not occurred to him that she had never forded a stream on horseback in her life; it was only thoughtlessness on his part.

But all the same it was a hard struggle to keep her mind in any friendly attitude towards him, or to keep back the fears that would rise to her eyes. She bit her lips, and strove to restrain her feelings.

Her horse was already knee deep in the water—and the Hofsa at this part was wide, yet with a fairly strong current.

Alma had never ridden through running water before; at first it seemed to her as if the horse had suddenly flung itself sideways against the stream. Instinctively she leaned over herself, farther and farther, against the stream. Ketill, a couple of lengths in front, looked round just as she was about to fall, turned his horse, and seized her arm just in time.

The roar of the water, and a sense of dizziness in her head, rendered her unconscious for the moment. But the grip on her arm was hard, and a feeling of anger rose in her towards her husband. Again she restrained herself; it was perhaps only his firmness that had saved her; she forgot about his carelessness in riding ahead of her across the ford. Her kindly feelings were uppermost, and as soon as they had crossed to the farther bank, she turned to him, trying honestly to speak in a friendly tone, and asked:

“What is it, Ketill; what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing—nothing,” answered Ketill, and gave his horse a cut with the whip, so that the animal sprang forward a pace.

At that, Alma broke down entirely, and fell to sobbing helplessly; she was weary and desperate, unable to think, or even consciously to feel; she was alone in a great solitude, herself a solitary speck of misery in an endless expanse.

They reached the vicarage. Alma was now in a state of dull indifference. She had, however, carefully dried the tears from her face, and drawn down her veil.

The vicarage servants, about a score in all, had gathered in front of the house to welcome the new master and his wife. Ketill was abrupt and reserved as hitherto; he shook hands with them all, as was the custom of the country, but his greeting was cold and formal.

Somewhat unwillingly, Alma laid her slight, warm hand in the first hand outstretched towards her; but the evident respect and kindly feeling with which it was taken touched her at once, and she grasped it with sincere feeling. And the ice once broken, she was able to greet each of the simple, silent folk with unfeigned heartiness. She could not understand their stammered words, but her own manner spoke for itself, and one old woman, the last to come forward, was so touched by the natural kindliness of the fine lady from foreign parts, that she forgot herself so far as to put one arm around her shoulder and kiss her on the cheek.

Alma felt herself trembling, and could hardly restrain her tears. Leaning on the old woman’s arm, she passed into the house.

Ketill gave some brief orders, and the servants dispersed. But even this first encounter had been enough to plant in the heart of each of them a seed of ill-will towards their master, and affection towards the Danish lady he had brought with him as his wife.

The old woman led Alma into the low-ceilinged sitting-room and left her. Neither could understand the other’s speech, and she had judged it best to retire.

Alma sat down on a chair just inside the door, still wearing her riding-habit and veil, and looked round the room. It was painted white, with four heavy beams across the ceiling. The two windows at one end of the room were already hung with heavy winter curtains above the white. The furniture was of polished mahogany. The floor was carpeted, and a heavy old-fashioned stove was built into the centre of one wall. A big upright clock ticked monotonously, with a beat as cold and devoid of feeling as the utterance of a philosopher whom nothing on earth could move. There was a sense of comfort about the general atmosphere of the room, yet it had, as is often the case with rooms antiquely furnished, a touch of aloofness, forbidding the introduction of any other tone, or at least dominating others by its own.

Close to one of the windows Alma noticed a large writing-table and a bookshelf; that seemed familiar. And suddenly she realized that the room was to be not hers alone, but her husband’s also. Probably he had no study of his own in the house. And a feeling of bitterness crept into her heart; the room seemed less inviting now.

She rose, and crossed to the window farthest from the writing-desk, where there stood a small work-table. Here she sat down in an easy-chair, still without taking off her things, and looked out of the window. Outside was a small plot of potatoes and turnips, hedged in with the remains of a rhubarb bed, against the high bank which sheltered the garden on the north. The windows faced south-west, looking on to the bleak, high field beyond the enclosure. Behind the vicarage towered the Hof Mountains, hanging threateningly, as it were, above the place; farther in the distance were blue-grey peaks and ridges. It was all so strange to her that now, looking at it calmly, it seemed unreal, incredible.

Alma turned cold at heart as she looked. She remembered her first survey of the landscape earlier in the day, from Borg; she had found nothing green in it all save the sea. All the meadows and pastures round the house seemed withered and grey; the autumn green of the fields in Denmark was nowhere to be seen. All things seemed barren and decayed, with a grey pallor, as it were, of something nearing death, that she had seen before only in aged humanity. Here, she perceived, autumn was a reality, and not merely a passing phase to be taken lightly. Most of the houses, small and low, were built of turf and stone together. And the separate buildings of each homestead seemed to creep in close to one another, keeping as close to the ground as possible, like a flock of animals cowering before an approaching storm.

The impression it made on her then, of impending disaster, of something evil lying in wait, had vanished as quickly as it had come; she had not had time to dwell on it. But now it recurred to her mind, and she felt herself surrounded by coldness and enmity on all sides—until she remembered the greetings of the servants, and the old woman who had ushered her in to the house. The kindness they had shown to her, alone and helpless as she was, seemed like a protecting circle round her. And easier in mind for the thought, she fell to pondering how she could best learn their language quickly, that she might at least find some kind words for them in return.

While she was thus engaged, her husband entered.

She glanced at his face; anxious first of all to learn if he were still in the same ill-humour as before. The light was fading, but she could see that his expression was cold and hard, that of a stranger. Her heart beat violently; she sat without a word.

Ketill hardly gave her so much as a glance; he walked up and down the room once or twice, as if in thought, then stood by the window farthest from her, looking out. After a while, he drew a deep breath, and came towards her. His brow was lined, and his face stern, but there appeared nevertheless to be some attempt at friendliness in his bearing—as if to show that she at least was not the cause of his ill-temper.

“Well here we are, at home!”

“Yes.”

Alma’s heart throbbed painfully, but he did not notice her emotion—only that she had not taken off her riding things.

“Haven’t you got your things off yet?”

“You have not bidden me welcome yet, Ketill.”

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind, don’t worry about that.”

“No, no.... Forgotten, did you say? Ketill, I hardly know you again.”

“Whatever do you mean by that? One can’t always be in the best of tempers, I suppose?”

“No, perhaps not. But—it seems a strange homecoming, that’s all.”

Ketill was silent. He had no reply to offer, and the conversation bored him. He was curiously indifferent to Alma’s feeling of well-being or the reverse. What was she, after all? A child, thoughtless, ignorant, like all women—and most men too, for that matter. She was out of sorts just now—never mind, she would have forgotten it by tomorrow. At any rate, he could make it all right again then; perhaps he might feel more in the mood for paying attention to her troubles. Ketill was thinking in this strain when Alma spoke again.

“It is strange that you should be so different now, all at once. It almost seems as if our marriage had separated us rather than brought us together.”

Ketill had no time now to bother about whether there were any truth in this or not: no, the only thing to do was to smile in a superior fashion and not let himself be put out. And he smiled accordingly, the self-satisfied smile of a priest and a model husband, setting aside his bad temper for the moment, and said:

“There, there, little philosopher—let us put off the quarrel till another day.”

“Quarrel? Oh, I had never thought to quarrel. I’m only unhappy, that’s all.”

“Well, don’t you think it might be reasonable to imagine that I had some reason for being—well, not in the best of tempers today—what?”

“Yes, indeed, Ketill. But you have told me nothing; I know nothing of what could have upset you.”

“Well, hardly. Women don’t understand men’s troubles as a rule.”

“That seems a new sort of thing for you to say.”

“Possibly. We’ve hardly known each other long enough for me to have told you everything I think.”

“True, we have not known each other so very long. I only hope we may not find we knew too little of each other.”

Ketill laughed; to his mind, the question was not worth taking so seriously.

“Well, you’ve certainly grown less of a child and more of a woman—more of a married woman—than you were.”

But Alma found it utterly impossible to fall in with his tone.

“I am tired, Ketill. I should like to go to bed.”

“Already! Well, well, perhaps it’s the best thing you could do.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and called down the passage: “Kata!”

The old woman who had first shown Alma in, answered his call, and Ketill charged her briefly to show her mistress upstairs; she was unwell, and would go to bed at once.

Old Kata led her mistress to the bedroom above. She could not overcome the awkwardness caused by the impossibility of speech, but did her best to make up for it by kindly looks and gestures.

She would have withdrawn again at once, but Alma held her back, made her sit down on a chair by the bed, and tried to talk to her, repeating little phrases again and again till they were understood. Kata seemed willing enough, and did her best to understand; she would have liked to explain that she and all the others had already taken to their new mistress, and were anxious to do all they could for her. It was a marvel to Kata that a fine lady could be so natural and sweet and condescending. All that she had seen before of that sort had been proud and stiff and disdainful towards humble folk.

She tried to relate a dream she had had the night before about a burning light washed up by the waves, on the shore just below. Old Kata was a poor enough creature to look at, but by no means poor in spirit. She had her own world of visions and dreams, and was mistress there. And she would not speak to all and sundry of her dreams; but folk knew she had the gift, and could see what she would and learn what she pleased.

Kata was sure that the light she had seen was the fylgje, the attendant spirit, of the young Danish lady. Kata always saw a person’s fylgje before she encountered the person in reality, and she had rarely seen so beautiful a fylgje as this. For what could be more beautiful than a burning light? A burning light in the darkness. And she was accustomed also to interpret and say what such things meant. But here she could not. A burning light in the darkness—what could that mean? Something good, something beautiful it must be. And the person it followed must be a good and lovable soul.

Later that evening, the servants sat talking things over together before going to bed. They spoke of their Danish mistress, and gathered round old Kata, who, of course, had first claim to speak with authority here.

“Anyway, she’s a good heart,” said one of the men.

“And not too proud to take humble folks’ hand—as she did my very own.”

Old Kata let them talk; she could afford to be silent. Her turn would surely come. She had had most to do with their mistress up to now, and, moreover, she was recognized as the wisest head in the place—not excepting any priest. She sat now with her knitting, considering it beneath her dignity to take notice of all that was said.

Moreover, she had already expressed her opinion, in the most favourable terms, and as the others likewise had nothing but praise to utter, there was no call for her to take further part.

“Anyway, I’m certain she won’t be as hard and cruel as the last one was, with her scolding and words,” said one of the maids. “What say you, Kata?”

“She’s the blessedest light I’ve met in all my days,” answered Kata quietly, and a trifle slowly, as was her way. “There’s never an evil thought in her soul, nor a hard word in her mouth. And that’s the truth.”

Sera Ketill went late to bed that night. By ill chance it was Saturday, and he had to have his sermon ready for the morrow.

On this occasion, above all, it behoved him to take some pains with it. It was his first service, and there would be a large and expectant congregation.

Nevertheless, he did not feel at all in the mood for dealing with his text: “Ye cannot serve two masters.”

He felt a sudden bitterness of regret that he had ever decided to become a priest. Had he but chosen any other profession—a lawyer, a doctor, even a trader! Then he would have been able at least to avenge his defeats indirectly, by letting others suffer for them. Just think, for instance, of the satisfaction with which he could have taken up the task of passing sentence upon some one or other, instead of pointing out the inadvisability, nay, the impossibility, of serving two masters. He wished he could have altered the text, and held forth, for instance, upon the abomination of desolation, or the Day of Judgment. But it could not be done; the text was of serving two masters, and nothing could alter it. And he had to have a good strong sermon on that text by tomorrow, or his first appearance would be a failure. He was not disposed to risk further defeats after the ill-success of his plans today. He needed the encouragement of a victory, and must take it where it seemed most easily attainable.

He thought of his changed position; all things had turned out badly up to now. His castles in the air; his dreams of power—unlimited power—in the parish, had, he could already perceive, faded into nothing. And suddenly it struck him that he had only to give vent to his own bitterness, directing it into the proper channel, and there was his sermon!

It took time, and it was late before his manuscript was finished. But as he contemplated it, noting with satisfaction the finishing touches, he felt assured that here at least was a masterpiece; he had only to deliver it with forceful and earnest eloquence, and it must have its effect. He had regained his self-control, and was ready to forget all the disappointment of the day in sleep.

Alma awoke early next morning.

She dressed in haste, and as quietly as possible, anxious not to awaken her husband, and with some difficulty found her way through the passages and out of the house.

She stood for a little outside. It was a quiet autumn day; the air seemed full of a strange peace and solemn calm. Being Sunday, there were none of the people astir, save those busy within doors in stables or kitchen, and of these she saw nothing.

Alma wandered round the place, making a survey of her surroundings. The buildings, with their turf roofs and solid walls of the same material, seemed pleasant enough to the eye, giving a sense of security in their massive solidity. They seemed as firmly rooted and immovable as if Nature and the Lord had planted them in the earth when earth was made.

She looked about for the church, but could see none. The tarred wooden structure yonder, with a turf wall round, could surely not be it—and yet, on closer inspection, she noticed a white cross rising from the roof. With a curious beating of the heart, she hurried across to the gate in the earthen wall. Reaching it, she found that the church stood in the middle of a modest little churchyard. She opened the gate and went in. Most of the graves were simply oblong mounds of earth, only here and there was there a headstone with the usual border round. And there were a few wooden crosses with lettering in black tar.

The church itself was locked. She walked round the outside, and looked in through one of the windows, of which there were three on either side. The interior was painted white. At one end stood the altar, on a small semicircular eminence, with a low rail round. Next to it were the choir stalls, consisting of a few benches along the walls and some loose ones arranged to allow of passage between. On the right, looking down the nave, was the pulpit, with painted figures of apostles on the panels, evidently older than the church itself. There was a small harmonium, polished and new-looking—the contrast made Alma smile. But she regretted it at once; the feeling of amusement at this primitive lack of taste which installed a brand-new cheap-line harmonium in an old church, disappeared. She felt that God’s all-seeing eye was on her as she stood there spying in through a window at His house.

Looking around for somewhere to sit down a little, she noticed that the churchyard wall on one side was low, and went across. On her way she passed a grave on which stood a small pillar of grey granite, the upper part broken off obliquely. She stopped, and half unconsciously read the inscription. Between the Christian name and surname stood the word skald. She passed on, wondering in her mind what the little word might mean, but gave it up, and soon forgot it.

Seating herself on the churchyard wall, she let her eyes wander over the country round, noting how the sun shone on the fjord and on the farther side of the valley, leaving a strip of shadow on the fjeld. And a feeling of longing rose in her breast. It was strange to see the sun shining on others, and herself be left in the shadow. It seemed as if there were joy there, beyond—joy in which she had no part, and which saddened her to watch. And it was not only today, not merely the shadow of a passing cloud that barred her from the sunlight; no, there stood the fjeld, the dark and massive, rocky height, that day after day was to steal the sunlight from her life. She felt that there was enmity between them—but a moment later she realized that the dark church and the gloomy fjeld were in harmony; and that God was in and over both.

Strange—ever since she had set foot in this place, she had felt the presence of God distinctly; a blind omnipotence, of merciless mercy—she hardly knew how to define it. God was not so distant in these surroundings as He had first appeared. The snow-white sides of the fjeld were pure and good to look upon; they might well be the abode of God. The country itself, in all its outlines, shapes, and colours, was so wild and unlike all else that it seemed impossible to regard it as inhabited by human beings only, with their petty trials and pleasures. It was impossible, here, to attach great importance to one’s own well-being or the reverse; one felt so pitifully small and weak. Even life and death seemed to lose their distinctive outline.

Alma caught herself thinking—and she smiled at the thought—that she had grown, and grown wiser since her arrival, all in the space of a day and a night. She felt now, to a degree almost beyond reason, that she was but a speck in eternity, only a ripple on the endless sea of time.

Ketill found his wife deep in thought, seated on the churchyard wall. She had not heard him approaching, and started when he touched her.

With a sudden access of tenderness, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

She made no resistance, though she resented the action inwardly. His strength and the physical charm of the man that had once attracted her were now grown repulsive.

Ketill noted that his wife looked serious. It suited her, and he stroked her hair.

“Sitting here all alone?” he asked.

“I was just looking round the place. One could sit here for years, I think, without getting tired of it. I wish I were a rock—set in a place like this for ever!”

Sera Ketill laughed. “I must say I prefer existence as a human being,” he said.

“But it is lovely here,” Alma went on. “So grand and wonderful—the rocks and the sea and the snow spreading everywhere, and the desolate fields—barrenness and abundance at once. It is like looking at the stars in the sky—emptiness and yet so rich....”

“A bit of good rich pasture land would be more to my taste,” objected Ketill teasingly.

“I suppose it would. Really, I think I feel more at home here than you do yourself.”

“Well, I’m glad you do not find the country altogether forbidding. Many people do, you know.”

“Forbidding? I feel as if I were under a spell. No will of my own, just a thing in the hands of Fate. And I love the feeling that there are great and distant powers that have taken my life into their hands.”

“You had better be careful, or you will be growing superstitious—it is a common failing among the people here. They believe in all kinds of spirits, portents, omens, fate, and all that sort of thing. Look at that gravestone there—the one with the granite pillar. A young poet was buried there. Somehow the top of the stone got broken off. And folk lay it to the charge of the powers of darkness—he killed himself, you know.”

“Yes.... A broken soul beneath a broken stone....”

“I don’t think the powers of darkness trouble themselves much about the gravestones in our churchyards.”

“A poet, you say? And he killed himself? How—why?”

“Threw himself over the cliff into the sea. You can see the spot—over there. It falls sheer down into the fjord.”

Alma looked and shuddered. A white wave broke the surface of the water, and dashed against the cliff.

“But why?”

“Nobody seems to know quite. They say it was something outside the usual causes—not starvation, for instance, or love or weariness of life.”

“Nobody knows? And yet he threw himself into the sea? Then it must have been a call from on high. He realized the presence of God, and followed it, into darkness and death.”

“Alma, whatever are you talking about!”

“I hardly know myself. The words came into my mouth without a thought. And I feel myself thinking strange things that never entered my head before.” And she laughed, a little nervous laugh. “It is as if the spirit were upon me, and I had to speak so.”

At this Ketill suddenly felt called upon to play the priest. Though, as a matter of fact, he was rather impressed by her words.

“Alma, that is blasphemy, you know.”

“Not at all.” She looked up in surprise. “I simply feel as if the Spirit of God were moving on the face of the waters, and as if I were a piece of dead clay, waiting to be created as a human being.”

By half-past nine, the congregation began to appear, coming up in little groups. Many were on horseback.

Alma was outside the house, and it seemed as if the place had suddenly become alive. Little knots of people came into view here and there, far or near, appearing and disappearing between the contours of the landscape. Nearly all were hurrying.

Reaching the church, they dismounted in groups, as they had come, tethering their horses near by. They were unsaddled, and some were merely hobbled and allowed to wander about at will. The churchgoers then set to tidying themselves before the service: pulling off the long riding hose, brushing dirt and hair from their clothes, unpacking collars or aprons, and fastening bows with careful neatness.

Then, having completed their toilet, they began to move about, exchanging greetings and news, collecting in new formations and changing again. A few spoke noisily, but for the most part they talked in an undertone, with much nodding of heads and brief ejaculations.

Alma was a centre of attraction, though most of the curious ones tried to conceal their interested observation. A few of the principal farmers and their wives, knowing who she must be, came up to greet her, but with some awkwardness, when they found she could not understand their speech. And they withdrew to the company of their fellows.

Ørlygur À Borg came alone.

Alma went up to her father-in-law, who smiled and took her hand, flushing like a youth, and with that curious kindly smile of his lighting up the furrowed face. He was looking better, she thought, than he had done the day before.

She took his arm, and would have led him into the house, but he shook his head, and nodded in the direction of the church, where the bell was now ringing in. Most of the congregation were already seated, only a few late comers were hastening up. Among them was old Kata. She thought herself unobserved, and waved a coloured kerchief in the air, muttering to herself: “Away, be off with you, cursed creatures; get away, wicked things.”

The bystanders imagined she was addressing invisible beings, evil spirits and demons,—the fylgjer of those present,—whom she had to drive away to make a passage for herself.

Alma entered the church with Ørlygur, leaning on his arm up the aisle. This was not customary except in the case of bride and bridegroom, but she knew no better. Ørlygur was somewhat embarrassed, but he felt happier than he had done for many a day; not for any consideration would he have withdrawn his arm.

He found her a seat next to his own sitting, but did not take that place himself. As the first layman in the parish he had duties to perform; he led the singing, and Alma noticed that it was the organ that followed his lead, not the reverse. She also remarked that his voice was surprisingly strong and pure for his years.

In the responses, however, he faltered a little; possibly, thought Alma, from nervousness on account of the fact that his son was officiating for the first time. A little after, she noticed a frown on his brow, lines that had not been there before, or at least not so marked. And it crossed her mind that Ørlygur À Borg was not on friendly terms with his son Ketill—there must be some good cause for it....

Already she seemed to have grown to love this old man, with his snow-white hair and beard, and the look of strength and yet of Christian kindliness in his face. Her eyes wandered from one to another of those present, old and young.

Many were better dressed than Ørlygur, who wore a suit of brown homespun material, his jacket buttoned up round the neck, and a pair of soft hide shoes on his feet. Many of the others wore collars and polished boots, yet it was easy to see that this man was the leader—the born master of his fellows, to whom all others must defer. Not that there was anything overbearing in his manner, far from it. He nodded to one and all, and they returned his greeting without servility, but with ungrudging respect as towards a superior whom they esteemed.

Ørlygur sat with bowed head and expressionless features throughout the sermon. But Alma could see that the people generally were carried away. And when the service was at an end, they gathered round Ørlygur and Ketill to offer their congratulations. Ørlygur, however, made no reply to their words of praise, only thanked them briefly. Shortly after, he took leave of Alma, shaking his head in response to her invitation to the house. She saw him go up to Ketill, who was standing in the middle of a group of peasants, and address a few words to him, whereupon both men walked away to where Ørlygur’s horse was standing.

“Ketill, I must have a word with you,” said Ørlygur to his son.

And as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest he went on.

“Do not speak; do not dare to say a word! Listen! You are a scoundrel and a rogue. Your sermon was hypocrisy, and inspired by something certainly not divine. You can deceive these poor folk, maybe, but you can no longer deceive me. I cannot imagine what use the Lord has for such a man as you—that He ever let you into His vineyard at all. And I cannot understand what Fate ever led that angel yonder to become your wife. How her beautiful eyes could fail to see through you—’tis more than I can fathom. Her will is for good—and yours for evil. Ay, you may smile! You are a hypocrite—a ne’er-do-well. But you are the priest of this parish, more’s the pity, and married to a good and beautiful girl—also, you are my son. I can only warn you to be careful. And I have this to tell you: Ormarr is taking over the estate of Borg; he has sold his business. And he is to marry Runa, my adopted daughter; they are going abroad at once. When Ormarr dies, Borg goes to their children—you understand me? I would advise you to be good to your wife. Should I hear otherwise, then God have mercy upon you. For her sake I will continue my duties in the church as before, hateful though it is to me to endure the sight of you. For her sake I pray that God will give me strength. Even now I cannot set foot in your house. Make what excuse you please to your wife; let her be spared from knowing the truth; bring her to Borg occasionally yourself. I would not see her suffer for your sins. And now I have spoken my mind.”

Ørlygur À Borg turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode off.

Sera Ketill had endeavoured once or twice to smile during his father’s outburst, but it was more for the sake of preserving his self-control that he had tried to consider the matter in a humourous light. As Ørlygur rode away, he stood with bowed head, set teeth, and frowning brow; then with an effort he pulled himself together, striving to regain his normal air of priestly authority.

When, a few minutes later, he encountered Alma, he said:

“My father was very busy, and could not come in. He told me to give you his kind regards. Ormarr is leaving tomorrow—going abroad, so they have much to do at Borg.”

“So that is why Ormarr did not come to church?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“But surely he will come and say good-bye?”

“It is hardly likely. He is only going away for a short time, and when he comes back he will live at Borg.”

“It will be nice to have him so near. But what about his business?”

“He has sold it, so my father tells me. As a matter of fact, this voyage is a sort of honeymoon. He is going to marry Runa, father’s adopted daughter, and she is going with him. We did not see her yesterday.”

“But it seems strange—not to pay a farewell visit.”

Ketill smiled sarcastically. “I should not expect it,” he said. “It is not the custom in this country.”

For the next few days Sera Ketill went about with a preoccupied air. He was trying to weigh the situation and settle his plans.

If his father and Ormarr had thought he would give up the struggle without protest, they were mistaken. He would not allow himself to be crushed. If they asked for war, they should have it. True, everything seemed to favour them at present, but on the other hand, the odds absolved him, he considered, from any obligation to be overscrupulous in his choice of weapons. All’s fair in love and war.

He remembered, with something like regret, the pleasant spring evenings when he had wandered side by side with Runa, enjoying a brief flirtation. Happy days—with nothing but the pleasure of the moment to consider. He had no longings to plague him, having all that he desired. He imagined himself in love with the shy, dreamy child who trusted herself so unreservedly to him. It had cost him something to leave her, but, nevertheless, something within him told him that he must; that he could not go on enjoying one idle, happy phase, but must move forward to a new and more strenuous one, that promised in return greater rewards for greater strife.

And, once he had left her, Runa had passed from his mind entirely; all that was left of her was a vague memory, the recollection of one of his minor adventures, a careless day of sunshine in his past. He had never thought she would cross his path again; it had never once occurred to him to write to her. He regretted his thoughtlessness now. If he had kept up a kind of correspondence with her, he might have used his influence over the girl to some purpose. Anyhow, it was fortunate that the incident had turned out as it had. No scandal—not a soul to fear. He could be quite easy on that score, for it was in the interest of the other party that nothing should leak out. And, with a little deft manipulation on his part, the hushing up of the matter might even prove a most useful weapon in his hand. Again, all was fair in love and war.

On the whole, his position was not so bad. He had made a good match, and his wife had considerable expectations in addition to her present fortune. Yes, he would be able to look after himself. Ormarr might take over the estate—for a time. But he who laughs last, laughs best. When all was said and done, his father and brother had not yet got him into their power; he had his congregation, and his position gave him an excellent opportunity to influence public opinion. Meantime, he would take care to win them over by his powers of persuasion generally, and gradually make them his faithful adherents.

The old man had been furious on Sunday; he had probably been far from appreciating his son’s talents as a preacher. But he would know how to lash the old man’s feelings with his words from the pulpit; he would reach farther and cut deeper than any other had done before. No fanciful theology, but argument backed by chapter and verse from the Scriptures. There could be no question of defence or refutation; it would be pleasant to see Ørlygur À Borg writhing under the interpretations of the Old Testament delivered by his son. Ay, he would show them that a priest was a man to be feared, an enemy not to be lightly challenged.

Sera Ketill was already elated with thoughts of his victory to come. He drew up far-reaching plans, and began at once to con the doctrines of the Church in his mind—as weapons to be used in his campaign against his father and brother.

Alma was left very much to herself; her husband had little time to spare for entertaining her. When he was not busy with his sermons, he was occupied out of doors.

The cattle were brought in for water, and the sheep called down from the mountain pastures where they had grazed throughout the summer. Their numbers had to be checked, according to the list prepared when they had first gone out, to see if any were missing. Then came the question as to how many should be kept during the winter. The hay in the lofts was measured out in horse-loads; one sheep needed but a single horse-load for the whole winter, this being eked out by the winter grazing grounds, which gave a certain amount of feed each year, on the hillsides or down by the shore. A cow, on the other hand, would need forty horse-loads, whereas a horse could manage with ten. All these and other details had to be considered.

Then came the killing season, and large droves of sheep were sent off, either direct to the slaughter-houses or to the market.

There were repairs to be undertaken, buildings and outhouses to be seen to; altogether, there were many things which claimed Sera Ketill’s attention, and often his personal supervision, especially the sale and slaughtering of the stock.

Indoors, too, there was much to be done; supplies of dried, preserved, and pickled provisions were invariably laid in for each winter.

Alma herself had not much to do. When it was fine enough she went for long walks; otherwise, she spent most of her time reading or sewing. Now and again she would go out into the kitchen, and try to talk to the maids. When Kata was at liberty, Alma sought her company, either in the kitchen or in the sitting-room. Kata preferred the former; it seemed to her a mark of favouritism to be invited into the inner rooms. Alma had come to appreciate highly the old woman’s straightforward earnestness and her power of maintaining discipline when necessary, and old Kata had no greater wish than to do all in her power for her young mistress. She carried out her duties faithfully, and saw to it that the other servants did the same.

Alma had thus plenty of time to consider her own position. But it was a difficult matter to arrive at any clear conclusion out of the maze of moods and fancies that filled her mind.

At times she even thought of returning home to her people, but only for a moment. She felt she would never be able to take up the threads of her old life again. And indeed, from a practical point of view, it seemed impossible. What would her husband say to such a step? Moreover, she would probably be having a child before long.

Apart from these considerations, however, she could hardly bring herself to leave the country; it had made a powerful impression on her from the first, and she felt herself strangely under its spell. Here, at least, she could live, even if she had to renounce all idea of any happiness in her domestic life with her husband. If she went away now, she felt that a part of her being would be left behind; to live elsewhere would be spiritless, intolerable.

She bore with resignation the shattering of her dreams of love, and made no attempt to deceive herself with ideas of a future reconciliation. Love, she felt, would play no further part in her life; when she endeavoured to sound her feelings on this point, she found herself coldly indifferent. Her conscience was in no way hurt by her attitude towards her husband; it could not be otherwise, since he on his part seemed to have no longer any pleasure in the possession of her, regarding her merely as a chattel he had acquired.

She even went so far as to imagine that he had never loved her, but only pretended to do so, and had only won her by sheer selfish calculation. In the days of their courtship, such a thought had never entered her mind; but now, disappointment had driven all love away, leaving only a sense of injury.

Chiefly dominant, however, was the sense of indifference; Alma had almost become a fatalist. Sorrows and disappointments were things to be taken as they came, and stacked aside, as a card-player lays aside the tricks he has taken, or a miser packs away his treasures. All unknowingly, she was gradually developing in herself something of the essential character of the country that had so impressed her; so it was that the snow gathered and hung on the mountain-side, ever more and more, until it crashed down in an avalanche, burying houses and men, or sweeping them out to sea. So also in the heart of the volcanoes molten stuff was gathered slowly—to burst forth one day and spread death and desolation abroad. And human beings might do as they, gathering slowly the force that, suddenly loosed, should change their destinies.

Autumn spread its heavy tones over the land, persistent, yet ever changing.

There were grey, wet days, when all things were obliterated under masses of rain. Then violent storms, when window-frames and houses rattled and shook, and the dust was whirled in huge yellow clouds. Haystacks were caught in the whirlwind, tumbledown cottages demolished; even the strongest men were at times obliged to move on all fours over the hills, to avoid being swept over some precipice. Boats along the shore were crushed like egg-shells; there were sad days for the fisherfolk.

Sometimes the elements seemed to be resting, leaving the weather calm and mild; at other times there would be days of shifting light and shade, of scurrying clouds and sudden hailstorms that left white streaks along the hillsides where they passed.

The days were growing shorter; everywhere the advance of darkness made itself felt, like a mighty bass in the autumnal choir, relieved by the clear treble of the stars and the northern lights.

Alma spent the long evenings at home for the most part, busy with her own thoughts. There was little interchange of words between her and her husband. They seemed separated by a gulf of silence; Ketill, apparently, found nothing distressing in the fact. It was convenient to have a wife who was quiet, and did not bother him. But Alma felt as if they lived in different worlds, with but the slightest link between them.

Sometimes the fact that they were married—and the intimacies which alone declared it—seemed to her so tragically humourous that she had to bite her lips lest she should break out into bitter laughter.

The autumn nights had a depressing effect on her mind, filling her with a consuming pain—a deep and intolerable longing for some one in whose heart she had a place, though but the merest little corner, where she could feel at rest.

At milking-time, about ten o’clock, she could be sure of finding old Kata in the cowshed. And often she would steal out to her there, watching the old woman at work in the dim light. Old Kata knew that her mistress might be coming, and sent off Kobbi, the old cowman, for a jug, which was filled straight from the udder,—an especial piece of consideration on the part of Kata,—and the three would sit talking together as best they could. The two old folk had already taught their mistress something of the language, enough at any rate for her to understand them, and now and again put in a word herself.

Time rolled on.

The autumn nights grew longer; the days dwindled to a few hours’ feeble light.

Winter was near at hand.

Then came the snow. First one night, when all was still. There it lay next morning, a soft, white sheet spread out under a blue-tinted sky. All the earth seemed silent as in church, at the hour of meditation. And when any sound broke the stillness, its echo seemed to dwell in the ear for longer than usual, dying away slowly, as if loth to depart.

The wind came, levelling the snow to fill the hollows of the ground; then more snow, then rain, and then frost; winter was come in earnest, come to stay. Heavy, murky clouds shed their burden of snow, but passed away again; winter had many aspects and was never one thing for long at a time. Westerly winds flung the snow hither and thither, mountain torrents rushed down on their way to the sea. And then suddenly, in the midst of all this wild confusion, would come calm, clear nights, of ghostly quiet, no sound to be heard save the murmur of the sea, like beating of the wings of time.

And men lived on, under the heavy yoke of winter. It seemed as if the winter itself were ever trying to foist itself upon them, claiming acknowledgment of its presence. It set its mark upon the window-panes, thrust itself at them through the cracks of doors; but they strove to keep it out, thawing the pictures on their windows, bundling the snow from their thresholds with scant ceremony, even with abuse. No wonder that the winter turned spiteful at times, lying in wait for men and leading them astray in storms, luring them to destruction in some concealed ravine where their last breath could be offered up as a sacrifice upon its altar. It was but reasonable so.

This winter, the Hofsfjordur folk had little time to spare for contemplation of the usual struggle; they took the necessary steps for their protection, but their minds were largely occupied with other matters.

There was the new priest, Sera Ketill, son of the mighty King of Borg—and he gave them food for thought in abundance. From his first sermon, he had made his influence felt, chiefly, perhaps, through his eloquence and the depth of feeling he seemed to display. Then, later, it became evident that there was a certain tendency in his discourses; his arguments pointed towards some conclusion, though what this was could hardly be seen as yet. His masterly treatment of his texts revealed an iron will, that had evidently set itself some great and difficult task.

Sera Ketill revealed himself as a fanatic, stern and merciless in his interpretations and demands. He appeared as an idealist, looking ever toward the goal of perfection, which he seemed to regard as undoubtedly attainable. In his judgments and castigation he was unrelenting as a Jesuit; his doctrine was clear and hard, admitting of no compromise: if the eye offended, pluck it out; if the offending hand were nearer and dearer than all else, there was still no way but one—cut it off and cast it from thee. Thus Sera Ketill taught his flock.

Sunday after Sunday the church was full; week by week Sera Ketill knit more closely the bond between his parishioners and himself. At first they admired him, but it was not long before they came to love him. What had been, was forgotten; he was their priest now. All knew that Ormarr was to inherit Borg after his father, and it was not difficult to forgive Ketill for having, in earlier days, cherished other hopes. Plainly he had himself been the first to mortify the flesh, and put away his own worldly desires. And who should call him to account for any youthful indiscretions? After all, perhaps he had not been serious in his reputed intention of discontinuing the benign and considerate rule that had been a tradition of the Borg family towards those round them. His sternness in matters spiritual, on the other hand, was unimpeachable; it showed his earnest desire for the welfare of their souls, and those who followed his precepts were happy in so doing, even though it cost them something to break with the old easy-going ways. Conscience needed to be kept awake and sensitive. And it was not altogether unpleasant to come to church and be rated and stormed at for all backslidings; one sat listening with beating heart, subject to an emotion which Sera Ketill’s predecessor had certainly never had power to call forth. The wearisome homilies of the old days, full of spiritless and superficial argument, had made it hard for them to keep decorously awake. But now, it was a different atmosphere altogether. “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart.” Also, “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” But hence it followed that one should tolerate nothing in one’s neighbour that would not be tolerated in oneself. “For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God,” ay, jealous even towards His children. Wherefore it behoved them to adopt a similar attitude towards those around them. Wheresoever anything became apparent which was not in the spirit of God, let them rise up and denounce it; if they suffered any among them to look with scorn, or even with indifference, upon the Holy Word, then they themselves were guilty. And for such sinners there was nothing but everlasting damnation; the Scriptures had declared it plainly.

Sera Ketill’s doctrine admitted but two alternatives—either heaven or hell.

And he did not confine his teachings to the pulpit. His eyes were everywhere, and as often as he discovered anything among his flock that was not according to his teaching, he was ready with word and deed. And he brooked no resistance—he spoke in the name of the Lord. Illegitimate relationships that had gone on for years were ordered to be legalized; it was not an uncommon thing for an old couple who had never been properly married to appear in church for the ceremony with their grown-up children as witnesses. A fever of zeal spread from the vicarage throughout the parish. True, there were occasional murmurings from those who were called upon to mend their ways, but even they felt the power of this new influence in their hearts. And little by little the flock was led into the paths of righteousness.

First and foremost, Sera Ketill demanded of his congregation that they should attend regularly for worship in God’s House, where, by hearing of the Word, their hearts might be opened to receive the Lord. Anything beyond a single Sunday’s absence called forth a visit and a reproof for neglect. Thus it was not long before Sera Ketill became the unquestioned leader of the parish, acknowledged by all.

Among the poorer folk he gained great popularity by foregoing his right of grazing on their land; here was an example near to hand of the self-denial he preached. Such a thing had hardly been heard of before. Plainly, Sera Ketill was one who himself lived up to his principles.

His judgment was taken as infallible, any decision on his part was to them as if inspired by the Almighty. And week by week they grew more and more dependent upon him; every Sunday he whittled away some portion of the spiritual independence they had hitherto enjoyed. Yet they hardly felt it as a loss; they were made to feel that it was pleasing to God that they should do as they were bidden.

Sera Ketill’s doctrine bore the outward semblance of hallowed certainty and divine infallibility. But there was something vague about it still, something that had not yet been declared outright. A sense of expectancy, half-unconscious, perhaps, hung over the parish. Whither was Sera Ketill leading them? What was it that was coming?

Ketill himself realized well enough that his scope of operations was limited: he could only carry matters to a certain point. Like a skilful general, he carefully estimated the fighting strength at his disposal, and never permitted himself to indulge in any over-sanguine imaginings as to how far his people would follow him when it came to the pinch. Above all things, he must not lose his head; must not act prematurely. His objective was clear, but it could only be reached by patience. Given but time enough, the ripened fruit would fall at his feet. Meantime, he must foster the growing zeal among his flock; in time, they would be ready for any outburst of fanaticism. Not too quickly—no. But his time would surely come.

Ørlygur À Borg attended service regularly; Sunday after Sunday he listened to the wild outpourings of his son. And sorrow and wonder grew in his heart.

Ketill strove to maintain his appearance of sincerity towards his father, but he knew that the old man saw through the mask.

Ørlygur, on his part, for all that he had declared that Ketill could no longer deceive him, found it hard to account for his son’s zeal. If he were not serious, then why... what was he aiming at? But again and again he felt an instinctive certainty that his son’s preaching was not inspired by any divine influence.

And apart from the religious aspect, Ørlygur was sorely troubled to see the people thus easily led. He knew his folk, and was himself a leader of no common power; he could not but wonder now, whither they were being led. Also, he knew only too well the cold reaction that often follows undue excitement.

Many a long winter night the King of Borg tossed restlessly in bed, uttering many a prayer to God—the only Being whose superiority he acknowledged. He was weighed down by a sense of impending disaster—there was trouble coming, and coming swiftly nearer.

Ketill was the leading source of his uneasiness; again and again he asked himself if he could not somehow step in and avert the threatening catastrophe. But he racked his brains in vain to find any way in which he could act as things were. What was there for him to oppose? He could not take action against his son’s enthusiasm in the cause of religion and piety? Heaven forbid! Was he to endeavour to minimize the devotion of the people to their God? Even though Ketill’s heart were cold, and his zeal but a sham, who could say but that he might yet be an instrument in the hand of the Lord—a creature inspired as to his deeds, though not in spirit? Ørlygur À Borg could not raise his hand against Heaven.

For all this, his suspicions never abated, but rather increased, as he watched the growing hold of his son upon the parish. Was it not a masked attack upon the supremacy of Borg? His son was trying to usurp his place as chieftain. He called to mind the story of David and Absalom, and David’s bitter lament for the death of his son. And he could not free himself from the thought that Heaven must be working out some plan with Ketill, the prodigal; at times, also, it seemed that something evil were lying in wait. And, in such moments, the old man longed to take his son, his child, in his arms, and weep over him, despite all the wrong he had suffered at his hands. Ørlygur made no attempt to disguise from himself the baseness of Ketill’s conduct, but he fancied it might be the will of God moving in some mysterious way. His heart was torn by the meanness and hypocrisy of his son; he felt himself wounded to the death. And yet all the time his heart was bursting with a desire to forgive.

Nevertheless, the same disgust and aversion filled him every time they met. He felt he must step in and put a stop to all this underhand scheming and working; Ketill was a creeping, venomous thing, to be crushed underfoot ere it had wrought irreparable harm.

For the first time in his life Ørlygur felt uncertain of himself, wavering as to his proper course of action. He doubted his right to lead; doubted even if he had been right up to now in stewardship under God of all that was His.

He searched his conscience, yet he could find no evil there. Yet what if his judgment of himself were at fault, blinded by pride and self-deceit? How should a man judge of himself?—God alone could judge.

The brave old warrior was stricken and weakened now; his own flesh and blood had wounded him, and, in face of it, doubt and uncertainty gripped his soul.

The winter wore on.

Each day brought the foreboding of disaster more and more prominently to Ørlygur’s mind; each night increased the restless tension of his heart.

Then late in March came a letter from Ormarr, then in Italy.

The news was encouraging; Runa had borne a child, a son, some weeks before, and both were well. Ormarr and his wife were happy together; Runa appeared to have forgotten her past trouble, and Ormarr did his best not to revive any unpleasant memory. He himself was well and happy, though longing at times for his home at Borg; he was anxious to return, and tend and comfort his father in the last years of his life.

They would be coming back as early as could be managed, reaching Iceland in June. The child was to be regarded as newly born; it could hardly be difficult to conceal the exact truth as to its age. And as Ørlygur knew, they had been married in Denmark the previous autumn. Finally, Ormarr bade his father be of good cheer, and wished to be sincerely remembered to his sister-in-law, Alma.

Ørlygur found the letter encouraging, yet at the same time there was something in it that saddened him. He was glad to have the support of his son’s youth and strength in his loneliness, and his heart went out to the boy in welcome. Here, at last, he would have some one he could trust, some one in whom he could confide. But at the same time, there were fears in his mind as to what would come when Ormarr returned, and his anxiety increased as the time for his homecoming grew nearer.

Gloomy dreams haunted his sleep—a thing he had never known before. What it all meant was beyond him, but somehow, all seemed to centre round the idea of approaching death. At the same time, he realized with dread that there might be worse in store for him than death—something more terrible than what was after all but a natural end.

The winter was a hard time for Fru Alma.

Never, surely, had a tender, womanly heart been so overwhelmed with loneliness and doubt, conflicting feelings and bewildering thoughts, or borne it all with greater fortitude and patience.

A snow-white lily snatched from the sunny spring and thrust away into a gloomy loft. And what is the withering of a lily to the agonies of a human heart? Here was a human creature, plucked from a careless butterfly existence under a cloudless sky of youth, and transplanted to a land of grim solemnity and earnest—the home of Fate, where dreams and omens and forebodings reigned; who could endure it and not suffer?

Alma’s soul developed in adversity, but it was an unnatural growth—the growth of herbage in the shade, outwardly luxuriant, no more. Such growths, once brought into the light of the sun, must wither and shrink, to rise no more.

Hardest of all, perhaps, was the monotony of her life. Despite the changing weather, lengthening days, intercourse with people around her as she picked up a little more of the language, despite the busy Sundays, it was a sadly uneventful existence, and there seemed no hope of relief in the future. The coming years loomed out as burdens to be borne in due course, days of drab wakefulness, with restless nights of evil dreams; the healing rest that night should bring was but a mirage.

When the loneliness became unbearable she would seek the company of old Kata, or of the other servants. And her kindness to them all was soon known far and wide. Were any in trouble, be sure Fru Alma would not pass them by; her generous sympathy was recognized by all. “The Danish Lady at Hof,” they called her, and looked to her as one to whom any appeal for help should naturally be made, as to a patron saint, or the Son of God Himself. And there was no irreverence in the comparison.

The vicarage was constantly besieged by beggars and vagabonds; Sera Ketill, scenting personal advantage to himself in his wife’s reputation for charity, encouraged her in the work. He thanked her—but his thanks were insincere and superficial, and Alma was not deceived. She and old Kata were the only ones who saw through him, each in her own way. The two women never spoke of him together; he was the one theme upon which they never exchanged confidences. Alma could not speak ill of her husband to any one, and it was not old Kata’s way to make ill worse. Kata knew exactly what went on at the vicarage, and she was the only one who did. Ørlygur was only partially aware of the true state of affairs between Ketill and his wife.

Kata, who herself had never been wife nor mistress to any man, was more outspoken with Fru Alma than she had ever been with any other soul. She found in her a creature pure and undefiled as herself, a nature trustful and unsuspicious, with that high confidence that gives the greatest worth, beyond what ordinary sense can perceive. And Kata tested her in many ways before venturing to speak freely; but Alma passed every ordeal triumphantly, unaware that she was being tried. Chief of all was absolute, voluntary silence, speaking of a matter to none until one knew that speech was but as speaking to oneself. Good wine should not be poured into untried vessels.

It is hard to say whether old Kata’s confidences were to Alma’s good or the reverse. In any case, it was a relief to her to talk with the old woman, and at first she paid but little heed to what she heard. There were strange themes which she would never have dreamed of discussing with any one, and when alone, she gave them but little thought. Gradually, however, they became more insistent, and laid firm hold on her mind.

True, she never saw nor heard “things,” as old Kata claimed to do; she was not given to seeing visions, and certainly had no claim to the power of second sight. But she had strange dreams which Kata, when in the mood, would interpret in such wise that Alma became thoroughly convinced of the old woman’s powers.

They had strange talks together at times.

“Why is it, do you think, Kata,” Alma might ask, “that there is always more suffering than joy in life?”

“I doubt but it’s all because they crucified the Son of God.”

“But don’t you think there’s many a human being must have suffered as much as He did? Others have been crucified, you know; and then death on the cross is not the worst kind of torture that could be imagined.”

“Nay, there’s many a heavy cross to be borne, that’s true. But God is God, and that’s another thing.”

Or Fru Alma would start another theme, asking Kata’s views as to whether sufferings of human beings were confined to this world, or if there were perhaps still greater pains and trouble to come.

Old Kata opined that each and every one would receive punishment or reward according to their doings in this world.

“It seems to me,” said Alma quietly, “that we are so bound by inherited weakness and sin that however much evil we may do, we cannot fairly be judged beyond our life on earth.”

“There’s a deal in that, maybe,” answered Kata. “And there’s many a poor sinner not rightly answerable for all they’ve done. But God is God.”

One day, when a number of dead bodies from a wreck had been washed ashore in the fjord, Alma said:

“Sometimes I can’t help thinking that mankind, for all the limitation of our powers, could manage some things more justly at least than Providence seems to do.”

“Never speak like that,” said old Kata warningly. “Think of the Scriptures. ’Tis God’s finger guiding all.”

“Oh, I know it’s a blessed thing to have faith in time of trouble. And as long as it’s only oneself.... But when something dreadful happens to others, and there seems no sense nor reason for it all, then one can’t help asking, why, what is it all for? Surely one might think that a heavenly providence would be kind, and work for our good.”

“Ay, ’tis strange to think, no doubt,” answered Kata. “And there’s times when it’s hard to answer such things. But God is God.”

This last expression was a constant formula in Kata’s mouth, which to herself at least seemed to dispose of the most difficult problem.

Alma ventured to put a direct question.

“Have you never felt yourself, sometime, that you didn’t really want to say ‘God’s will be done’?”

“Now you’re asking me something,” said Kata, “and something I’d not answer to any but yourself.”

The spinning-wheel stopped, and Kata paused; not a word was uttered for some moments. At last the old woman went on:

“Once there was a poor man and a young woman. She was not rich, neither, but they two were fond of each other, and gave each other promise. They would wait till they could buy a little farm; it might take years, but they would wait. You know the hills over yonder they call the Dark Mountains. Well, the young man, he went up there to serve with a farmer who offered him good wages. And the girl, she stayed behind, and never saw him all that summer. But she had her ring to look at, and hope. In the autumn, he came down over the mountains to see her. And there came a snowstorm on the way, and he was frozen to death in the mountains....”

Old Kata’s voice had changed; its tone brought tears to Alma’s eyes, and though the speaker herself shed never a tear, it was a little time before she could go on.

“Yes. ’Twas a hard blow to my faith at the time, and I was all doubt in my heart. But later on that same year I learned the truth. He was going to marry the daughter of the farmer he’d been working with, and only came down to ask me to give back the ring and give me mine again. And then I said ‘God’s will be done.’ ’Twas providence clear enough. ’Tis not for us mortals to fathom the ways of God, and there’s much that seems mysterious, ay, and hard and unjust. But God is God. And we’re but weak things in His hand, without understanding. But for all that we can make our hearts a shining light, and show the way to wanderers that’s lost the way.”

When Alma knew she was to give birth to a child, she gave way entirely, and pent-up tears burst forth.

“Oh, how could it, how could it ever come like this?” she moaned.

She was to bring forth a child that should carry the nature of its father or its mother—to what degree she could not say. And the prospect of a child she felt she could not love filled her with horror, the curse of a joyless motherhood. If only God in His mercy had made her barren; had spared her the anguish of bringing another life into this world of suffering and misery.

She wept herself by degrees into a calmer state, and a sense of pity and self-reproach grew up in her—pity for the new little being to come, and self-reproach that she herself was so weak.

Surely it was sinful to look forward without thankfulness to motherhood, a sin against the child unborn.

And yet—how could she ever be glad?

Life was a void to her; she had no desire in life but to cease living. Listlessly she saw the days go by, the burden of her sorrow ever increasing.

But those around her paid little heed; they had seen so many young mothers who seemed to think themselves laden with all the trouble of all the world.

Ørlygur À Borg noticed her condition, and saw, too, that she took no pleasure in the prospect. His heart was touched at the thought, and his tenderness towards her increased. Often on Sundays he would arrive some time before the service, in order to see her, and if he could, console her a little.

They went to church together, the old man and the young woman; Alma still sat in her old place beside his. And she was grateful for his kindness and friendliness; he seemed to her the most lovable man she had ever known.

One Sunday, just before church, Ketill happened to return to the house, and found his father’s overcoat hanging in the hall. The lining was outward, and the corner of an envelope showed in the pocket.

Ketill glanced round, listened, and seized the letter, slipped into a room close by and closed the door behind him.

Hurriedly he read the message through. It was Ormarr’s letter telling of the birth of Runa’s child.

Ketill’s hands trembled, and his face flushed. With a nervous laugh he thrust the letter into his pocket. Then, as by an afterthought, he took it out again, stood for a moment irresolute, and making sure he was not observed, put it back in the coat from which he had taken it.

He went back to join his father and Alma, in the sitting-room, trying hard to appear unmoved. But he felt he could not quite control himself, and began fumbling among some papers on the writing-table. He was still thus occupied when the bell rang for the last time. His wife and Ørlygur would have waited for him, but he bade them go on, saying he would follow immediately.

Ketill waited till their steps had died away, then hurried out to the hall; he knew he was now alone in the house. He took down the coat, and let it fall to the ground, where it might seem to have slipped from the peg. Then he took the letter from the envelope, and laid it unfolded by the coat, as if it had fallen out.

This done, he hurried across to the church. On the way he stopped, felt in his pocket, and beckoning to a lad near, whispered:

“I left my pocket-book on the writing-table in my room. Run in and fetch it for me.”

The boy ran off to obey, and passing through the hall noticed the coat lying on the floor. He stopped to pick it up, and caught sight of the letter. He glanced through it, hardly knowing what he was doing, and finally left everything as he had found it.

When he reached the church with the pocket-book, he was evidently ill at ease; those who remarked it put it down to embarrassment at attracting attention.

Sera Ketill’s sermon was not so effective today as usual. Possibly his delivery was in part responsible. The priest seemed curiously absent; once or twice he even came to a standstill, and had to cast about for words.

It was the custom for none to leave the church till the priest and his family had left. Sera Ketill seemed in a remarkable hurry today. He strode across to the house at once, and quickly.

Coat and letter lay where he had left them, but had evidently been moved. Ketill smiled. He picked up the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and put it back in the pocket. He had barely finished when Ørlygur and Alma entered.

Ørlygur had noticed nothing, but Alma thought it strange to find her husband there in the hall, after he had made such haste to leave the church, doing something with his father’s coat.

Her heart beat fast, and she turned to Ørlygur.

“Another time, father, when you hang your overcoat up like that, be sure there is nothing in the pockets.”

As she spoke, hardly realizing what she had said, at first, the consciousness of her own suspicions of her husband came to her suddenly, and she flushed.

Ørlygur laughed, and answered:

“I don’t think there is anything to be afraid of.”

And he felt in his pockets. “Nothing here but a letter from Ormarr, and any one’s welcome to read that.”

He spoke lightly, but a moment afterwards, recollecting the contents, he turned pale. Alma noticed it, but tried to appear unconcerned.

When Ørlygur had gone, she remained standing, deep in thought.

It dawned upon her that there must be some connection between her husband’s evident nervousness and Ørlygur’s sudden start. What it could be she was unable to imagine.

Outwardly calm, she rejoined her husband.

“Your father showed me a letter he had just received from Ormarr.”

“Did he show it to you?”

Ketill sprang up suddenly, and came towards her, but she appeared not to notice, and went on:

“Ormarr and his wife are getting on nicely. They are in Naples, and expect to be home early in June.”

“Did you read the letter?” asked Ketill, with a careless air.

“No. Ørlygur told me what was in it.”

Alma was watching her husband’s face, and could not fail to mark the smile with which he greeted her last remark. Evidently, he had got hold of the letter himself somehow, and found in it something that Ørlygur would not willingly have known.

With bowed head, she left the room, and went to her bedroom, threw herself on the bed, and burst into tears.

Her husband was a thief—a priest, and a thief.

What a cruel burden was this Heaven had laid upon her. What would this man’s child be? Oh that the Lord would take it before ever it woke to life!

Alma wept long and bitterly, falling at last into a heavy sleep. It lasted but a little while, however, and she awoke in high fever.

She was put to bed, and a doctor sent for. But before he could reach her, the trouble was over—Alma had given her child to the world—stillborn.

When Alma came to herself, she saw her husband bending over the little body, which they would not allow her to see. Ketill’s face showed neither tears nor sorrow.

And she thought to herself: I shall die now. And it will be laid in the earth by my side, with never a kindly look from any human being in this world.

With an effort she managed to raise herself on her elbow and glance down into the cradle where the little body lay. It was all uncovered, on a white sheet, so very small and grey, with little white finger-nails. The sight was like a hot steel in her heart. And with a cry she fell back, unconscious.

For several days Alma lay between life and death, and when at last the crisis was passed, she looked up to find old Kata by her side.

The old woman smiled encouragingly, but would not let her speak.

“Lie still, my dear; the worst is over now.”

A day or two later, when Alma was well enough to sit up in bed a little, she asked:

“How long have I been lying here, Kata?”

“This is the tenth day.”

“Have I been ill so long? And who has been watching besides you?”

“Nay, I’d have none but myself for that. I’ve slept a little now and again.”

Alma grasped the old woman’s wrinkled hand.

“How ever could you, Kata! And how can I ever thank you?”

“No need to try, my dear. ’Tis enough that you’re getting well again.”

“Have I—did I talk in my sleep at all?”

“Nay, nothing to worry about. Said this and that, maybe, but I paid no heed.”

Kata busied herself about the room, avoiding Alma’s eyes. “’Tis no use listening to feverish talk,” she added.

During the long days that followed, while Alma was in bed, Kata told her fairy stories about kings and princes, with some idea of diverting her thoughts. And Alma could not but smile at the old woman’s curious ideas as to the life of royalty; she did not, however, attempt to correct her impressions.

But once, in a pause, Alma broke in suddenly:

“Poor little mite—lying out there in the cold.”

She had learned of the burial of her child some time before.

And she fell to crying softly at the thought.

Old Kata came to the bedside and stroked her hand.

“All’s in God’s hand,” she said. “And all for the best.”

When Alma rose from her bed after six weeks’ illness, she was but a shadow of her former self. Her face was pale, with a yellow tinge, and her figure wasted to a degree painful to see. She was hardly more than a skeleton. Her dark eyes seemed larger, and glowed with a strange, hard light, such as is seen in the still-open eyes of one frozen to death. Her brown hair no longer stood in a luxuriant cluster round her head; much of it had fallen out, leaving hardly enough to cover the scalp and make a pitiful little knot at the back.

She had seen but little of her husband during her illness. Twice daily he had paid her a brief, formal visit; but only a few words were exchanged between them, and neither found any pleasure in seeing the other. He slept in a different part of the house, and they avoided each other as far as possible.

Ketill could not help noticing that his wife shunned him, but, occupied as he was with his own affairs, it affected him hardly at all.

Alma went about the house quietly, as she had always done, with a smile and a kindly word for all. But though none seemed to notice any change in her manner, her greetings were less heartily felt than before. Her heart was dead within her, and something was straining, straining to an intolerable tension, until it seemed impossible to last. Something must happen soon.

She often went out to the little mound where her child lay buried, and would stand for hours looking down at it. Strange, to have a part of oneself lying there under the frozen earth and yet to go about oneself with the warm blood pulsing in one’s veins. It seemed unreal, yet it was reality. Life seemed to have changed altogether.

She was no longer glad that the child had not lived. There had been a time when she had hoped for that very thing, but when her wish was realized, came pangs of conscience that destroyed her relief at its fulfilment. She no longer thought of what her life might have been had the child lived; she forgot that she had ever feared its birth; she had no feeling now but sorrow for its death, and remorse that she had wished for it.

Often old Kata would come to the churchyard to fetch her, gently reproaching her for staying there so long.

“’Tis no good to let all the sad thoughts stay in your mind. There’s life to be lived; you must not go wandering off among the dead so.”

And Alma would answer with a listless smile. One day she asked:

“Do you think, Kata, that there really is any life in the world?”

“Ay, indeed, there is. And if the Lord takes one joy from us, surely He will give something else in its place.”

“I am not complaining,” Alma replied. “I have never complained. But I have seen heavy crosses laid on weak shoulders.”

“They that seem weak can often bear the heaviest burden. ’Tis a sorrowful world, but, after all, ’tis only a moment in eternity. And maybe we’re only here to be tried in the fire, with trouble and affliction, and the ones that suffer most are those God loves the best. As if He was taking special pains with them, so they could be sooner ready to come to Him.”

One day, as Alma and Kata were standing in the churchyard, two ravens flew by. They flew over the church, and old Kata eyed them anxiously, making the sign of the cross.

Then, in a trembling voice, she said:

“They flew over the church. ’Tis a sign that some one’ll be called away before long.” And murmuring so that Alma could scarcely hear, she added: “If it be Thy will, O Lord, I should be taken, then Thy will be done!”

But to herself she thought: “If it should be the young mistress that’s called, then Heaven be praised. I am old and hard, I can wear on for a few years more, but the burden’s over-heavy on her; if the Lord would take her in His mercy.... God’s will be done.”

During the period of Alma’s illness, a certain amount of unrest had made itself apparent in the parish.

First of all, there were rumours abroad. No one could say where they had started, or how; it was impossible to trace anything more than the inevitable “So-and-so said so-and-so.” But the rumours were of a startling character, and it was highly desirable to find out whether they originated from a reliable source or not.

Briefly, the matter was this: it was whispered that Ormarr’s wife had given birth to her child as far back as the beginning of March.

And people made their calculations. The marriage had taken place at the beginning of September the previous year. That made the birth a great deal earlier than it should have been. And yet the child was reported to be strong and well, by no means as if born before its time.

It was mysterious. The good folk searched their memories; they could recall nothing unseemly in Runa’s behaviour as they had known her; far from it. The marriage had been rather sudden, true, but they had found nothing very extraordinary in that. The girl had been waiting for Ormarr, no doubt; no one had ever heard any other man’s name coupled with hers. It was looked on as a pretty example of a maiden’s patient waiting for her chosen lover, and Runa had risen in the general esteem thereby. But now—there were those who began to consider whether they might not have been over-hasty in their conclusions.

It looked as if there were something more behind it. And it was not pleasant to find that one had been deceived.

Nothing had leaked out as to Sera Ketill’s little affair with his foster-sister some months earlier, and no one now thought for a moment of connecting him in any way with the business.

But who could be the father?

Folk racked their brains to find one. Some had their own idea, but it would have required a bold spirit to give it utterance. The name of Ørlygur À Borg rose to the minds of many. He was the only man with whom Runa had been on intimate terms, and for whom she was known to have cherished any affection. That it should have led to such a result none had ever dreamt—who could have believed it?

But there it was. Live and learn—the lesson in this case being a warning against misplaced confidence.

Old Ørlygur had played his part well, and had been trusted farther than he should. No, there was no trusting any these days.

But why had he not married the girl himself?

’Twas simple enough—it was too late, and it would not do to sully the good repute of the family. He would never have survived the reproach had his wife been prematurely confined, and for him to marry a young wife at all—a mere child—was hardly suited to his dignity. So he had taken this way out of it. Sent the girl out of the country with his son, giving them strict orders to remain away long enough to guard against any doubt as to the child being theirs.

He had sacrificed his son, that was all.

Originally, it had been intended that Sera Ketill should inherit the estate. Every one was aware of that. And then one day comes Ormarr—on a visit only—and before you had time to turn round, he had sold his business and got married. It was sudden, to say the least.

And folk went farther.

As far as they knew, Sera Ketill’s marriage had come rather as a surprise to his father. Ah, the old fox! He had reckoned, no doubt, on getting his younger son to take over the paternity together with the estate. Then, by the wildest piece of luck, when Ketill upsets his plans by coming home married already, Ormarr makes all right again by coming back himself.

Ay, the Devil was kind to his own!

It was not long before the parish had put two and two together, and realized that Sera Ketill must have been aware of the whole thing from the first.

Here was the thought that inspired his preaching! Plain to see now the aim of all this Christian zeal. ’Twas the preparation for a struggle that he had known was bound to come; they had been watching it all the winter, never dreaming what lay behind.

And now it was beginning to get exciting. What did Sera Ketill intend to do? Would he break with his family openly? If so, how would it be done?

The church was filled as never before; the listeners carefully analysed the discourse from the pulpit, seeking some clue that fitted in with their ideas, some hint as to what was coming. But they learned nothing.

Sera Ketill, on his part, saw that his plan had succeeded. He could mark the growth of the seed in the faces of his flock from Sunday to Sunday. And deliberately he made his allusions vaguer and more general; now that all would make the proper application of whatever he said, there was no need for himself to deliver any direct attack.

It was a drama, played Sunday after Sunday in the church between father and son—and the onlookers were thrilled with a sense of some terrible end approaching.

Parochial disputes were nothing new, but up to now the people of Borg had always stood united on one side or the other, and their side had invariably won. But this was different; this was civil war—a house divided against itself. And it meant a battle the like of which had never been known in the records of the place.

The only drawback was that there seemed no possibility of doubt as to how it must end—unless some new development occurred meanwhile. Not only had Sera Ketill right on his side, but the Almighty was with him. And, moreover, he had taken the precaution to enlist the entire congregation under his banner.

Altogether, it would need something like a miracle to get that old fox Ørlygur out of the trap. No use for him to gnaw off a pinioned leg or brush—he was gripped round the middle, and there was no escape.

The thought of this great idol’s fall was a thing to make one shudder; even though he were to fall by his own misdeeds, one could hardly help pitying him.

After all, Ørlygur À Borg had always been their friend. None had ever been so ready to help, so open-handed, as he.... But he had always been a proud sort, Ørlygur À Borg, and pride goeth before a fall.

It was rather a conflict between a mortal and the Higher Powers—and they were not so presumptuous as to think of taking any part themselves. He would have to manage by himself—even if it meant ruin and disgrace in the end. However they might feel towards Ørlygur, the general benefactor, they were not disposed to take up arms against the Lord Himself for his sake.

And what said Sera Ketill so insistently: “If thy hand offend thee, cut it off....” Ay, even if that hand were a brother, a near kinsman....

Ay, Sera Ketill knew how to choose his words.

And if he did not venture now to take his father’s part, but stood up and opposed him at whatever cost, it was surely because he realized that God’s commandments must come before all else.

The spirit of hypocrisy made its triumphal progress through the parish.

It was characteristic of the fanatical intolerance which reigned that Ørlygur’s innumerable good deeds were forgotten in the storm of righteous indignation that rose against him. Folk great and small set themselves up in judgment upon their old chieftain and found it easy to discover some selfish motive behind every kindly and generous act of his in the past. Those who owed him most were sternest in their condemnation, and, in default of actual proof, were not afraid of altering facts to support their case. And they quieted conscience by the thought that even if all were not exactly as they put it, there was still evidence enough against Ørlygur to satisfy any reasonable mind. A little touch of colour one way or another made no difference.

The people had chosen; Ørlygur was already worsted and down. Certain of the result, they had declared for the winning side—a fine example of the unstable character of humanity, a weathercock moved by every puff of wind.

Ketill was only waiting for the return of his brother and sister-in-law.

He felt a slight nervousness in the anticipation, though he felt confident in his own mind as to the result of the blow he was prepared to deliver. His plan was complete in all details, all preliminary steps had been taken: he had but to wait for the decisive moment to strike.

But the waiting was monotonous. He had nothing more to do, and his mind in idleness was plagued by distressing thoughts.

If only he had some one to share things with, a companion after his own heart. He was realizing now what it was to be lonely. He even sought the company of his wife, but soon observed that she shunned him as far as possible.

The gulf of silence between them had become almost impassable, and he read enmity and suspicion in her glance.

He had never meant to be unkind to her. Maybe he had been a little neglectful at times—but she ought surely to have realized herself how busy he was, and how hard it was for him to find any time for little attentions.

He had time enough now, and would have been glad to make up for the past, if only by way of finding some comfort himself in his loneliness. His mind was suffering under a growing burden of isolation.

In the daytime he could generally find something to do, but the evenings were long, and the nights often unbearable. He could not sleep, and his nerves soon began to feel the effect of insufficient rest; he had to struggle, too, against haunting thoughts that left him almost physically exhausted.

Sometimes he even considered whether it might not be better to give up the whole scheme. But after all the pains he had taken to prepare it—no, he could not give up now. If he stayed his hand, all would be lost.

His wife seemed lost to him. She was coldly reserved, and utterly unresponsive towards his advances. And his conscience troubled him. He could almost see himself, at times, with her eyes; hear how his own words rang false in her ears. He was a cheat—and what was worse, he had been found out.

Even if he gave up his plans now, it would not help him. He could never win her back again, of that he was sure.

With his father, too, it was equally hopeless. Ørlygur would never trust him again, whatever he might do; and it was not to Ketill’s taste to humble himself to no avail.

No! If he gave up now, he would be utterly alone thenceforward. The people would desert him, for his preaching would no longer have any definite aim; his doctrine would lack its dominant purpose. He would be alone, forsaken by all, without a friend among his flock, his kin, or even in himself; alienated even from his God. A creature to be despised, or pitied; a thing of no account, unworthy either of hatred or affection. Intolerable!

No; if he were to be alone, he would at least have power. If he could not win the trust and affection of his people, he would at least command their obedience and outward respect. No one should have the right to accuse him of weakness.

Such were his conflicting thoughts as the days went on. Ketill was thoroughly wearied of inaction; he longed for the moment when he could act, as a child longs for its birthday. Again and again he pictured to himself the events of that day, conjuring up visions of his triumph; his one desire now was for it to come, and make an end of the waiting.

Also, he began to feel less sure of himself; to fear lest at the critical moment his nerve might fail him.

Once he had declared himself, however, there could be no question of withdrawal; all doubt and wavering would disappear; there he would stand, erect and strong, the victor in a struggle that he had vowed to win or die.

He was not blind to the danger of any weakness on his own part; irresolution would be fatal. But once he could take the decisive step, leaving himself no possibility of retreat, all would be well.

Victory was certain—for he was fighting without mercy, as injustice ever does.

Alma went about in the same dull, listless state as before. She seemed to be living in a world apart from all that went on around her.

She noticed her husband’s restlessness, and that he seemed to be trying to approach her. But she put it down to his weakness and lack of society—a need for companionship of any sort. And as a result, her antipathy increased. She was good enough—in default of all else! But at other times he cared nothing for her. It was not for her sake, not for herself, he sought her. Ketill never realized how his neglect had isolated her in a prison of solitude.

It was impossible to speak to him about the state of things between them; he would only gloss it over with an utter disregard of the truth. And any open insincerity and falsehood on his part would bring matters to a climax; she would be unable to restrain her feelings. What would happen exactly, she did not know; she did not venture to consider the possibility. It seemed impossible that she could ever survive such a revelation.

And yet she had a painful intuition that it would come, and that she would survive it. It was horrible to think that she must go on living after that. Were she but certain that it would kill her, she would gladly do her best to bring matters to a head instead of avoiding and dreading it.

But for the present the wheels of time seemed to have stopped; life was at a standstill.

Even the solitude she sought in her wanderings about the country seemed dreadful to her now. Ice and snow, ice and snow—the outlook was so bleak and desolate that it brought her mind to the verge of insanity.

Her head ached intensely as she looked out over the snow-covered waste; her brain seemed on the point of bursting, she felt herself fighting to retain her mental balance. Once she gave way there would be no recovery.

She would find a dark corner somewhere, and sit down with her head in her hands, rocking to and fro. Snow and barren waste—the sight of it worked on her till she dared not face it.

Then came the sunshine of spring, and she could go out once more. The snow was still there, but there were breaks in its monotonous expanse. And day by day she watched it disappear.

Then at last one day she heard the roar of the stream as it broke through the ice of its winter bondage. She hurried out to look.

The ice had been carried out into the fjord, and lay there, blue and green, rocking gently on the water. Later in the day it lost its freshness, dulled by the sand and mud carried down by the torrent. Streams were pouring everywhere from the heights above, forming small pools here and there where the water spread.

And gradually the earth rose up out of its covering of snow.

The landscape was dark and bare, relieved here and there by white specks—the ptarmigan had not yet changed their winter plumage.

Then the green of spring began to put forth, and birds of passage arrived. The air grew milder, and the song of birds was heard; there was a scent of growth abroad, a promise of harvests to come.

Early blossoms peeped out, braving the frosts with cheerful smiles. Time went on, and the light nights came, when the evening brought but a veil over the day, that was drawn aside again at dawn, when the bright sun rose, passing from a ruddy glow to a fullness of dazzling rays. Butterflies lived their little lives, and sank to earth, to pass through the cycle of nature before they came again. The lambs of last year were mothers now themselves, wise in the vicissitudes of life and saddened by experience.

But the horses, even the older ones, forgot for a moment their mere material needs, and galloped madly about under the influence of the joy-filled air.

Cattle let loose for the first time from their confinement behaved in most undignified fashion; even the astonished calves followed suit and joined in the romp with their elders. Good-natured mothers pretended to let themselves be outdone by their month-old offspring, until some youngster grew overbold, and had to be reminded by what was fitting. Great days, these, for a young calf, a time to play at being a grown-up bull, and making ferocious charges against all and sundry.

All the light-heartedness of spring about her brought at times a smile to Alma’s saddened face. But it was a smile of pity rather than of pleasure. All these young creatures, this life new to the world, had not yet tasted the bitterness of existence upon earth.

So she lived through the spring with the winter of life in her heart, that nothing could melt away once it had set in. No springtide for her, no budding and bloom.

She longed only for peace—in forgetfulness or death.

Ørlygur a Borg was heavy at heart this spring.

He marked the covert whispering abroad, and it chilled him. But no one was anxious to be the first to tell him of the rumours that had spread, and he remained in ignorance of their essential theme. Yet he could not fail to see that there was something in the air—something that concerned himself.

The expression of men’s faces had changed. Ørlygur found himself regarded with curious glances—sometimes a look of wondering speculation, at times a look of something like scorn. If he came unexpectedly upon a group, they would cease their talking suddenly, or talk with such eagerness of indifferent matters that it was clear they had changed the subject on his arrival. They had been speaking of him—or at any rate of something he was not to know of.

At first he paid little heed to it all. What did he care for their gossip? He had always held himself apart and above all idle talk. Realities, matters of actual moment, were the only things that interested him. Let them wag their tongues if they pleased; say what they would of one another, good or ill. It was always the same in the end—they answered to the hand with the surest touch, not to the mere possessor of a gift of speech.

As days went on, their glances became more and more ill-disposed and evident; the crowd seemed to increase in boldness as its numbers grew. Ørlygur felt himself gradually surrounded; even at Borg itself there was an air of restraint apparent. His own people no longer met his gaze frankly, no longer laughed heartily at his jests; his orders even were no longer received and obeyed with the same willing alacrity as before. If any task called for special effort, there was no longer the same eager haste to help. It seemed rather as if he were being left to struggle by himself, an object of curiosity as to how he would manage alone. He could see, too, that he was being watched, as if all around him were trying to read his thoughts, and with no friendly eye.

Day by day it grew harder to bear. Ørlygur tried to get at what was in their minds, insinuating opportunities for them to speak out, but without avail. They could not—or would not—perceive his invitations to tell him frankly what was amiss.

He sought out his best friends in the parish, those whom he had befriended most. He called, not as with any evident object, but casually, leaving it to them to speak of what they evidently knew. But all to no purpose. It had not been the way of those whom Ørlygur had helped to cringe and fawn before him; they had acknowledged his assistance as between man and man. But now they met him with fluent insincerity, plainly trying to conceal the true state of the case. Outwardly, they were humble and full of deference and gratitude; but he could see their hearts were ice towards him.

There was hardly a soul in the parish who was not indebted to him in some way. But now that he stood in need of a friendly hand, their selfishness was revealed. Not one had the courage to speak out.

Then came the third of May—the date when farm hands and servants enter or leave their service.

Ørlygur was out and about betimes, looking to some lambs that had just arrived. It was dinner-time before he came back to the house. As he came up, he noticed that there were no men to be seen outside, though some of the ewes were in birth-throes and needing help. He attended to the most pressing cases himself, and then hurried up to the house.

Here a further surprise awaited him. All the hands, and the girls belonging to the house, stood with their boxes ready packed.

At the door he met the headman, dressed in his Sunday best and carrying a box. The man flushed a deep red at sight of his master, but tried to appear unconcerned.

Ørlygur had come up with the intention of sending out the first man he found to attend to the sheep. Now, he gave no orders, but asked instead:

“Are you leaving, then?”

“Ye—es,” stammered the man, evidently ill at ease.

“If you are not satisfied, why have you not told me before, instead of going off like this without a word in advance?”

“You never asked me to stay,” was the sullen reply.

“You have stayed on of your own accord now for twenty-two years, since I took you in as a child.”

This was undeniable. The man murmured something about having found another place.

“Where?”

“With Jonas À Myri.”

“Good. You can tell him from me that if he should be in need of hay again, as he was last winter, he can come to me as he did then. And now—you may go to the devil!”

Ørlygur turned on his heel and went indoors. In the passage he met one of the girls, dressed in her best.

“Are you going too?”

“You did not ask me to stay.”

A plot, thought the old man, and turned from her without a word.

All the farm hands were dressed and ready to leave, gathered together in a group. A silence fell on them as he approached.

One by one he asked them: “Are you leaving?” And always the same answer: “You did not ask me to stay.”

Ørlygur found difficulty in restraining his feelings. He was deeply attached to his people, most of whom had been in his service for many years. They had always got on well together; the hands at Borg had better wages than they could have obtained elsewhere. Some of them he had engaged when no one else would take them, and they would have been without support had it not been for his help. And now they were deserting him. Not one of them had been man enough to declare his intention beforehand, and give time for finding help elsewhere.

Ørlygur spoke with studied harshness, fearing to betray what he really felt.

“Get you gone, then, every man of you, and the sooner the better.”

It struck him that he had not seen old Ossa, who had served him for fifty years, and had been like a second mother to his children. He found her in the kitchen, preparing his meal.

“Are you not leaving too?” he asked bitterly.

“I’m too old to go about the country seeking work,” said she. Her voice seemed richer and softer than usual as she spoke.

“If it is only that, I could have lent you a horse,” returned Ørlygur, with a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“Nay, I’ve no wish to be leaving Borg. ’Twill not be of my own choosing if I should. And maybe I can be some use a bit yet. As long as I’ve but my keep and needn’t be a burden.”

There was a slight pause.

“Ossa, what is it? Why are they leaving the place?” Ørlygur asked, with some constraint.

“Master’s the best judge of that, I take it.”

“But—they say it’s because I haven’t asked them to stay on from last hiring. You know I’ve never asked them; as long as I thought they were satisfied, I took it they would stay.”

“Didn’t they say about leaving before, then?”

“You know that as well as I do.”

“Well, then, Master can surely stop them; they’ve no right to go if you order them to stay.”

“I’m too old to beg favours. And I’ve no mind to call in the law. You won’t tell me, then, what it’s all about?”

“If you don’t know, ’twould not help you to be told.”

“Well, well, I’ll not try to make you speak against your will. But I thank you for staying on.”

“I’ll have your dinner ready directly. You’ll need it this day.”

“Never mind the dinner. Put on a shawl and come and give me a hand with the sheep. They are lambing all over the place, and none to help them.”

And Ørlygur strode out.

A lamb was bleating pitifully at the back of the house. He hurried over to the spot, and found the headman already there. The man looked up as he approached. Ørlygur strode forward, his face white.

“You are no longer in my service,” he said. “And I do not want your help.” And with a blow he struck the fellow to the ground, and went on, paying no further heed to him.

Ørlygur À Borg was left with none to help him save old Ossa.

The sheep alone were more than he could manage; hundreds of them, and in the height of the lambing season. Scores of the young lambs perished daily, for lack of care. Ørlygur and Ossa worked all day and far into the night, doing all they could, but despite their efforts, many of the ewes died in giving birth, or strayed and were drowned or bogged; many of the lambs starved within reach of the udders they could not find. And it was impossible to milk the burdened beasts; many were soon suffering from lack of relief.

There were the cows to be seen to as well; Ørlygur and Ossa were so exhausted when at last they ceased work for the night that neither could do more than sink down in a chair for a few hours’ rest. They spoke only briefly, of necessary things, and ate their food on the way to and from their work.

On the following Sunday, Ørlygur asked of those he met at church if they knew of any hands to be had.

It seemed that there were none available anywhere.

And now he felt that they were rejoicing inwardly at his misfortunes. All were against him, he felt certain, but their opposition was so veiled that there was nothing he could take hold of or challenge.

Patience was the only thing. Ørlygur waited.

It could not be long, he felt, before something leaked out as to what lay at the root of it all. Some accidental hint, a word let drop, might give him a chance to take the matter up. And if he could but find out who was the leader responsible for it all, it should go hard with him.

He suspected Ketill, but could not understand how he could have such power in the parish already as to bring about such a change in the general attitude of the people.

As to his own practical difficulties—he might perhaps get hands from farther off, but he could not be away from the place himself, and there was no one he could send. Nothing for it, then, but to wait patiently for Ormarr’s return.

Ørlygur shook his head sadly as he realized his helplessness. Truly, he was getting old.

The vessel was nearly due now.

Ørlygur kept a close watch on the fjord, and held three horses in readiness for the moment when the ship rounded the point.

If only it would come! He shook his head; he had a feeling that there was but a little time left him now to live.

And he dreaded lest perhaps the ship should not come, or something have prevented Ormarr from making the voyage. He spoke to old Ossa about the weather; no, surely it could not send a fine vessel to the bottom.

Ørlygur’s hands trembled incessantly; he was visibly aged, and his voice quavered when he spoke of his own affairs.

Old Ossa was deeply concerned, but strove to hide her sympathy; Ørlygur was not pleased to find himself looked on as a helpless creature, and was apt to turn on her impatiently when he suspected her of overmuch anxiety on his behalf. He would not be looked after like a child. If she ventured to dry his socks at the fire, instead of hanging them to air in the ordinary way, he would keep his wet ones on. And when she tried to substitute new mittens for his old and tattered ones, he gave up wearing mittens at all.

“Getting old I may be,” he grumbled, “but I’m not an old woman yet.”

Then at last one day the ship hove in sight round the point.

Ørlygur hurried about, active as a boy, saddled his horses, forgot all his troubles, and astonished old Ossa by humming, all unconsciously, a fragment of a song, that he kept repeating over and over again.

And as soon as he was ready, off he rode to fetch his son home.

Sera Ketill had likewise been awaiting the arrival of the vessel with impatience, and had horses ready.

As soon as he saw it had arrived, he hurried to his wife.

“Ormarr and his wife have arrived—the ship is just coming in. Get ready as quickly as you can. We must go down to the quay and bid them welcome.”

Alma looked at him in surprise; something in his manner filled her with vague anxiety.

She put on her riding things—her habit was sadly too big for her now, but, after all, what did it matter? And Ketill and his wife set off for the trading station, reaching there just after Ørlygur himself.

Ormarr and Runa had already come ashore, and the party were about to set off for Borg when Ketill and Alma arrived on the scene. All three tried to conceal their astonishment: they had not expected Ketill.

He greeted them with outward calm, and they tried, for Alma’s sake, to appear as if there were nothing but good-will between them. But all three found it difficult to meet his glance. And Ketill smiled, as if with pleasure at the meeting, but in reality with malicious satisfaction at the evident impression his presence made. It was a tribute to his power. It would not be easy to get rid of him now.

Ørlygur was trembling, and had the greatest difficulty in controlling himself. Trouble was imminent now; of that he was certain. And he puzzled his brain to find the reason of Ketill’s appearance there—what had he to gain by it?

Ormarr took the child, and helped his wife into the saddle. He was very pale, and glanced covertly at Runa.

Alma came up to him.

“It is long since we met,” she said. And, noticing his pallor, she asked anxiously if he were “unwell.”

“It is nothing—I felt a little strange for the moment,” he said.

Ormarr, on his part, noted how changed Alma was, how ill and distressed. He was about to question her, but checked himself; best not, perhaps, to ask anything at all just now.

Alma read his intention, and understood that he wished to spare her. She felt she must hide the real cause, and gave only the more direct reason for her evident ill-health.

“I too have had a child since we last met,” she said; and added after a pause, “and lost it.”

Tears rose to her eyes. And just at that moment Ketill came up.

“What—crying?” he said, putting his arm round her. Alma shivered at his touch.

Ketill lifted the coverings from the child’s face and looked at it. “So this is the little heir,” he said jestingly. “We must have a look.”

Alma also glanced at the child.

“Congratulations, Runa,” said Alma, grasping her sister-in-law’s hand. “And Ormarr”—turning to him—“and you too, dear father-in-law. ’Tis a bonny child they have brought you home. May it bring luck to the house!”

“Ay, we need something to bring luck to the house,” said Ørlygur bitterly.

Alma looked at him, surprised at his tone.

“Oh—you mean you still can’t get hands for the farm work?”

Ørlygur saw that she asked in all innocence.

“No, my dear,” he answered. “And I am getting old. When the little lad here has grown a bit, I may do as a playmate for him, but little more. But we ought to be getting home.”

All five rode off together. Not a word was spoken until they reached the cross-road where Ketill and his Wife turned off to take the short path to Hof.

The three continued on their way in silence.

Ørlygur was glad that the meeting had been got over; sooner or later Runa would have had to meet Ketill, and it was well that it was done. He rode up beside her.

“You managed splendidly,” he said. “I have never seen a woman so brave and strong.”

Runa made no answer, but Ørlygur read her silence as expressing thanks.

Some way farther on she rode up to him again; he understood that she had something particular to say. She rode at his side for a little distance without speaking, then, leaning towards him, she said in a low voice:

“The past is forgotten.”

And they rode on in silence. But, despite her words, Ørlygur was not quite at his ease.

Later, when they arrived at Borg, and he saw how Ormarr helped his wife tenderly from her horse, and kissed her, the tears rose to his eyes, and he thanked God that these two, united in misfortune, seemed now, at least, to be living happily together in love.

Old Ossa came out to meet them, and Ørlygur turned to his son.

“The only one that is left,” he said, pointing to Ossa. “There are no more servants at Borg.”

“What do you mean?” queried Ormarr.

“It means that I have become such a hard master in my old age that I can neither keep old servants in my house nor get new to come.”

Later on he told Ormarr how the servants and farm hands had left with one accord, and how those he had befriended among his neighbours round had turned from him in his need. He said nothing, however, of his suspicions with regard to Ketill.

Ormarr thought for a moment, then turned to his father suddenly.

“There must be something behind all this,” he said.

Ørlygur nodded; he too was clear as to that, but what was at the bottom of it all, he could not say.

Ormarr seemed anxious to pass over the matter lightly for the present. “We must be able to get hands from somewhere,” he said easily. “And if our neighbours can do without us, I dare say we can manage without them.”

Sera Ketill and his wife rode on for some distance without speaking. Alma had an idea that Ketill wished to confide in her about something, but was at a loss how to begin.

She remembered how she had ridden that way with her husband once before: she had wept then, because he left her to ride alone. Now, the mere idea that he wished to speak to her made her shudder.

They came to the ford, and Ketill drew up close beside his wife, lest she should fall dizzy in crossing. He told her to close her eyes and hold on firmly, which she did. They crossed without difficulty. Alma could hear that the water no longer plashed about the horses’ feet. But she still kept her eyes closed.

She could feel that her husband was still at her side. At length he spoke. His voice was unsteady, as if he found it hard to speak at all.

“I want to speak to you about something,” he said.

Alma opened her eyes and glanced at him timidly. But Ketill was looking fixedly at his horse’s mane as he went on:

“It is an unpleasant matter, and I’m afraid it will distress you somewhat. But it must be faced. And when the time comes I am sure you will agree I have done rightly.”

He paused for a moment, and then went on:

“You saw the child?”

He waited, as if for an answer, but Alma made no reply.

“Did it not strike you as being extremely well-developed for a child newly born? It is supposed to have been born on the way up.”

Alma looked at him in astonishment.

“Do you mean that the child is not theirs?”

“The child is Runa’s. But Ormarr is not the father,” Ketill replied. “It was born in March. And Ormarr was not in Iceland the previous spring.”

Alma felt suddenly dizzy; she felt as if she must burst into tears, but sat still, outwardly calm. Something told her that though there might be something of truth in this, there was yet falsehood and mischief behind.

Bitter words rose to her lips; it was as if her husband were making her an accomplice in a deed worthy of Judas. But she dared not give vent to her feelings, and only said:

“Well, and if so, it is no concern of ours.”

“It concerns us—as being of the family—and it concerns me, as a priest.”

“What do you propose to do, then?”

“You have not heard all as yet. You do not know what people are saying throughout the parish—that the father of the child is—Ørlygur himself!”

“It is a lie!”

Alma was quivering with rage; she had never been so near to losing her self-control.

“I do not say it is true. Until it is proved, we must hope for the best. But you will no doubt agree with me that the matter calls for the strictest investigation. Ormarr and his father have treated the affair with great secrecy—that looks bad, to begin with. Did you not notice last year how Runa was kept out of the way when we were there? And can’t you see now why it was? Has it never struck you that her marriage was arranged with extraordinary haste? The whole thing was settled and done in a couple of days. It is a very awkward business indeed for father; the entire parish is against him. All his workpeople left the place this spring, and he has been there all alone, with but one old woman, until now.”

“Why did they leave him?”

“Probably because they knew what was said about him, and believed it true. Very likely they knew of some little incident that proved it. And after that, of course, they would not wish to have anything more to do with him.”

Alma was at a loss what to reply. She had a keen desire to defend Ørlygur, for she fully believed he was innocent. But her brain was in a whirl, and the one thing uppermost at the moment was an intense hatred of her husband. But she would not give it rein. She was helpless, and suffering bitterly.

“What do you think yourself?” she asked at last, in a low voice.

“I do not allow myself to think. But I have determined to have the matter cleared up. That is all.”

Sunday came. A glorious spring day with a bright blue cloudless sky and the air a-quiver with heat; a day of smiles without a shadow, breathing peace to all mankind.

Coming out into the sunshine on such a day, free from the cares and toil of everyday life, the heart seemed filled with a natural desire to give thanks and praise to God for the blessing of life.

But on this Sunday, there were few in all Hofsfjordur whose minds were bent on praising the Lord. Folk hastened to the service, but their thoughts were not with God. This day, the first Sunday after Ormarr Ørlygsson’s homecoming, was a day of mark; something, all knew, was about to happen. And all repaired to the church to see. Even tiny children were brought thither; no one was willing to stay at home minding children today.

Sera Ketill was up and about before any of his people at Hof. He moved about restlessly outside the house, avoiding the grass, which was still thickly drenched with dew.

Again and again he glanced over in the direction of Borg. A thin bluish column of smoke could be seen rising straight up above the chimneys of his old home. And involuntarily he found in it something like a symbol of peace. There was something of a covenant in the ray of smoke that rose as it were from some sacrifice acceptable to the Lord.

How was this day to end? Sera Ketill asked himself the question, and wondered who would be coming to church from Borg that day.

Ørlygur and Ormarr moved about in silence, each bent upon his own tasks. There was much to be done; they had made no attempt as yet to secure new hands. It had been agreed that Ørlygur should go to church, the others remaining at home. Had it not been for his duties there, Ørlygur himself would rather have stayed away.

Early that morning he had fetched in Sleipnir, his saddle-horse, from the fields, and stabled it without fodder to be ready for the road. He let another animal into the box to keep it company, and the pair remained there during the morning, relieving the tedium of their confinement by licking each other.

At last it was time to start. Ørlygur had saddled his horse, but delayed moving off, finding this thing and that to attend to, as if loth to leave the place. Now and again he stopped still, looking out over the country round; from all quarters he could see his fellow-parishioners come riding; all moving towards Hof as the centre of attraction. He noticed, too, that the enclosure round the vicarage was already dark with the crowd of those who had come early.

Finally, realizing that he had no time to spare if he wished to arrive in time, he stepped off resolutely. Then he turned and stopped.

Ormarr was in the courtyard, teaching a new-born lamb to suck. He had been an adept at the work in his younger days, but had forgotten his deftness now, and was fumbling awkwardly.

Ørlygur went straight up to him.

“I think you had better come with me, after all,” he said. “I feel—I feel lonely today, Ormarr. Never mind the lamb, it will manage till we come back.”

Ormarr looked up. There was something strange about his father’s manner today, something he had not noticed before. He rose up without a word, saddled a horse, and a few minutes later father and son set out.

Where the road was good, they gave their horses rein. But Ormarr noticed that, despite the pace, his father was constantly turning to look back at Borg. A new fancy of his, he thought.

There was a stretch of difficult going just ahead; on reaching it, they slackened speed, and rode on side by side at a walk. Suddenly, and without preamble, Ørlygur said:

“I had a strange dream last night. Curiously distinct it was too. I was standing on the hill outside”—he nodded towards Borg—“and a funeral came along the road—this very way—towards the house. A great procession, the biggest I had even seen. And the strange thing about it was that it was coming from the church towards Borg—instead of the opposite way.”

He paused for a moment, and continued:

“And that was not all. I was quite sure that it was my own corpse the people were following. And yet I stood there on the hill myself, looking on. If it means anything at all, I suppose it should be taken by contraries—to say that I am to be buried alone, without a soul to follow me to the grave.”

They reached the level road as he ceased speaking, and Ørlygur at once galloped on ahead; Ormarr did not overtake him till they had reached the vicarage. Neither spoke.

There was a numerous attendance of people. But it was noticeable that they did not talk together, but busied themselves tidying up after the ride with nervous care. There was none of the customary laughter and easy conversation, all seemed curiously silent. Neighbours did not move to greet one another and shake hands; and none entered the church. All waited, a silent crowd, with their minds at the highest pitch of sinister anticipation.

For the second time the church bell called to the worshippers to enter. But no one moved.

At sight of Ørlygur and his son riding up, the crowd remained impassive, merely staring at the new arrivals as they approached. But they watched them closely, with occasional side-glances at others, who appeared to be watching likewise.

As Ørlygur rode up, he divined at once that no one had as yet entered the church; that all were waiting for himself and his son. They were watching them, too. One glance showed him the situation, and his anger rose suddenly. Usually, he dismounted outside the fence. But now, he galloped straight across the enclosure, up to the wall of the churchyard, Ormarr following at his heels. The crowd had to give way hastily to avoid being trampled down. Still there was no murmur, only the same watching glances from all. And all could see that the master of Borg was in no gentle mood today.

Suddenly the gathering moved with one accord towards the church and poured in. The bell called for the third time—a strange, solitary sound in the quiet air.

Ørlygur and Ormarr secured their horses and went straight into the church. They were the last to enter, save for old Kata, who hobbled along, waving her coloured kerchief in the air to ward off invisible ghosts and evil things.

Ørlygur read the opening prayer, and the service proceeded as usual, until Sera Ketill ascended into the pulpit.

Ørlygur was in his usual seat in the choir. Alma sat at his side. Ormarr had found a place in the nave, just in front of the organ.

When Sera Ketill appeared in the pulpit, a dead silence filled the church, as if all had ceased to breathe. For a moment the priest stood silent, with a thoughtful mien. Then he spoke—a little unsteadily at first, and fumbling with his fingers at the notes before him. But soon he gained power, and spoke out strongly and in a clear, resonant voice. His hands clutched the edge of the pulpit with such force that the knuckles showed white.

“Brethren in Christ,” he began, “before proceeding to interpret the text for today, I have a painful duty to perform—a painful duty indeed. Let me therefore fortify myself by supplication. I ask you all to say with me the Lord’s Prayer:

“Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

Sera Ketill wiped his brow.

“Yes: Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory. And we will serve Thee only. Grant us strength that no earthly ties may keep us from Thee and Thy way. That our duty to Thee may ever be set before all else; that we may willingly take up our cross and bear it in patience as did Thy well-beloved Son.”

Sera Ketill paused a moment, and then continued:

“Brethren in Christ, we all know how the Son of God cleansed the Temple at Jerusalem. Today a like duty is laid upon us, the meanest of His servants. To the Almighty, this poor house of prayer is no less sacred than the great Temple; it is the House of the Lord, and no evil must be suffered to dwell therein. And those who have given offence to God cannot be suffered to enter His House until they have begged of Him forgiveness for their sins, kneeling before him with a humble and a contrite heart.

“There is here in our midst an old man who is a cause of offence among this congregation, together with his son, the sharer of his sin.

“The son took to wife a woman out of his father’s house. And the woman has given birth to a child that cannot be the offspring of her husband. Whose, then, is the child? It is said that the old man is the father. I have seen the child, and I cannot but believe that it must have been born earlier than is said. Indeed, I am certain of this. And my wife has seen the child, and can testify to the same. The woman, then, has borne a child in sin. But who is the father?

“Until this matter is made clear, until the parentage of this child is established according to the laws of the Church, we cannot tolerate among us those from whom this offence is come. We cannot suffer them to worship God under the same roof.

“And now, Ørlygur À Borg, and you, Ormarr Ørlygsson, I call on you, in the name of God, to leave this holy place. Amen.”

Alma leaned over towards Ørlygur and grasped his arm. From the commencement of her husband’s speech she had divined his intention, and now in a moment she realized what had been vague to her before.

Ørlygur sat motionless throughout his son’s denunciation, but his brow was firmly knit, and a strange light shone in his eyes.

As Ketill finished, Ormarr rose to leave the church. Passing by the pulpit, he looked straight at his brother; both men were deadly pale. Ormarr stood still for a moment, and said:

“You are playing a dangerous game, brother Ketill.” Then he passed on.

But now Ørlygur rose to his feet, Alma still clinging to his arm, and called out in a loud, firm voice:

“Ormarr!”

Ormarr stopped, looked back, and strode to his father’s side.

Alma still held the old man’s arm. She clung to him, and begged imploringly: “Do not leave me here; take me back with you to Borg. Let me come with you and stay with you there.”

Ørlygur patted her trembling hands, and said gently; “Ormarr will look after you, my dear.” And to Ormarr he said: “Go with her home, and protect her, whatever happens. Do not let her leave Borg unless by her own desire. Be kind to her, my son. And now go, both of you. I will come presently.”

But Alma held Ormarr back, and they did not leave the church.

Ørlygur had followed them down the aisle toward the door. Then he turned back, not noticing that they remained inside the church. When he had left them, old Kata emerged from her corner, and going up to Ormarr, asked: “May I come with you to Borg and stay?”

Alma caught her hand, and Ormarr nodded in consent. Alma was trembling pitifully; Ormarr and Kata had to support her.

Ørlygur À Borg walked back toward the pulpit, stopped in front of it, and said:

“This is the House of God. But it seems that the Evil One has usurped His place. I am to be driven out from it—well and good. But before I go, let me tell what all these righteous folk are full of zeal to know.”

And pointing to the priest in the pulpit, he went on:

“There is the father of the child.”

When Alma heard the old man’s words, it was as if the inward tension of the past months had suddenly given way. Her features relaxed, she ceased to tremble, and her eyes lost their fire. She felt as if she were sinking into a sea of mist. And then to nothingness.

The light of her mind was suddenly extinguished, her soul had taken flight, back to the eternity whence it had come. Only her body remained, panting, unharmed, a living monument to that which had gone, an empty dwelling, that has not yet crumbled, though the last living thing it sheltered, the last thought, is gone.

A wave of astonishment swept through the congregation at Ørlygur’s revelation. Then a moment after all was quiet once more.

Sera Ketill was still in the pulpit, pale as a corpse. He had reckoned with every possibility save only this; no form of defence, no counter-attack, but he would have had his answer ready. But this.... It was not like his father.

It was all over now. The words that meant his destruction were spoken. And yet he was still alive. The earth had not swallowed him up, no fire had descended from heaven to consume him. He was unhurt; ruined beyond help, yet he stood there as if nothing had happened. It seemed somehow ridiculous.

Ørlygur faced his son, speaking directly to him:

“How could you do this thing? And how could ever God permit it? How could He tolerate a hypocrite in His House? My son, I do not hate you, and yet I say: Be thou accursed until repentance and charity have filled your soul. Ay, I curse my son, not because I hate him, but because of my love for him. Accursed—be accursed until our Heavenly Father shall have let the glory of His goodness penetrate into your soul, and the darkness of the Evil One give place to light. May your soul never rest, and may it never leave its earthly dwelling, until Almighty God has given the sign of His forgiveness!”

The congregation sat in awed silence while Ørlygur was speaking. When the old man had finished, he turned to leave the church. But he tottered, and would have fallen had he not grasped at the side of a seat for support.

Ormarr hurried to his side, leaving Kata to look after Alma. Ørlygur sank helpless into his son’s arms. The congregation looked on as if spellbound; no one moved.

The old man put his hand to his heart and murmured; “I am dying. Heavenly Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Ormarr laid him down on the floor of the church, and stood bending over him, at a loss what next to do. The old man seemed trying to speak. Ormarr put his ear close to his father’s mouth, and caught the words:

“... home... to Borg.”

They were the last words Ørlygur À Borg ever uttered.

Ormarr felt his father’s heart and pulse—it was all over. Lifting the body tenderly in his arms, he carried it out of the church.

Old Kata, standing by the entrance, crossed herself and muttered something about the ways of the Lord.... Then to herself she added:

“So it was his death the ravens came to tell!”

And Kata took the unconscious Alma by the hand and followed after Ormarr and his burden.

When they had left, an old peasant rose and walked out of the church. Then the congregation followed, walking with downcast eyes, a few only casting furtive glances in the direction of the pulpit, where Sera Ketill stood.

Ormarr carried his father across the churchyard to the horses, Kata and Alma following close behind. When he saw his sister-in-law’s condition, he shivered.

Kata was watching him. “Ay,” she said, “her poor troubled soul’s found rest at last. And we should thank the Lord that He took her reason. Let me come and nurse her—she’ll need no other help as long as I live.”

Ormarr was puzzled to think how he should get his father’s body and the two women home, with but two horses for the journey. Sleipnir could easily carry him and his father’s body. With a side-saddle, Alma could have mounted the second horse, Kata leading it. As it was, the women would have to walk, and he must ride at a foot-pace the whole way. There was nothing else to be done that he could see.

He was on the point of telling Kata his plan when he perceived the congregation crowding round. The old peasant who had first left the church came up to him, and said:

“You will let us carry the old chief home to Borg?”

Ormarr turned on him furiously.

“You have killed my father among you; not one of you shall touch his body.”

But the old peasant would not give way. His voice was thick with emotion as he went on:

“We have done a great injustice to your father. You will not forbid us now to make amends as far as we can. Had he lived, we should have come to him, to ask his forgiveness. And for all that you are his son, you know him little if you think he would have sent us away unheard. He was too generous for that.”

Ormarr saw that there were tears in the man’s eyes. He glanced round the circle, and saw everywhere bowed heads and evident distress. And suddenly he remembered his father’s dream.

“True,” he said. “It is your right to pay him the last honour on earth. Carry him home.”

A bier was found, and the party moved off, with Ormarr at the head. Alma, with eyes staring blankly before her, walked between him and old Kata.

All the others, men, women, and children, followed on foot, leading their horses. Never had the parish seen so impressive a funeral train, nor such a numerous following.

They moved but slowly, step by step, all the long road to Borg, the men relieving one another at the bier. As soon as the body was lifted up, they commenced with one accord to sing the beautiful funeral hymn:

They sang through all the verses, and when it was ended, another hymn was sung; afterwards, the first again.

Singing and sobbing, the procession moved on—a strange sight to see. The birds circled round the train in silence, forgetting for a moment their spring song. But the sky was clear and blue as before.

So they passed along the way. When they reached the river, Ormarr took Alma and Kata in his arms and carried them across. The men waded over likewise, leading their horses; only the women and children crossed on horseback.

At last they came to Borg. The body of the chief was laid on a big table in the hall, and another hymn was sung. The followers were about to move off, when Ormarr turned to them and said:

“You have carried my father home, and I thank you. I know that he was always your friend, and if you will accept the friendship I offer you now, it would be as he wished. I hope to hold the place he held amongst you—that of a brother and friend. And if you have need of me in any way, you know where to find me. You must be tired and hungry now. If you will break bread under my roof now, before you return, then I take it that the good-will that was of old between Borg and its neighbours is there still.”

When he had finished speaking, he had to shake hands with all. At his suggestion the women went out to the kitchen and pantries to prepare food.

It was late, and all had been well cared for, when the guests rode away. But, before they left, the whole staff of servants and hands who had been at Borg that spring had returned, having obtained release from their later masters, and permission from Ormarr to re-enter their former service.

Alma never recovered. She wandered about like a living corpse. Old Kata nursed her as well as she could, consoling herself and others with the thought that she did not suffer. Alma was no longer conscious of joy or pain.

Sera Ketill stood in the pulpit, watching his people leave the church. He made no movement, but followed all with observant eyes.

He saw how the scene had affected his wife, and that she had sought refuge with his father. And he understood that he had lost her for ever. Then, marking the change in her expression, he suspected the truth: that she had lost her reason on hearing her husband denounced by his own father.

He listened to his father’s curse, and saw him sink to the ground and die. He heard the congregation singing hymns outside the church. Then gradually all sound died away... the last he heard was a vague murmur—fragments of the singing borne by errant winds towards him through the open door.

Still he remained in the pulpit, leaning on his arms, as if nothing had happened. He did not think. A scornful smile seemed frozen on his lips; he suddenly realized that he was sneering, and wondered how long he had been doing so. And then it came to him painfully that he could not rest until he knew what it was all about; he must wake, and look at things and see. And suddenly it dawned upon him that he was sneering at himself. He drew himself up and laughed aloud, as if in an endeavour to break the terrible stillness of the church. He marked the harsh, uncanny sound of his own laughter. And, stepping down from the pulpit, he left the church.

From the churchyard he could see the funeral procession moving towards Borg. He watched it for a while, tried to laugh, but in vain. He went home, and found the house empty. Looked into the servants’ quarters—the place was deserted. He went out again and searched about outside.

Coming back to the house, after making sure that there was not a soul to be seen, he found a dog beside the door. The animal slunk away. Ketill spoke to it softly, beckoned to it, trying with friendly voice and gesture to call it to him. But the dog would not come, and finally ran away.

Ketill looked after it without any sign of emotion. Then he went indoors and sat down at his writing-table. He sat there all through the day, still wearing his vestments. Thoughts crowded in upon him—thoughts that he could not drive away.

He had sinned against life, taking the gift of life in vain. And now he was alone, an outcast, rejected and despised by all. Even a dog disowned him.

He had sinned against God, taking His name in vain. The House of God was closed to him. Alone, cursed by his father and abandoned by his God!

He had sinned against love; he had used his utmost efforts to ruin the lives of two innocent women. God had intervened to save them: the one through the love of human beings, the other by taking away her reason. And he—he was left alone and shunned by all. The world was full of love around him, on every side were human beings, his fellow-creatures, loving and being loved. To him only love was denied; for him alone there was no kindly thought in any single heart. All who knew him hated and despised him. He had crushed the flower of love underfoot—it would bloom no more on his way, nor gladden him by its fragrance.

Alone. And what should he do now? Why could he not sink to the earth and die? Why was not his body given to the worms? Why could he not rot away, and return to dust? What had he to do with life now? Or was it that life had not yet done with him?

He made no effort to check the current of his thoughts, but suffered them to come and go as they pleased.

Tears flowed down his cheeks. There was a strange sensation at his heart now, as if despair and loneliness were to become a source of joy; something akin to what the earth must feel when spring casts loose the fetters of winter.

He sat on. The faint, scarcely perceptible northern twilight crept into the room; he did not mark it. He had forgotten the existence of time. His only thought was that he was alone.

Alone.

And suddenly he fell on his knees. On hands and knees he crept out of the room, through the passage, out into the courtyard and across the enclosure, through the churchyard up to the door of the church.

He pressed his forehead against the granite steps, and sobbed bitterly.

The sun showed in the north, a dull red glow, with the sky deeper and darker round it. Farther off hung clouds, a delicate rose, neatly and regularly in tier upon tier. Night, but the sun was there. The meadows were thickly veiled with dew. All nature was at peace.

But before the door of one poor dark little church lay the priest, his forehead pressed against the cold stone.

And for the first time in his life he prayed from his heart to the God in whom he had never before believed.

“Peace, Lord, give peace to my soul!”

But there was no peace.

Ketill lay there long, sobbing and praying. Then, rising, he stood with bowed head and clasped hands, and whispered:

“Lord, I will seek Thee and Thy peace. My life shall be a prayer and a cry to Thee. And Thou who hast said: ‘Seek, and ye shall find; ask, and it shall be given unto you’—Thou wilt not deny me peace. A humble and a contrite heart....”