CHAPTER I

A grey, dull day—not a glimpse of the sun since morning.

A man came hobbling along the little-used path, a solitary figure under the leaden sky. The clouds hung so low that it seemed as if the heavens had fallen, and were supported only by the mountain peaks on the horizon. A grey, dull day—and the man’s spirit was grey and dull within him. All that the day had given him was a fragment of a song that had sprung into his mind; he hummed it half-consciously as he went along.

His voice was deep and hollow-sounding; in its depth a ring of loneliness and unsatisfied longing. There seemed a power of fate and sorrow behind it, as behind the dull roar of the sea. The eternal restlessness of life, and the boundless seeking of the soul quivered in this old man’s voice. Strong, yet soft, its tones had power at times to move those who heard to sadness in themselves.

He felt a peculiar comfort in the sound of his own voice when wandering thus alone; and he was a man who wandered much alone. And for all that he carried no heavy burden, his steps often faltered.

His right leg was crippled, which made journeying none the easier; the stout staff he carried was but a poor substitute for a sound limb.

Despite his infirmity, he tramped the country far and wide. Just now, he was on his way across the chain of hills to the north of Hofsfjordur, known as the Dark Mountains.

He had never been in Hofsfjordur. All the other districts round he had visited many a time in his twenty years of vagabond life, but somehow he had always passed by this. If any asked him why, he might answer that it was because of the bad roads. Yet he was well used to roads that were no better.

However it might be, this time he was on his way. The day was drawing to a close, and he had still far to go. The night would be dark, and hopeless then to find his way; there was nothing for it but to find some sheltered spot where he could rest.

He was thoroughly tired, and his lameness was more marked than usual; his sound leg too was aching from its unfair share of the work. He rocked along uncertainly, like a machine on the verge of breakdown, or a windmill making its last rotations before a calm.

His heavy coat dragged like the wings of a wounded bird. It was a picture well in keeping with the landscape, the man with his long white beard, the tangled grey hair showing below a big soft hat of the indeterminate colour of age. From beneath his bushy brows showed the glimpse of an eye—he had but one—almost unearthly in its intelligence and penetrating glance. His whole appearance, with his beggar’s pouch and limping gait, presented an almost unreal effect, harmonizing to a striking degree with the surroundings. He seemed to be in his element in this waste tract, beneath the low-lying clouds that at times almost enveloped him.

He limped on, a monarch in the realm of mist and solitude.

But there was nothing of power in his thoughts. He simply felt at home here, and in no way disheartened at the prospect of a night in the open.

Again and again he hummed his fragment of a song. It was his way to make up such refrains as he walked, humming them hour after hour to while away the tedium of the road. Also, it was a form of expression, giving relief to his feelings and easing his mind.

At last, after innumerable repetitions of his melancholy chant, he fell silent. Not all at once, but stopping for a little, then taking it up and stopping again, with longer and longer pauses between. And his glance grew dull, his brow wrinkled and furrowed. Night was at hand; he stopped on a sudden as if to make a survey of his surroundings.

“Here am I, a worm in all creation,” he muttered. “And the day has left me up on a desolate hill. Make haste, Eye, and find us a place to rest.”

Gradually the fog lifted, and the sky cleared. The darkness, however, grew more intense, and the contours of the hills were soon almost indistinguishable.

The wanderer glanced around, searching for some corner that might offer some little shelter. Comfort and warmth were not to be expected in these regions. But at length he spied two boulders leaning one against the other. “Like brothers,” he thought to himself, and added aloud:

“Good evening, brothers!”

The sense of loneliness vanished, and his heart was glad; he seemed to feel already a bond of kindliness between him and this his night’s abode. Pleasanter thoughts rose in his mind, and he gripped his faithful staff with a heartiness that might once have been extended to his fellow-men. Now, the staff was almost his only friend. He spoke to it aloud, thanking it for help during the day; he even felt somewhat shamed at not having done so before. He dug and scraped away a heap of moss and little stones, to fill the northern opening between the boulders, making a kind of cave.

This done, he opened his wallet and took out some food, given him earlier in the day by some kindly soul, and ate it, lying in the shelter of his cave. When the meal was finished, he rose to his knees, and hid his face for a moment in his hands, as if silently returning thanks.

Then after some shifting about, he curled himself up in the most convenient position within the cramped space at his disposal. He patted the hard stones, and spoke, half aloud, as his thoughts came.

“Feel strangely happy this evening. Not lonely now, just at home. Nice soft sand here to lie on. And the stones that lie there saying nothing, they are like friends. Battered about, like me, by sun and storms and time. Ay, we’ve much in common, for all they stay still and I’m for ever moving from place to place. Who knows—perhaps this night may be my longest at last. Must come some time—some night be night for ever. If so, ’tis a good place for old bones to rest. Maybe there comes One tonight to take the unrest out of my soul and give me the peace I’ve sought. If so, why, call up all the worms and creeping things that live on flesh, and make a feast of me.”

Drowsiness crept over him; he closed his eyes and prayed:

“Lord, see the end of one more day in Thy service. Lord, may it please Thee soon to lift the burden from my shoulders—the burden of sin. Lord, Thou knowest my heart is full of penitence and distress; Lord, grant me soon Thy peace. Amen!”

He ceased, and lay for a while without opening his eyes. Then, turning over on his side, he huddled himself up for warmth, and resigned himself to what the night might bring—rest, or the fever of sleeplessness.

Morning broke with the clear brightness of an autumn sky above the hills.

At the first sight of dawn, the old man limped out from his cave, beat his hands together, and stamped his sound leg repeatedly, to get some warmth into his body. And as he did so, he thought:

“So! Once more Death has passed me by. Not worth taking....”

Then, penitently, he whispered:

“Lord, Thy will be done! Thanks be to Thee for the night that is gone, and for all trials that are sent from Thee. Be not angry, Lord, if I long for the peace of Death.”

The sun came up, and the man sat down on a stone, bared his head and stretched out his hands to meet the warmth of the first rays; he smiled towards the light, that gave but little warmth as yet.

When the first cold of waking had passed, he ate his last scraps of food, and prepared to move.

The mood of last night and his gloomy thoughts seemed strange to remember now; he smiled involuntarily at the difference between his feeling then and now.

“Never twice alike,” he murmured. “What’s truth, I wonder? Can there be any truth in thoughts and feelings that change between dark and dawn? Where’s the note that lasts and does not change?”

He turned to go, when something made him pause. And, smiling indulgently at himself for his foolishness, he stooped and picked away the moss and stones with which he had closed the opening the night before. Then he patted the two rocks that had sheltered him, and went on his way with an easier mind. Who could say? Perhaps they were lonely there, and would have been sorry to feel the way barred to the passage of the wind that told so many things as it sang through the sharp-edged cleft.

He limped off, moving stiffly at first, his limbs still feeling the cold. He found the path he had left the night before in his search for a resting-place, and went on his way towards Hofsfjordur.

The sun rose higher in the heavens, and dried the dew from the rocks, warming their surface where they faced it, while the northward sides were still dark with moisture. In the shade, the moss glistened with dew. As far as eye could see, there was no growth save the brown and green of moss. But the old wanderer felt quite content; he was at home among these rock-strewn hills, so rich in their weird grouping and fantastic outlines. He was among friends here, and as he passed the massive boulders he touched them with his hand caressingly, grateful for the warmth that passed into his blood. The sun had given it, and they passed it on.

He reached Langeryg, a narrow ridge between two steep ravines, and stopped to look around him. Farther on was a meadow of pale green grass, but not a living soul was to be seen.

Slowly he went on his way, keeping carefully to the middle between the steep and dangerous precipices on either hand. A sinister place this, and of ill repute, perilous especially in mist or darkness. Even now, in the light of day, the wind moaned dismally round the sharp rocks, to the one side, that known as Death’s Cliff, though, strangely enough, no sound came from the other, that was called the Silent Cliff. There was a legend current that the two had been daughters of a king—one good, the other wicked, one dark, the other fair. And the silent chasm was the good princess who sat listening in horror to the evil doings of her sister. And it was said that if any could be found to cast himself voluntarily over the Silent Cliff, he would escape unharmed, and the ravines would close for ever.

Half-way along the track, the old man felt tempted to peer down over the edge of Death’s Cliff. Mastering a feeling of dread, he crept cautiously to the brink, and looked down, but could discern nothing in the darkness below. Suddenly a great black bird fluttered up out of the gloom, and he started back. The bird uttered a hoarse cry—and the man smiled to himself. Only a raven, that had been to visit the princess—or perhaps to see if there were any unfortunate creatures there on which to feast.

With a sigh of relief he drew back from his perilous position, and threw himself down on a patch of grass to rest. Grass was a welcome thing among these barren hills, and the sight of it gladdened him. He found himself studying each little stalk as if it were a wonder to be remembered.

And suddenly tears rose to his eyes; his lips quivered, and he murmured:

“Ay, there are many little joys in life....”

He glanced down the path ahead; first a flat stretch of grass, and then over a long, stony rise. There at the top he knew was a cairn, from which one could look out over Hofsfjordur.

Somehow or other, he felt disinclined to go on, and yet there was something that urged him forward. He felt nervous and anxious, as a boy about to undertake some responsible task for the first time.

When at last he reached the summit of the slope, he stopped and looked down. There it was at last, the shore where he had spent his childhood. There lay the blue fjord, the rockiness, the glittering stream, the grassy slopes—all that he had so often thought of with affectionate longing. Ay, he had come to love it all—since he had left it.

Tears dimmed his vision as he looked. And yet he was happy. He had crossed the boundary now; he was coming home.

He had been standing for some time leaning against the cairn, when suddenly he heard a dog barking. He turned in the direction of the sound, and perceived a young man approaching. At sight of a fellow-creature, he forgot all else.

The newcomer called to his dog, and the animal was silent at once. But the voice of the stranger went to the wanderer’s heart as had never a voice before.

He limped towards him, and held out his hand, a glad smile on his wrinkled face.

The two exchanged greetings, and stood for a moment taking stock of each other. The evident emotion of the older man was not lost upon the stranger.

“A beautiful day,” said the latter after a pause.

“Do your sheep stray as far afield as this?” asked the other. He seemed to be taking in every detail of the stranger’s appearance as he spoke. He listened, moreover, rather to his voice than to his words, though the other was not aware of this—as little as he guessed that the old man had seen his face many years ago, and recognized him now.

“Who are you?” asked the young man, somewhat ill at ease.

“A poor wanderer,” was the reply.

“And your name?”

The old man hesitated. “My name,” he said at last—“there’s none remembers it for aught but ill.”

“Where are you going now?”

“Going? I go from place to place, and live by grace of God and my fellow-men. I am going to Hofsfjordur. I have never been there before.”

“Then you will come to Borg, no doubt?”

“Yes,” said the old man, with a queer smile. “I shall come to Borg.”

“You have not seen any sheep on your way? Or any sign?”

“Nay, naught but a raven flying up from below Death’s Cliff. ’Tis the only living creature I have seen. Were you going farther?”

“No. I can see as far as I need from here. We can go down together; I have looked enough for today.”

“Have you lost many sheep?”

“No. Only a white lamb with black feet and head. It was a sensible beast, and strong, when it went up with the rest in the spring—I can hardly think any fox could have harmed it. But it was a favourite, and I must find it.”

“You are from Borg, then?” queried the old man, looking away.

“Yes. My name is Ørlygur.”

“Ørlygur the younger, that will be?”

“There is no other now. Ørlygur, my grandfather, died many years ago.”

“Yes, that is true. He died in the church at Hof. I was there at the time. True....”

“So you have been here before?”

“No—no. It was—my other self that was here then.”

The young man seemed busy with thoughts of his own; he took no notice of the strange reply. He stood gazing for some moments into distance, then turned and looked searchingly at the wanderer.

“Then you must have known Sera Ketill? He is dead, too.”

“Yes, I knew Sera Ketill,” repeated the old man. And in a curiously toneless voice he went on: “He is dead, too. Yes....”

There was a long pause. The young man realized that he could not here, in broad daylight, ask all he would of this stranger, who, he perceived, could tell him much. Such talk was for the dark, when men can speak together without reserve.

“Will you come back with me now, to Borg?” he asked.

“No. I must go elsewhere.”

“But you will come to Borg? You give me your word?”

“I give you my word. No beggar ever came this way and did not ask for alms at Borg.”

Ørlygur was somewhat embarrassed, and said in a kindly tone:

“Let me give you some food now. We can share it.”

“Heaven bless you,” said the old man.

They walked down the slope together, and found a seat on a grassy mound. Ørlygur opened his haversack and took out first a new pair of shoes.

“Take these, will you not?” he asked shyly. “Yours are badly worn. I brought these with me in case my own gave out. But they will last me home easily.”

The old man took them gladly, and let his fingers glide caressingly along the clean soles. He put them on, and looked up with deep gratitude in his face.

“Fine shoes,” he said, and laughed happily.

“It does not take much to please you,” said Ørlygur, with a smile. “And now let us have something to eat.”

They ate in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Ørlygur was watching his companion, and noticed now for the first time that one eye was closed. The man’s appearance seemed less repulsive now than at first. Evidently, one who had seen better days.

When the old man had finished he wiped his mouth and murmured something to himself, then added aloud:

“Thanks be to God.” And he reached out for Ørlygur’s hand in thanks, looking at it closely as he did so.

The man’s touch had a curious effect upon Ørlygur, at once pleasing and the reverse. He was well used to shaking hands with men, whether friends or strangers, and did so usually without a thought. But with this beggar it was different; he felt an impulse to embrace him, and at the same time shrank from giving him his hand at all.

They walked on side by side, but for a long time no word was spoken. Often the old man stopped, and leaned on his staff to rest. At length they reached the point where the road branched off to Nordurdalur. Here they halted, and sat down without a word.

The old man was the first to speak.

“You will cross the stream now, I take it, and take the shorter road. I am going down alongside the stream. I can reach Bolli in an hour’s time. There is still some one living there?”

“You must know the neighbourhood well,” said Ørlygur. “Yes; a widow lives there with her daughter.” And he blushed.

The old man noticed it and smiled. “Here is a young man who is still a child,” he thought. “Cannot speak of the widow’s daughter without blushing. If I had not been a stranger he would not have spoken of her at all.”

Aloud, he said: “I hope they’ll give me leave to sleep in a barn tonight. You’re not going that way yourself?”

Ørlygur looked aside. “No,” he said shortly.

“Shall I tell them I’ve met you—by way of greeting?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Ørlygur did not look up. The old man rose and came towards him. “Good-bye,” he said, offering his hand.

“And thank you for good company.”

“Good-bye and thanks.”

Ørlygur sat looking after the old man as he went. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he ran after him and asked:

“Will you not tell me your name?”

“Men call me ‘Guest the One-eyed,’” answered the wanderer quietly, and smiled.

Ørlygur said nothing, but his face showed that the name was not unknown to him.

“Good-bye, again, Ørlygur À Borg.”

“Good-bye, Guest One-eyed, and God be with you,” answered Ørlygur reverently, pressing the other’s hand.

The wanderer went on his way, following the course of the stream. Ørlygur watched him till he was out of sight, and stood for a long while looking down the way he had gone.

The sun had vanished behind the western heights when Ørlygur at last roused himself from gazing down the valley. The figure had disappeared long since.

The name of Guest the One-eyed had always seemed to him a part of some fantastic story; now, however, it had become a reality; he had seen and spoken to the man.

He knew that this Guest was a wandering beggar, and had heard many stories current concerning him. He knew also that Guest the One-eyed had never before visited Hofsfjordur—possibly it was this fact which had led him to regard the stories as stories only, without reality. Now that he had learned that the man had apparently lived in Hofsfjordur before, under another name, it seemed strange to him—it had never struck him before that the name of Guest the One-eyed must have had some natural origin.

As with all young and simple folk who had heard of Guest the One-eyed, Ørlygur felt an affection for the singular character of report. Many were the instances on record of kindness and courtesy shown by the wanderer in his journeyings. He had lost one eye in saving a child from a burning farm; his crippled leg was the result of his having flung himself in the way of a sledge that was hurrying towards a dangerous cliff—the life he had thus saved being that of no more romantic personage than an elderly and by no means beautiful servant girl. This latter incident had been the cause of some ill-placed amusement among the peasantry, for it was known that the girl had been merely making a foolhardy attempt to win the heart of one of the labourers near by. Her rescuer, however, before leaving the farm, made it his business to see that the marriage was duly accomplished.

Ørlygur knew, also, that Guest the One-eyed had a peculiar faculty of getting over difficulties and removing misunderstandings; in more than one instance he had been the means of ending an irreconcilable feud and establishing firm friendship in its stead.

A legendary hero in real life, and gifted with wisdom far beyond that of his fellows. Yet he never used his powers for his own advantage. Nobler than those around him, he was nevertheless content to tramp the country in rags, with a beggar’s staff. In point of intelligence, he seemed fitted to be the adviser of kings; yet he chose to live alone, and to seek his rest in barns and outhouses. All of which led folk to look upon him as the personification of something beneficent—the spirit of kindliness and good-will. And Ørlygur himself had felt the same.

He felt a great desire to follow after the old man; a craving for adventure within him even suggested the idea of throwing in his lot with him, and sharing his wanderings.

But as the sun went down, he woke from his dreams and, pulling himself together, made his way rapidly towards home.

Half-way over the stream he stopped suddenly; the water seemed like a flood of gold pouring towards him, glittering with strange reflections in the evening light. And the play of colour, with the murmur of the stream, held him for a moment entranced. Was it a dream, or had he really met Guest the One-eyed in the flesh?

Once across, however, the spell was broken, and Ørlygur was a boy again, filled with no more romantic fancy for the moment than an impulse to run races with his dog. He called to the animal, and they raced away, tearing along at top speed.

As he ran, Ørlygur was conscious that he was eager to get home and relate his adventure; to tell of his conversation with the One-eyed Guest, and announce the arrival of the hero.

He raced on homeward, leaving the dog far behind. The animal followed at its best, till it saw him leap the fence of the enclosure, when it gave up and lay down panting breathlessly.

Ørlygur likewise could run no more, and slackened to a walk. Noticing his foster-father approaching, he made towards him.

Ormarr Ørlygsson had seen the lad come tearing down the slope, his hat off, and his hair streaming in the wind. He knew how the boy delighted in long walks and violent outbursts of energy, but this exuberance of spirits caused him some uneasiness at times—he knew that a day would come when the natural safety-valve of youth would no longer suffice. Yet he could not suppress a smile of pleasure at sight of the handsome lad as he raced away at a speed which bade fair to tire even his horses and dogs.

Often he reflected how like the boy was to his father—the same fair hair, the same blue eyes, the same splendid build; the figure of a young god.

And he thought, with a mingling of unconscious love and conscious hate, of his brother Ketill, who had disappeared the night after that terrible scene that had caused his father’s death and lost his wife her reason. It was said that he had drowned himself—he had last been seen on the cliffs near the fjord. True, the body had never been recovered. Still, it might have been carried out to sea.

After the revelation of that day, when the facts had been made common knowledge, and seeing that Ketill had disappeared, in all likelihood never to return, Ormarr had ceased to give out Ørlygur, Ketill’s and Runa’s child, as his own. He and Runa had continued to live as man and wife, but no children had been born to them.

They lived peacefully and happily at the farm, with never an unkind word between them. At all times, whether they spoke or were silent, there was a mutual bond of perfect confidence and affection between them. Life had brought them together in a strange and merciless fashion, but the innate good sense and nobility of both had turned all to the good. They knew that they had never been lovers in the sense in which love is generally understood, yet, as the years passed, there grew up between them a happiness of each in each that filled their lives. And their mutual trust gave them a surer foundation on which to rest than any lovers’ love could give.

Ørlygur rarely gave a thought to the fact that Ormarr was not his real father. He knew it, because Ormarr had once, in the presence of Runa, told him how matters stood. No details had been given, but the facts were plainly stated: Ormarr had promised to tell him the whole story some day, if he wished. But Ørlygur perceived that the subject was a painful one, and had asked no further since.

Had it not been from fragments of information gathered in course of time from one or another outside the home, he would have known but little. What he did know made towards the conclusion that his father had been a bad man, who had wrought harm to his own kin. But strangely enough, he, Ørlygur, did not suffer thereby. The misfortunes that had come after seemed to have wiped away, as it were, the stain on the family honour, and as years went by, the recollection of Sera Ketill seemed gradually to lose its association with the house of Borg. The story of Sera Ketill lived on—a gruesome tale enough in itself. But it had become a thing apart.

And Ørlygur, growing up at Borg, became one of the family there, until it was almost forgotten that he was in any way related to his father, Sera Ketill of unblessed memory. Ørlygur was aware of this, and at times could feel a kind of remorse at the thought—for, after all, his father was his father.... And, as he grew up, he tried to picture to himself what his father had really been. In his inmost heart he could not quite believe him so utterly evil as report made out.

But there was no one whom he could ask—no one, indeed, to whom he could even speak on the subject at all. He could not bring himself to open a painful subject with his foster-father or his mother. There was only old Kata, the faithful attendant of the poor witless Danish Lady. And Kata’s replies to his questioning were always wrapped up in mysterious, incomprehensible allusions. Ørlygur, in common with others, regarded her as entering on her second childhood, though she was sound and active as ever in body.

Ørlygur was still out of breath when he reached Ormarr.

“Well,” said the latter, “did you find the lamb? You look very pleased with yourself.”

“No,” said Ørlygur. “But I found—whom do you think? Guest the One-eyed! Right up at the very edge of the pastures, in the hills. And I went with him as far as Nordura. I didn’t know who he was till we said good-bye. And I gave him my shoes, and he is wearing them now.”

Ørlygur’s delight and pride at this last fact were so evident that Ormarr could not help smiling.

“Why didn’t you bring him back home with you?”

“He is coming. He promised faithfully he would. He was too tired now. Said he was going down the stream to one of the nearest farms there.”

Ormarr did not fail to remark that the boy had avoided mentioning Bolli, but he made no sign of having noticed anything. He had an idea that Ørlygur cherished a fancy for the daughter there, but it seemed wiser to wait before taking any definite action. He was not at all pleased with the idea of a match between Ørlygur and the child of the so-called “widow” at Bolli. But he was loth to interfere with the boy’s affairs—after all, he was of an age to choose for himself. And Ormarr knew too well that the men of his race were apt to be headstrong in affairs of the heart. On the other hand, if he were mistaken—if the affair were not really serious, his interference would do no good. If the damage were already done, and Ørlygur had made up his mind, then there was nothing to be done but wait and see.

Ørlygur himself did not know whether his parents were aware of his affection for Snebiorg, the girl from Bolli. But he was convinced that they would not agree with his choice. Even if they did not oppose it, he knew it would pain them.

Up to now, his will and conscience had always been in accord with theirs. In this case he was quite clear as to his own feelings, but was loth to bring matters to a head. There was time enough—no definite promise had as yet been given on either side, though there was certainly a tacit understanding between them.

Ormarr and Ørlygur walked across the enclosure together.

“And what else did he say—the old man?” asked Ormarr.

Ørlygur was at a loss for an answer. He could not remember anything else of importance, and it seemed somehow unsatisfactory to have met the celebrated vagabond, renowned for his wisdom, and bring back no utterance worthy of remark. He said nothing—and Ormarr did not press the question, but walked beside him with the quiet, peculiar smile that had become characteristic of him.

But when they reached the house, Ørlygur found himself once more a person of importance. Old Kata came hobbling towards him, and laid her hand on his arm.

“You have met him, and spoken. And felt joy of the meeting—more than with any other you have ever met. The Lord is great, and our eyes are blind. Yes; he will come now, and all will be well.”

Kata hobbled off again to her mistress, whom she never left for any length of time.

The two men stood watching her with a smile.

“She still has the gift, you see,” observed Ormarr. “No need to tell her that you had met with Guest the One-eyed in the mountains.”

Alma dragged on her timeless, feelingless existence under old Kata’s care. Age had left no mark on her, though it was twenty years now since the tragic event that had deprived her of her reason. In the world about her there had been changes: those who had been in the prime of life at that time were now aged and infirm; the children of those days were grown. But Alma was to all appearances the same as on the day when she had left the church at Hof, released from suffering by the breakdown of all capacity to feel or understand. She looked a trifle healthier—less pale, that was all.

And her life now had, despite its essential monotony, a certain variation of a sort. She smiled happily when the sun shone, but wept when the clouds hid it from her sight. Her joys were those of childhood—fine weather, dumb animals, flowers, and the presence of certain chosen friends. There were some of her fellow-creatures whom she loved, without knowing why. Others she disliked no less distinctly, and contact with them would render her depressed for days. Strangers, in particular, invariably troubled her mind.

In course of time, people had come to attribute this discrimination to a strange instinct that had taken the place of the ordinary human intelligence she no longer possessed. She was still spoken of as the Danish Lady at Hof, though for years she had not set her foot outside the limits of Borg.

She spoke but little. It seemed as if she had forgotten not only her native tongue, but also the little Icelandic she had ever learnt. She picked up odd words and sentences, however, uttering them afterwards incoherently. And she had a kind of language of her own invention—a combination of curious expressions and strange gestures, which those about her learned to understand. Old Kata was an adept in this mode of intercourse, and pleased her mistress by her quickness of understanding.

The two women occupied one room, with two windows, in which they had their favourite seats. They would sit there for hours, old Kata with her knitting, and Alma gazing at the world outside, and following with childish interest anything that might be happening within view. For the most part, they were silent, but now and again passers-by might hear them exchanging words in their own unintelligible form of speech.

They had little to do with others, though Alma knew all the servants and farm hands on the place. All loved her, and towards old Kata, too, the general feeling was one of kindly regard.

On Sundays they joined the circle for Bible reading or singing, after which coffee was handed round, Alma playing the part of hostess. It was one of the small recurring pleasures in her life, and both she and Kata found an ever-new delight in the arrangement.

Sometimes the master, Ormarr Ørlygsson, if so disposed, would bring out his violin and treat his people to an entertainment. He invariably began with merry tunes, and finished with strange, heart-stirring themes; the simple listeners knew nothing of the great composers, but the music had its own effect on them, and often brought tears to the eyes of the more impressionable amongst them.

When he had played thus, Ormarr would leave the room abruptly; the rest, sitting in silence, would hear him leave the house. And then the party broke up, each to his work or play.

But Ormarr went off alone into the hills. At times he might be seen pacing to and fro; sometimes he would find some spot where he could lie and rest, but he never returned to the farm until all had retired for the night. There were always two, however, who waited his return. One was old Kata, who sat by the window till she saw or heard him back again—sat weeping, though he never dreamed of any such sympathy on her part. Not till she knew that he was safely within doors—had fought out that day’s fight with his God, as she put it to herself—would she go to rest.

The other was his wife, lying awake in bed till he came. No words were spoken when he returned; in silence he lay down at her side, drawing close to her, with one arm round her neck. Lying thus, rest would come to him and he could sleep.

The only other event in the life of Alma and her aged nurse was when visitors came to the place. All invariably came in to pay their respects to the Danish Lady however brief their stay or how pressing their errand might be. Some did so from a natural desire to show their sympathy with one afflicted by God; others from a secret fear that God would punish them if they did not. And Alma seemed able to distinguish between those who came of their own kind will and those who merely obeyed a custom they feared to break.

Guest the One-eyed limped wearily along by the side of the stream.

The path he followed wound with many turns, following the course of the water, and in places quite near to the edge, the bank sometimes overhanging the riverbed below. At one spot the river actually tunnelled its way underground for some few yards, leaving a kind of natural bridge above. When he reached this spot the wanderer knew that he was not far from Bolli.

His thoughts were busy with recollection of the young man he had met up in the hills.

“So that was he,” he thought to himself. “A handsome lad, strong and manly, and of a kindly heart, by his eyes.” He thought of the evident pleasure with which the boy had given him the shoes and shared his food with him. Ay, a true son of his race—little fear of his bringing sorrow upon Borg.

And the old man’s heart beat faster at the thought that he would soon see the girl whom Ørlygur had chosen for his bride. His knowledge of men had enabled him to read clearly enough the signs of Ørlygur’s feeling; it was evident, also, that the two young people understood each other.

He forgot his weariness and hurried on.

Then, rounding a bend of the river, he came suddenly upon the tiny homestead, a cluster of small buildings on a little piece of rising ground. A thin smoke rose from a chimney—that must be from the open hearth in the kitchen. The ground outside was marked by heaps of hay, in regular rows; a solitary horse was grazing on the hillside, and a few sheep nosed about among the rocks down by the river.

For some minutes he stood looking over the place. So this was where the two women passed their quiet lives. Mother and daughter, living for some reason apart from their neighbours. The old wanderer knew well enough that it was often not the worst of human kind that chose to live aloof from their fellows.

As he approached the house, a dog ran out barking angrily. Immediately after, a young woman appeared. At first sight of the strange figure coming towards her, she turned as if to go indoors again, but changed her mind and advanced to meet him.

“Here is one who is tired,” said she. “Can I help you, old man?”

And she took his arm.

“Thanks, blessed child,” said the old man, with a smile.

The girl looked up at his face.

“Oh—you have only one eye!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” answered the stranger, with a chuckle. “Worms couldn’t wait for it. They’ll have the other one soon, and the rest of me with it.”

“You should not talk like that,” said the girl, with childish displeasure.

Guest the One-eyed changed his tone. “Yes,” he said earnestly. “You are young and wise, and I am old and foolish. ’Tis not a matter for jesting. What is your name, child?”

“Snebiorg is my name. Mother calls me Bagga, but I don’t let other people call me that—or only one other, perhaps, if he cares to. And you perhaps, too, because you are not like other folk.”

“One other—if he cares to? Don’t you know whether he cares to or not?”

“No—for I have never spoken to him.”

“But—are you not lovers, then?”

“Yes.”

“And you mean to say you have never spoken—only written letters to each other?”

“Written? No.” Bagga looked up in surprise. “We have looked at each other. Isn’t that enough?”

There was a strange earnestness in the old man’s voice as he answered:

“Surely it is enough. And are you very fond of him?”

“I love him.”

They walked on in silence. Guest the One-eyed wished to have his message given before going into the house.

“I have seen him,” he said. “And I was to bring you greeting from him.”

The girl stopped still and clasped her hand to her breast. The colour had risen to her cheeks as she spoke of her lover; now she turned pale. The old man looked at her intently, taking in her fine profile, her beautiful eyes and lovely hair, the fineness of her figure. He realized that these two were destined for each other; that they must love each other at first sight.

Bagga could hardly speak at first. After a while she said:

“You have spoken to him? Is it long ago? What did he say? Did he ask you to bring me greeting?”

“No.”

“But you said so just now!” She looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“I asked if I should bring you greeting, and he said yes. And I read more in his eyes. Can you guess what?”

“No.”

“That he loves you, and is for ever thinking of you. That he will always be true to you.”

“That I knew long ago. But how could you know that it was he?”

“It needs not long to find out that. Shall I tell you his name?”

“No,” answered the girl, colouring deeply. “Did he say anything else? Was he looking for a lamb that had strayed?”

“Yes, a favourite lamb, and he was afraid some fox might have harmed it.”

Bagga looked serious.

“It is here,” she said hesitatingly. “It strayed over here early in the summer, and I have been keeping it with our sheep. I knew it was his, and I could not bear to part with it. But tonight, when every one is asleep, I will take it over to Borg. Then he will find it in the morning, and be glad.”

She smiled with pleasure at the thought.

“Can’t you remember any more he said? Did you have a long talk with him?”

“Yes—but I have forgotten. He gave me these shoes I am wearing now.”

Bagga was immediately keenly interested in the old man’s shoes.

“I hope you have not worn a hole in them yet. But, if you have, I will mend them for you.”

“No,” answered the old man, with a quiet smile. “I am sorry to say there is nothing to mend.”

Bagga blushed again, but added quickly, “But you can let me set them in oil for you tonight, then they will be soft in the morning. You will stay here tonight, will you not?”

“Gladly, if you will house me.”

They had reached the door of the house, and Bagga led him through a dark passage into the room. Seated on a bed was an elderly woman, busy mending some clothes. The visitor noticed for the first time that the girl’s clothing was almost as patched as his own. It was not so noticeable, however, in a pretty girl.

The old woman sat up and stared at him.

“Who is this?” she asked in surprise.

“A beggar, lady. Peace be with you.”

The woman’s glance softened.

“Come in,” she said, “and welcome to what we can give. Sit down. Have you come far?”

“From across the Dark Mountains.”

“So far—and you are lame? Quick, Bagga, make some coffee.”

Bagga whispered something in her mother’s ear. The latter looked at her daughter, and then at the stranger. Her glance expressed concern.

“Is it true? You have lost an eye, and lame as well?” She came towards him. “Then you must be... you are Guest the One-eyed?”

“So I am called,” was the reply.

She grasped his hand, and her voice trembled.

“God bless you!” she said earnestly—“God bless you! And blessed be the hour that brought you here.”

Bagga had left the room, and the two were alone.

“Where did you spend the night?”

“On the hills.”

“And without shelter? How can you endure such hardships—an old man?...”

“I am well hardened to it by now. Though, to tell the truth, my shoulder is somewhat stiff from last night.”

“I hope it may be no worse. Let me make up a bed for you now, and you can have a good rest.”

“I would rather lie in the hayloft. A bed would seem strange to me now.”

Somewhat unwillingly the widow agreed to let him have his way.

“So you have come to Hofsfjordur after all, though after many years.”

“Yes; Fate has brought me here at last, in my old age.”

“Then Fate is kind to us.”

“Fate is always kind,” replied the old man earnestly.

“Even when it brings us trouble and distress?”

“Then most of all, good soul, if you did but know.”

“Even when it leads us into temptation—drives us to sin?” The widow looked up at him quickly as she spoke, and lowered her eyes again.

“We mortals are poor clay; God has need of strange ways to work us to His will.”

“Then you think all that happens is decreed—a part of God’s plan with us?”

“In a way, yes. Each man’s actions are determined by the nature of his soul; that makes his fate. All that men do is a result of their own character. But the deeds that we do most naturally are good. Therefore, we should each be master of ourself.”

“But a sin committed can never be a good action or lead to any good. Surely it were better that such an act had never been?”

“A sin committed can bring out the good in one who is so made that the good in him can be reached by no other way. One can wander through many lands and yet not escape from one evil deed. The memory of it will stay fresh in the mind, and in time can soften the hardest heart, or make the weakest strong; good thoughts and strength of will grow out of it. I speak as I have found it. But perhaps you have not found it so.”

The woman bent over her work.

“Yes,” she said. “You speak the truth. I, too, have sinned, and the memory of it has made me better than I was, or ever could have been without it. But I never thought of it so until now.”

Bagga entered with some food. She wore a bandage over one eye.

“What is it, child?—have you hurt yourself?” asked the mother anxiously.

Bagga blushed hotly, set down the plates, and tore away the handkerchief from her head, laughing nervously.

The others laughed too—it was easy to see what the girl had been doing.

“I forgot to take it off,” she explained shyly. “It’s not so very bad, after all, to have only one eye.”

“Better to have two,” said Guest the One-eyed. “More especially if they are as blue and as good as yours.” And he looked at her with a kindly smile.

Bagga was still embarrassed; she glanced anxiously at the visitor, and asked: “You are not angry with me?”

He patted her arm. “How could I be? After you have given me leave to call you Bagga?”

“When you go away from here, I will go with you all the way to the next place. I am strong, and I can carry your sack for you.”

“That’s kind of you. And I shall not be angry with you, not even if you fasten a stick to one leg just to see what it feels like to be lame!”

Bagga’s checks were burning now; she was nearly crying.

“I—I did just now,” she confessed. “And it was much worse than—the other. But I’ll never do it again.”

Guest the One-eyed burst out laughing. Even the girl’s mother could not help joining in. And there was not much of anger in the rebuke she gave her daughter.

Night spread its broad, dark wings over the land.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had forgotten to take her garter from its neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They sat in silence for a while.

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

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

Again there was a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman’s face darkened.

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

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

“If I could believe you now....”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As he was leaving, he asked suddenly:

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

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

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

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

The woman hurried after him.

“Are you ill?” she asked.

“No. I am going now.”

“But—you have not said good-bye!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She took his sack and put her arm in his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When they had finished, he asked her:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I knew,” he answered.

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

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

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

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

“Do you hate him, too?”

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

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

The girl’s eyes lit with pleasure.

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

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

“Sera Ketill is not dead.”

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

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

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

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

They walked on until a fertile valley lay before them.

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

The old man slung his sack over his shoulder.

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

“You like me, then?”

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

“But—I am only a beggar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh—then you knew he was here?”

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

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

“I did not fetch it at all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At length she remarked:

“You are very patient to wait so long.”

“Yes,” he replied.

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

“Bagga must soon be here.”

Ørlygur nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go in and see.”

The widow disappeared into the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

“Good-bye,” he said.

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

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

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

“Yes,” said the girl.

“What did he come for?”

“He gave me his lamb.”

“Nothing more?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause.

“Does he love you?”

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

“And you love him too?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” asked the farmer curtly.

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

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

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

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

At length the farmer turned to him again.

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

“There’s little news I can tell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me take your sack,” he said.

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

Guest the One-eyed glanced at him mischievously.

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

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

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

“Then I should let it lie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The farmer went with him to the barn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The blessed sun,” he murmured to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

“I thank you. But I must go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rose, and limped along his painful way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts within thoughts, and thoughts again.

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

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

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

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

But the impulse reached no further than his thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where do the poor live now?”

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

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

“Are all in Hofsfjordur grown rich?”

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

“The Devil Priest?”

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

“Good-bye,” said Guest the One-eyed.

“Peace go with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God’s peace,” he said as he entered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guest the One-eyed offered his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bishop spat in it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are there many going across?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Again?”

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

The young man seemed to take this as a jest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have not thought of dying just yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Danish Lady came nearer, and stroked his hair.

But old Kata took his hand, and said:

“Welcome now! God has forgiven you.”

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

“God can never forgive me,” he said.

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

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

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

“Be glad of that,” she said.

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

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

“Heaven bless her,” repeated the broken man.

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

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

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

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

“Welcome home, brother.”

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

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

Then Ormarr turned to him and said:

“Ørlygur, it is your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ketill! Alive?”

Ormarr was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

“I am afraid so.”

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

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

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

“Look at me, Ketill.”

She laid her hands on his and said again:

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

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

“How could you ever forgive me?”

“Look at me, Ketill, and see.”

And he looked up into her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked from one to another of those standing round.

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

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

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

He broke off, weeping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly the old man whispered faintly:

“Help me off with my clothes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kata did so.

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

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

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

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

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

“God—God—my God!...”

His hands twitched feebly.

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

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

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

He breathed with difficulty.

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

“Alma, Alma!”

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

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

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

“Where am I?”

And, flushing slightly, she went on:

“That was Ketill’s voice.”

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

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

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

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

For a little all was deathly still.

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

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