CHAPTER I

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

That is what the night saw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone was scraping cautiously at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Die and rot in the grave....”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears came to his eyes.

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

He sat staring before him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughtfully Ormarr walked back to the house.

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

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

The idea involved in this last word made him start.

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

He gazed thoughtfully up at the mountains.

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

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

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

He laughed—a cold, forced laugh.

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

He shook his head.

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

An evil light showed in his eyes.

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

He clenched his fists.

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

He drew a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the first voice died away and another spoke scornfully:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Death is disgusting,” he thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stood staring down into the grave.

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

He seemed as if turned to stone.

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

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

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

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

And to himself he continued:

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

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

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

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

The priest came up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The priest stared at him, dumb with astonishment.

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

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

And he turned and walked away.

The priest stood looking after him in perplexity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The widow nodded, and Ormarr went on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormarr smiled.

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

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

The widow nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormarr was thinking hard as he rode along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor was profuse in his thanks.

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

Later in the day Ormarr spoke to the widow.

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

The widow looked at him searchingly.

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

“Why not?” asked Ormarr quietly.

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

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

The widow was silent a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

The widow and her daughter rode home that evening in silence. Each was occupied with her own thoughts, and would not have found it easy to share them with the other.

The horses knew their way, and, despite the darkness, the journey was accomplished rapidly and without mishap. The animals seemed to know that the quicker they went, the sooner they would be able to rest.

Mother and daughter exchanged only a few trivial remarks as they unsaddled and turned the horses loose. They did not even trouble to light up, but went straight to bed.

They had lain in silence for some time, when Bagga’s voice came suddenly out of the dark:

“Mother, why must I leave home?”

The widow was at a loss for an answer, and, to escape the question, pretended to be asleep.

Bagga fell to weeping softly. It seemed all so senseless and cruel—why should she leave home when she had no wish to go? Who could say if these strangers with whom she was to live would be kind to her or not? It hurt her to leave home at all—but her mother willed it so.

Worse than this was the thought that Ørlygur seemed changed. There was something in his look and manner which told her she was not the same in his eyes that she had been when last they had met—when he had given her the lamb. Her conscience had been uneasy on that day of the funeral—it was the funeral of her good friend, Guest the One-eyed; and yet she had been glad, thinking only that she would be sure to see Ørlygur again. She had hoped, too, that he would speak to her—perhaps even take her hand. But he had only given her a hasty greeting, and his handshake had been disappointing. She had been careful herself to leave without bidding him farewell; she could not bear to take his hand again in that strange way. Was it because there were others present that he had been so strange? Or had he ceased to love her? If he could only know how she suffered, for all her brave attempts to seem unconcerned, then surely he would at least have given her one such look as that which had drawn them together at the first. But perhaps it was only sorrow at his bereavement that had made him look so unlike himself; perhaps next time they met all would be well again. Oh, it was wrong of her to be bitter and think the worst; God might well punish her for that. And she had sinned in going to the funeral with any other thought than that of mourning the loss of Guest the One-eyed.

So Bagga argued with herself, and made up her mind at last that if she bore her trials bravely, then God might again be merciful and grant her again the joy of feeling that she and Ørlygur were united in heart.

She ceased to weep. Her pure and innocent heart had found consolation in her simple thoughts. All would surely be well again. And as her mind dwelt on the remembrance of her lover, she ceased to see him as he had been today, and saw only Ørlygur as she had known him—the picture she had treasured in her heart.

At last all conscious thought faded away; she only saw him—saw his face, his figure; the smile that had made her so happy, and the look in his eyes that she loved. They went with her into dreams, and daylight found her with a serene and happy smile. And when her mother came to wake her, there was such quiet and innocent peace in the girl’s face that the old woman’s anxious look changed to a tearful smile as she whispered to herself:

“Surely she can come to no harm. The Lord would never let her suffer.”

And, dressing quietly, lest she should wake her, the widow stole out to her work.

On waking, Bagga noticed at once that her mother was already up. She got out of bed herself, and, without making any attempt to dress, sat down on the bed to think. Today she was to leave home. At first she half hoped it was all a dream, but in a moment she realized that it was the sad truth. And the question which had risen to her mind the night before came to her now again: Why should she go? Hitherto, her mother had never said anything about her going away from home; on the contrary, she had always felt that her mother would have been sorry to lose her. And then to decide on this so suddenly.... There must be some reason for it all—something they had not told her. She was to go as housekeeper to the doctor, a man she had never liked. From her first sight of him she had felt an instinctive aversion to him. His looks, his friendly advances, repelled her. But if her mother thought it best, that must be enough. And if her mother did not wish to tell her the reason for so thinking, there was no more to be said.

She would not ask.

Going out, she found her mother had just finished making the coffee. They talked with some restraint; it seemed awkward even to talk of little everyday things now. The widow was evidently distressed herself, and Bagga was on the verge of tears. From her manner, the mother judged that Bagga had determined not to ask the reason of her being sent away from home. This was as well, since it saved her the necessity of answering awkward questions; but, on the other hand, it puzzled her to think why her daughter should have refrained from asking.

The few necessary preparations for the journey were soon made, and a man came up to the house with the horse Bagga was to ride.

It was noticeable that at parting the widow carefully impressed upon her daughter not to hesitate in telling her all that happened—to let her know at once, if need be.

“It will be lonely here when you have gone, child,” she said.

Bagga burst into tears, but strove bravely to recover herself. The two women embraced, and the widow walked beside the horse until they came to the stream. Here they stopped, and bade each other farewell tenderly.

“God be with you,” said the mother earnestly. “Trust in Him, and keep yourself pure in soul and body. And, should it please Him to call me to Himself, remember that there is one beside myself who loves you.”

Bagga blushed at her words, and warm joy filled her heart. Then, with a parting kiss, she touched her horse and rode across the stream.

The widow stood for some minutes waving to her. And when Bagga turned to look once more, before passing over the last ridge of hills that would shut out the sight of her home, her mother stood there still, a grey, forsaken figure on the autumn landscape. The sight went to her heart.

Ørlygur had left the churchyard with a smile on his face after his unfriendly remark to the priest about Borgarfjall and silly sheep. But the smile soon vanished.

“That was childish of me,” he reflected. “Whatever made me say it, I wonder? And now I suppose I shall have to scramble up there one day, and very likely break my neck. No need to do it really, of course. But, then, that would be rather mean again. I seem to be getting that way of late.”

Suddenly he perceived the doctor standing before him.

“Two and two are four,” said the latter, with a gleam of kindly mischief in his eyes.

Ørlygur looked up at him uncomprehendingly.

“Don’t be offended,” said the doctor. “But really, you know, any one could see that a man walking about with such a scowl on his face was not sorrowing for the dead. Looks much more as if he were busy with some mathematical problem or other.”

Ørlygur tried to smile.

“How would you like to make the ascent of Borgarfjall?” he asked jestingly.

The doctor looked out over the valley, measuring distances with his eye.

“Shouldn’t care about it, to tell the truth,” he answered. “But if I had to, well, I should provide myself with a bottle of whisky, and empty it. Then, when the ground began to move a bit, I should just wait till the part where I stood—or lay—came uppermost, and the top of Borgarfjall under; it would be easy enough to just give a heave and roll down to it. Otherwise, I think I should wait till after death.”

“But you don’t believe in any life after death,” said Ørlygur, smiling.

The doctor’s manner changed abruptly. “I don’t know,” he said seriously. “Don’t know what I do believe.” Then, returning to his former mischievous tone, he went on: “Anyhow, I fancy whisky is a freethinker. And I sometimes feel the spirit moving me.”

Ørlygur was smiling no longer. “What is it like to get drunk?” he asked.

The doctor looked at him searchingly, then laughed aloud.

“Well, it makes you somewhat foolhardy as a rule,” he said. “And light-hearted, light-headed, and all the rest of it. Afterwards, it’s apt to be the other way—heavy, you know, especially about the head. You’ve a charming frankness, by the way, young man, when it comes to asking delicate questions.”

“Why should I not?” said Ørlygur quickly. “Would you prefer me to pretend I didn’t know you drank?”

The doctor was somewhat taken aback. “No,” he said; “I shouldn’t. Your straightforwardness is one of your best qualities. You don’t care for whisky, I know. But come over one day and get drunk on it—it will probably save you, at any rate for some time, from any risk of going that way yourself.”

“I didn’t feel any wish to try,” said Ørlygur. “It just occurred to me, that was all.”

They walked up and down in silence, Ørlygur looking straight before him, the doctor watching him covertly the while.

“Most likely a woman,” he thought to himself. “In trouble of some sort, that’s clear. And—funny thing, now I come to think of it, we’ve never heard anything about his being taken with any one up till now. Anyhow, why he should be troubled about anything in that line, I can’t make out. She must be a fool who wouldn’t have him and gladly. Hearts are a nuisance.”

He murmured the last words half aloud, and sighed.

Ørlygur glanced at him. “What is it?” he asked.

“Eh? Only my heart, I said. It’s the whisky’s done it, you know. And I was thinking of the time when I hadn’t yet given it the chance to get in and spoil things.”

The doctor looked him fixedly in the eyes. Ørlygur stopped, met his gaze, then both lowered their eyes and walked on. After a little, the doctor spoke again, looking straight ahead of him.

“You’re one of the few people I ever trouble to think of,” he said. “Because I have an idea that you’ve some sort of friendly feeling for me. Heaven only knows why you should. Consequently, the least I can do for you is—not to warn you, but just to point out to you the rocks that upset my little voyage; then you can go round or steer headlong into them, just as you please.”

He changed suddenly to a lighter tone. “I’m no hand at serious talk. And you’re looking just now as if you’d just entered Holy orders. I think I’ll go and find some one more amusing to talk to.”

He offered his hand, and the grip he gave belied his words. Ørlygur understood that the other had gone in order to leave him to himself. And he was grateful.

For a while he walked about by himself. Then, noticing that the others were saddling up, he found his horse, and rode with the party, but in silence, keeping to himself. He noticed the priest among the party, and fancied he marked an unfriendly look in his face. But it did not trouble him. On reaching home, he let his horse go loose, and wandered about by himself, leaving Ormarr and Runa to entertain their guests.

All that afternoon he wandered restlessly about, either keeping to himself or going from group to group, exchanging brief remarks occasionally with some, answering others with a word or so, often without being properly aware of what had been said. All saw that he was troubled and distrait.

He saw that Bagga was among the guests, but she was not alone, and he made no attempt to speak to her. And yet, time and again when he lost sight of her for a moment, he could not rest till he had found her again. It was a consolation to look at her, to see that she was there.

When the widow and her daughter rode away, Ørlygur took care to be at hand when the horses were saddled. He hoped Bagga would come up and speak to him. But she pretended not to notice him, though he was sure she must have seen him.

At that, his misery overcame him, and he went to bed without saying good-night to any one. But he could not sleep. He heard the others come up to bed, and could hear their regular breathing through the thin partition between the rooms. The idea of sleep irritated him. What was sleep?—a giving up of the mind to nothingness. A thing unworthy of human beings. Surely it was the outcome of indifference, idleness, an evil habit that had grown through generations—a kind of hereditary vice.

He lay long restless, letting his thoughts come and go.

Then he became aware of a strange sound somewhere in the house. Music—somewhere a melody seemed filtering through the air, calling his thoughts back from their wanderings.

It must be Ormarr playing. Ørlygur dressed softly and stole out of the room. As he neared the door of the room where he had watched the night before with the dead, the sound grew clearer—it was there Ormarr had chosen to play.

He stood still and listened.

He did not know the melody, but its indescribable softness and melancholy soothed his mind. If Ormarr were playing for his own consolation, he was also comforting another and bringing peace to a troubled heart. Ørlygur listened, letting the music work upon his mind. And gradually he forgot himself entirely; that which had been himself disappeared, and there was something else—there was life, a precious thing. It was worth living for, only to feel this enthralment of the moment; to realize this harmonious blending of joy and sorrow, of life and death blending, as it were, into a golden mist, and melting into eternity.

The last notes died away. Ørlygur crept back to his room, and slept.

When Ørlygur awoke next morning he felt ill at ease. The sense of mental balance he had gained from the music of the night before seemed far off, and he had difficulty in recalling it.

But at the same time the feeling of utter despair that he had felt, especially after his vain attempt to speak at the graveside, had left him.

“Strange,” he murmured. “But the promise—it seems now as if it no longer existed, after I failed to utter it then.”

And he smiled bitterly.

“Was I really so weak?” he thought.

He dressed and went out. The sky was overcast, and the landscape, now deprived of the brightness of the sun, looked dead and gloomy, as if waiting only for the white wrappings of the snow to sink into the long frozen sleep of winter.

For the first time, Ørlygur felt the approach of winter as something threatening and to be feared. And involuntarily his thoughts turned to the spring that lay beyond. His heart beat fast as he pictured to himself the joy that comes with spring—the joy of seeing green things spring up out of the earth, the poor little blossoms of the rocky hills, the flight of white and many-coloured butterflies, the light nights, and the clear, smooth water of lakes set free from their murky covering of ice. He longed for the spring to come, and longed to share his joy in it with another.

His love for Bagga welled up in him like a spring torrent triumphant over the grip of winter, carrying all before it. It was this feeling which had been slumbering beneath his faint-hearted thoughts, and now it rose and swept all else from his mind.

“Why did I not speak to her yesterday?” he asked himself, in bitter self-reproach. “Why did I not go to her when she stood there weeping by the grave? What madness was it that made me greet her as if she had been a stranger? And she saw it—saw I was changed, and that was why she would not bid me farewell. If only I have not hurt her beyond healing! How can I ever explain—how can I tell her of this mysterious power that has overwhelmed me until now? She would not understand it all—and if I do not tell her all, she will see that I am keeping something back. It may be that I have ruined everything—that she can never love me now. How could I ever dream of carrying on my father’s work? It was an impulse sent from hell, and changeable and weak as I am, I let it take possession of me. I, who am so little able to control myself that I answered with boyish rudeness when the priest spoke to me—he meant well enough, no doubt. I can see myself that I am but a fool—how much more a fool should I appear to others if I were to go out attempting to teach others the way to peace.”

Again his thoughts turned to Bagga. He was filled with a sudden desire to go and see her, now, at once. Yet he did not move. Something seemed to hold him back.

He hated himself for his irresolution and want of firmness. But there was something he felt he must do before he sought her; what it was, he knew not.

His gaze wandered, as if seeking a solution. And suddenly his eyes rested on Borgarfjall.

“That was it!” he said to himself. “I told the priest.... But it was only in jest....”

He stood thinking.

“Perhaps the priest will remind me of it some day. Or tell others—and I shall be looked on as a braggart. I could never bear it. Bagga might try to stop me if I made the attempt, but if she heard I had vowed to do it and drawn back she would never think the same of me again. It would pain her; she would feel ashamed. And that must never be.”

He decided to act at once. He would climb Borgarfjall the next day. And the idea of danger crossed his mind; perhaps he would never see her again.

But the mere possibility of this was unendurable—never to see her again. It was too dreadful to be a possibility at all. No; it could not be but that he would come back safely to her after all.

And the more he thought, the more he felt certain of success. Here at last was something real to grapple with, something material, and he felt more confident in himself. No more fighting in the dark against thoughts and fancies, but a trial of physical strength and endurance.

That it was but a caricature of his former lofty project never once occurred to him—he would hardly have understood it in that light. His nature was one that craved real hardships to encounter; he was not of the stuff to fight with figments of the brain.

He would do it. He would start tomorrow. And, meanwhile, how was he to pass the rest of today?

Suddenly he thought of the doctor. A talk with him would be good medicine to shake off idle fancies. Yes, he would ride over and see the doctor.

And this time he saddled his horse without a trace of hesitation, and rode off to the trading station.

The doctor was in unusually good spirits when Ørlygur arrived.

He had good reason to be pleased with himself; not only had he found a housekeeper in place of the last, who had left him without notice, but he had found the most beautiful girl in the parish to succeed her.

And if ever there was a man who knew how to appreciate good looks in his housekeeper, it was Jon Hallsson, the doctor.

Ørlygur was unaware of the direct cause of his friend’s good humour, and when the doctor invited him to stay and sample the new housekeeper’s cooking, he accepted without ever dreaming—and without asking—who the new housekeeper might be. The doctor was always changing his folk, and Ørlygur was not interested in the subject.

“If you’ve come to try my whisky, why, you couldn’t have chosen a better time,” said the doctor gaily. “I’m just in the humour for a bout today—after dinner, that is.”

Ørlygur shook his head.

“I have given up the whisky idea,” he said, with a laugh. “Not only because I don’t really care for it, but it throws one off one’s balance too easily. No; I have found something else.”

“Oh? And what may that be?”

“Mountaineering.”

The doctor laughed. “I prefer the whisky,” he said. “It elevates the mind without moving the body, and the fall is thus less painful.”

“No need to fall at all,” suggested Ørlygur.

“If you are still thinking of going up Borgarfjall, I should say there’s every chance of it,” returned the other.

“I am,” said Ørlygur. “I am going up tomorrow, to build that cairn.”

The doctor looked at him.

“Surely you are not serious?” he said.

“Indeed, I am,” answered Ørlygur. And with a smile he added: “I want to get up and look about a little—see something of the world.”

“If only you don’t find yourself seeing something of another world—one that your friend the priest seems to know such a lot about.”

In vain the doctor pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the project. Ørlygur was accustomed to mountain-climbing, and was obstinate. He must and would make the ascent.

“Must,” repeated the doctor. “What nonsense!”

“It is simply this—if I don’t do it, I shall have made a fool of myself in the eyes of that priest. I don’t know how you would like that as an alternative.”

“Oh, if that’s the case, I’ve nothing more to say. I’d rather drink off a bottle of sulphuric acid at once than let that fool crow over me.”

“Well, then, that’s enough,” said Ørlygur. “Let’s talk of something else. I came over this evening because I wanted livening up a little.”

“Very nice of you, I’m sure, to credit me with any ability that way. Suppose we try something to eat for a start.”

They went into the dining-room and sat down. A moment later the door from the kitchen was opened, and Snebiorg entered with a soup tureen on a tray. At sight of Ørlygur she stopped, and hesitated. Then she looked down and blushed, but came forward and set down the soup on the table. Ørlygur had risen, but said nothing. All the merriment had vanished from his face, leaving him serious and astonished. The doctor was looking at the girl, and did not perceive the change which had come over his guest.

“My new housekeeper,” he said, still without looking at Ørlygur. “A beauty, isn’t she? And if my nose doesn’t deceive me, she knows how to cook.” And he stroked her arm.

“How dare you touch me!” cried the girl, and, flushing more hotly than before, she left the room.

“Ah, a bit stand-offish, it seems,” said the doctor complacently. “But none the worse for that.” And he turned towards his guest.

He caught but one glimpse of Ørlygur’s furious face; next moment a violent blow under the jaw sent him headlong to the floor.

He rose slowly, staring in profound astonishment, felt himself as if to ascertain what damage had been done, and then appeared perfectly calm once more.

“Good thing I was sitting down,” he said, with a touch of humour. “Not so far to fall, anyway. Handy with your fists, young man, I must say. Well, no reason to let the soup get cold. So you’re taken with her, too—why, so much the better, then we’re agreed. And seeing we’ve no difference of opinion on that head, I can’t see why you find it necessary to knock me down. I’m not a fighting man myself—very nice to watch, of course, when you’re not in it yourself, but otherwise.... Why couldn’t you tell me how matters stood? Your girl, not to be touched, and so on. Much nicer, you know, between friends, than landing out suddenly like that. Anyhow, I don’t mind admitting that the—er—hint was direct enough. Enough for me, at any rate. Peaceable character, you know, and not as young as I used to be. I’m not particularly scrupulous as to rights of property in that sort of goods generally, but seeing it’s you, and we’re friends in a way—no more to be said. And since you’re determined on breaking your neck tomorrow, I daresay you’ll forgive me for hoping you may succeed. If I were in your place, I’d let a dozen priests think and say what they pleased, as long as I kept the girl, rather than go ramping off trying to cut out eagles and all the fowls of the air by clambering up to places never meant to be reached without wings—unless she asked you to, of course. If she asked me, I’d do it ten times over and reckon it cheap at that. I suppose it’s a secret, though, or your respected foster-father would hardly have arranged for his daughter-in-law to come here as housekeeper. Her mother wouldn’t have let her, I know.”

“Snebiorg and I are engaged,” answered Ørlygur calmly. “It is a secret, that is true, known only to ourselves, and now, of course, to you....” Ørlygur was surprised to find himself lying with such ease. “But I hope you will keep it to yourself now you do know.”

“My dear fellow”—the doctor stroked his chin reflectively—“you’ve no call to be anxious—not in the least. I’m not likely to gossip about a thing like that. But, Lord, if you knew how sincerely I hope you may break your neck tomorrow.”

“I shan’t bear you any grudge for that,” answered Ørlygur, in the same light tone. “But I’m very much afraid you’ll be disappointed. I never felt fitter in my life.”

“I’ve no doubt as to your fitness,” answered the doctor, “after the practical illustration you gave me just now. But as to getting up there—as long as there’s no sign of wings sprouting out from your shoulder-blades, I would suggest that you’re a fool to try it, all the same.”

Ørlygur shook his head.

“Well, well, it’s your own affair.”

They had finished dinner, and as they rose from the table, Ørlygur, according to custom, offered his hand to his host. The doctor grasped it heartily.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said, and went out into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

Snebiorg was in the kitchen; she had not appeared in the dining-room after the soup.

“I want to ask your pardon,” he said frankly. “I promise you it shall not occur again. Until this moment I had no idea that you were a friend of Ørlygur À Borg. He is a good friend of mine, and I hope you also will regard me as a friend.”

Snebiorg looked at him at first with some distrust; she had never liked the man. But there was a certain shyness in his manner now, and a kindly tenderness in his eyes, altogether different from his former attitude towards her. And she could not but feel he was sincere.

She made no answer, but he noticed the altered look in her face, and, greatly relieved, he went back to Ørlygur and led him to the sitting-room.

“I’ve been out to beg pardon,” he said, offering a box of cigars. “She’ll be as safe here with me now as with her mother. And if you think it’s only because you knocked me down just now, you’re wrong.”

Ørlygur looked at him doubtfully.

“I know what you’re thinking of,” the doctor went on. “My promise wouldn’t count for much when I’ve been drinking, eh? But there’s just a bit of my heart that the whisky hasn’t altogether spoiled as yet.”

He glanced up at a large picture of his dead wife on the wall. There were other portraits of her about the room. And his eyes were moist.

Ørlygur was moved, and held out his hand.

Then the whisky was brought out, but Ørlygur declined; the doctor poured out a glass for himself. They sat for a while in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.

Ørlygur could not get over his astonishment at meeting Snebiorg in the doctor’s house, and in particular at the news that it was Ormarr who had arranged for her to come. It troubled him, also, that her mother had been willing to let her come at all.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him—here, perhaps, was the solution of it all.

“Trying to make me jealous—that must be it. And not a bad idea. If I had any doubt in my own mind before, this has certainly made an end.”

He glanced at his host, wondering whether he, too, was in the plot. The doctor seemed to perceive that he was being scrutinized.

“Ørlygur,” he said, in a strangely quiet voice, “I wonder what ever made you care about me at all? I’ve had a feeling ever since I’ve known you that you had a sort of liking for me. But, how you ever could, I can’t imagine.”

Ørlygur looked at him a moment, and then glanced away.

“If you want to know,” he said, “it’s not for any one reason in particular, but several. To begin with, you’re alway the same to rich and poor.... Indeed, I’ve heard that you often treat poor people for nothing, and give them medicines into the bargain.”

“That’s nothing,” said the doctor, waving his hand carelessly.

“And, then, you stay in a poor place like this, instead of finding somewhere where you could make a better position.”

“Mere selfishness on my part,” said the doctor. “My wife lived here; it was here I met her—here we lived for the one short year we had together.... Yes, I daresay it may seem almost blasphemous for me to talk like that, seeing what every one knows about my life generally. But it’s true, all the same. That’s why I stay on here.”

Ørlygur sat looking straight before him. “It’s just those trifles—and that one thing you call selfishness that made me like you,” he said softly.

Both were silent. Then the doctor reached out for his glass, and emptied it. And, without appearing to address Ørlygur directly, he went on:

“Sitting here by myself, I often think how queerly fate weaves her threads. Something’s happening every moment—things happening that matter to some one or other. Only, I’m outside it all; just sit here and look on. Like the carcase of a fly that the spider Life has left hung up in a corner of the web.”

He poured out a fresh glass, and laughed.

“Sit here drinking whisky and never move. Never get any farther. I won’t say my life’s been worse than many others in the way of troubles. I may feel so at times, but it’s just weakness on my part. Here I have a comfortable room to sit in, an arm-chair, and something to drink. And there’s many that are out in the cold. Possibly I may be as lonely and unhappy as they. But at least I can live in something like material comfort. I’m not starving, for instance. Altogether, I must be a poor sort of fellow not to be more content than I am, and go steady, instead of sinking deeper and deeper into drink. Sometimes I’ve thought of committing suicide. But when I go over the pros and cons, it seems better to go on living. I don’t expect death to bring me anything better. And I suppose I’m doing a certain amount of good while I’m alive. Though, on the other hand, I do some harm. Heaven knows why—my nature, I suppose.”

He looked up suddenly.

“Getting dark,” he said.

Twilight had fallen; already it was hard to distinguish objects in the room. The two men saw each other’s faces only as pale spots in the dark. The doctor rose to light the lamp.

Ørlygur rose also.

“Don’t trouble. I’m going home now,” he said. “I shall have to be up early tomorrow.”

The doctor followed him out to his horse, that was loose in the enclosure. Ørlygur saddled up, and took his leave; there was a curious, thoughtful expression on his face. A moment after, he dismounted again, and, handing the reins to the doctor, who was waiting to see him ride off, he went into the kitchen, where a light was burning.

He closed the door after him as he entered, and looked into Bagga’s eyes, that were red and swollen with tears.

“How did you come here?” he asked in a low voice.

“I don’t know,” answered Bagga calmly. “Mother said I was to come. And I would not disobey her.”

“I have told the doctor we are engaged,” he said, in the same low tones.

She nodded, as if agreeing it was the natural thing to do.

Then Ørlygur’s heart was filled with an endless joy, and a proud yet gentle smile lit his face. He opened his arms and drew her to him. For a moment they stood there, held close in each other’s arms. Then Ørlygur looked into her eyes and said:

“I am going up to the top of Borgarfjall, to build a cairn there. And then I shall come and fetch you.”

She nodded again, with the same expression of quiet understanding. Then their lips met in a long kiss. Ørlygur felt his head grow dizzy, and it was not till he found himself galloping away on his horse that he recovered.

“If I fail tomorrow,” he thought to himself, “I am a scoundrel. But I must build that cairn.”

And after a while he murmured half aloud, with an air almost of disappointment:

“She didn’t seem in the least impressed—took it as if it were nothing at all.”

Jon Hallsson was standing deep in thought when Ørlygur dashed out of the kitchen, snatched the reins out of his hands, and galloped off without a word or look in farewell.

“He’s in a hurry to go off and break his neck,” he thought, and added: “I wonder he doesn’t give up that mad idea. With a girl like that....”

Then he went indoors, hoping that he might remain undisturbed that night.

When Jon Hallsson had settled down to drink in the evening, he did not like to be called out. But his drinking had never interfered with his work; some people even went so far as to say that they would rather have him slightly drunk than perfectly sober. Strangely enough, despite his weakness in respect of drink and women, he had never lost the respect of those about him. He was a clever doctor, and kind to the poor; he talked straight out, like a man—at times a little too much so. And so people liked him. After all, it was no concern of theirs how he lived or what he made of his life. There was only one man who detested him, and that was the priest. But the latter was not so popular among his flock that he could venture to give vent to his feelings beyond an occasional remark.

Jon Hallsson was from another part of the country, but had held his present post for fifteen years. When he had first come to the place, he had been unmarried, and the district at Hofsfjordur was regarded as merely a stepping-stone to a better. He was looked on by his colleagues as a man who would certainly rise in his profession.

Shortly after his arrival, he had married a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood. She died in childbirth within the year, and the child immediately after.

The blow had crushed him utterly, leaving only a shadow of his former self. He filled the house with pictures of his dead wife, and dwelt on them, clinging to memories as a stricken bird to its nest. But his physical cravings would not be denied. And he was not strong enough to master them. Little by little he gave way, and though at times he realized that he was sinking, he had not power to check himself. Other young men in his profession rose beyond him, while he grew more and more hopeless of ever advancing at all. He was like a pebble in the river of life; once it had come to a stop, the stream flowed over and past it, wearing away every projecting corner that could give a hold, until gradually it became surrounded by other stones, and the way for further progress was blocked and it sank down to insignificance in the lowest of the mass.

Jon Hallsson lit the lamp and sat down to drink. He could hear Snebiorg busy in the dining-room, and in a little while she came in to tell him that his tea was ready.

“Thanks,” he said, and did not move. As she went to the door, he added: “You need not wait to clear away the things. Go to bed when you like. Good-night.”

For a long time he sat in silence. Then, as was his way when he had been drinking for some time, he began talking to himself. It was as if the silence became unendurable.

“Nonni,” he said, using the pet name by which his wife had always called him—“Nonni, my boy, it’s time for bed. Getting late, and the lamp will want filling soon. And you don’t like sitting in the dark, do you? And the oil’s down in the cellar, and you’d go headlong to the bottom if you tried them. Much as you can do to stand on your legs now. But there’s a candle....”

He emptied his glass and filled it again.

“My friend, you drink like a fish. Drink a lot too much. No earthly need for that last glass. Too much whisky ’s a bad thing anyway. And there’s no need to empty the bottle each time. There’s a deal left now, but if I’m not mistaken you’ll finish it before you turn in tonight. And then, my boy, you will be drunk. And do all sorts of mad things. But kindly remember—the door where that girl sleeps is not to be touched. Not even touch the handle. No.”

He rose with difficulty and took down a large photograph of his wife.

“Best to do it now,” he said. “While you’ve some sense left. There’s a hammer in the surgery.”

He stumbled out of the room, and nailed up the picture of his wife on the door at the foot of the stairs that led to Snebiorg’s room.

“Ragna,” he said, “keep guard over that door for me, will you? You know what I am when I’ve had too much. Do all sorts of mad things. But mustn’t go up there. Not up there—no. You guard the door, Ragna. Yes.”

Then he stumbled back to his arm-chair and his glass.

“There you are, my boy; now you can carry on for a bit. Couldn’t get to sleep now anyhow. Not eleven yet. And there’s lots of things to think of yet.”

He took a long drink and laughed.

“Fount of youth—serves up the same old thoughts as if they were new. Night after night—chewing the cud of old thoughts. Nonni, my boy, you’re a ruminating animal. Sad, isn’t it? Well, what does it matter? Heaps of people do the same. Chew the cud of their sorrows and joys, and their trifles, and their love—yes, ha ha, love, of course. Nice word for something else.... There, now you’re being a beast. And if you are, you needn’t make out all the world’s the same. You knew something about love yourself, once... blubbering, Nonni—whisky going to your eyes, what? Dry up, do; it won’t make things any better. Can’t stand one bottle—you’re getting out of form. Well, well, here’s the last glass for tonight. Not too much soda this time—stiff one to make you sleep. Only think, if one could drop off to sleep and out of it all. Well, well, that’ll come too before long, never fear. Nuisance that you can’t take a light with you when you go. Nasty to wake up in the dark when you’re dead. What nonsense—you don’t wake up when you’re dead.... Anyhow, it’s nothing to be afraid of, Nonni, my boy. Well, off we go—walk steady, now. Those stairs... but we weren’t going up those stairs.... And why not, I should like to know? Fine girl there waiting... and the other young fool, he’ll break his neck... finest girl I’ve set eyes on for many a long day.”

He staggered from the room, and out to the staircase door, where his wife’s picture hung.

“What the—good Lord, it’s Ragna! I’m sorry, Ragna—first time you’ve.... Oh, I remember now. Well, well, there’s no going that way. No, I shouldn’t have... no.... Good-night, Ragna.”

He turned towards his own room next to the surgery. “That’s right, Nonni, boy—that’s the way. Leave the girl alone. Heart? Never mind your heart—nothing to do with the heart really, you know. Not that sort of thing.... This way, boy. That’s right.”

He went into his own room, and stumbled into bed. For a long time he lay awake, muttering to himself. At last, when the candle had burnt down and the room was in darkness, he gradually lapsed into sleep.

It was still dark next morning when Ørlygur rose, dressed, and silently stole out from the house. He took with him a thirty-foot rope that he had procured the day before, and some food. Then, taking the well-known path up to the mountains, he set off through the darkness.

His dog went with him.

Ørlygur was perfectly calm, without a thought for the perilous nature of his undertaking. He was thinking that he would first have to reach the highest ledge, and get a proper view of the peak, before he could see how to manage the rest.

All he had to do for the present was to husband his strength both physically and mentally, so as to have plenty in reserve for the final and most difficult part. He was a good walker; if only he kept his wind and did not strain himself, he would be fit enough after a short rest for the last climb to the summit.

He walked on steadily, and by daybreak he had reached the third ridge. He told himself that he had been going quite slowly; a child could have walked as far in the time. He could safely try a little faster now, and get as far as possible in the cool of the morning. Without hastening his step, he lengthened his stride a little. As he ascended, the ridges came closer and closer in succession, and he had reached the seventh when he felt the first rays of the sun. For a moment he rested, watching the sunrise. Only three more ridges now, and he would be at the base of the peak.

He glanced at the village below. Here and there he could distinguish people afoot; tiny figures they seemed, viewed from where he stood. The valley was still in shadow, and all its colours, except that of the ruddy heather, seemed dull and vague. Even the surface of the water was grey, in places almost leaden in hue.

He waited only a little while and then resumed his steady climb. At length the stone buttress of the peak rose directly before him, standing up sheer in places, at others with a slight slope.

He walked along the foot. It was no easy ascent, that was clear. The vertical rifts in the massive rock offered no pathway up, and the horizontal clefts and ledges were far apart, with a distance of some ten to twenty feet between.

After some time spent in examining the face of the rock he was still as far as ever from perceiving any practicable way. He came to a standstill, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the rock before him.

“Anyhow, it has to be done,” he muttered.

And, pulling himself together, he shook off the feeling of despair that was threatening. He found a sunny spot where there was a clear trickle of water, and lay down in the heather.

“First something to eat, then a rest, and then another look round,” he thought to himself. “I can surely find a way up there somehow.” And, taking out the food he had brought with him, he began to eat.

He was perfectly calm. They would not be anxious about him at home, even if he were not back till late at night. He had stated beforehand that he believed some sheep had strayed far up on to the topmost plateau, and must look for them; all knew that it would be a lengthy business to get a couple of obstinate sheep down from the top of the mountain, so they would not expect him back early.

He ate his food without haste, and then lay resting for half an hour, thinking of anything but the business in hand. Then, perceiving that he was beginning to feel drowsy, he sprang up resolutely and walked briskly round the face of the rock.

“You and I have a little matter to settle between us,” he said gaily, nodding up at the wall of stone.

He found he could walk round on three sides; the fourth, that towards the northward, was too steep, and the loose sand there rendered it still more difficult to find any foothold. To try there would mean going down rather than up. The rock here sloped down from the top of the peak to about half-way down the side; Ørlygur had thought of coming down that way, but he realized that in places the angle was too abrupt; he would inevitably lose his footing and go crashing down. It was this which had led him to take a rope, thinking it might be of some assistance here. Twice he walked round the three sides of the rock. But there was no cleft anywhere that went right to the top. Already he felt his courage failing, and, fearing to lose it altogether, he boldly commenced climbing up the cleft which seemed to lead farthest up.

Before starting, however, he coiled the rope round him so as to be easily got at if required. Then he began scrambling up the narrow cleft. It was a difficult path, at times the cleft seemed to vanish altogether; in other places it widened out so that it was impossible to keep his footing on both sides at once.

The dog, finding it could no longer follow, began howling pitifully. Ørlygur scolded the animal impatiently, but only succeeded in making matters worse; the dog ran backwards and forwards along the base, trying to find some way up. But all its efforts were in vain, and at last it returned to the bottom of the cleft up which Ørlygur had started, and lay there, nose in air, and howling miserably, only desisting now and again to look up at its master with sorrowful eyes.

Ørlygur made but slow progress in the ascent. Still, it was better than he had thought. But more than once, after passing some particularly awkward spot, he reflected that he would never be able to get down without the aid of the rope.

He was unwilling to think of what he would do if the cleft now suddenly came to an end; the thought occurred to him constantly, but he thrust it aside, and went on steadily. But he knew it could not be for long.

Where the cleft was more than usually narrow, he set his back against one side, and hands and feet against the other, carefully hoisting himself up and making sure of his hold with one foot and hand before moving the other. Where it was wider, or almost disappeared, he clung tightly to the side, testing the rocky points that jutted out before trusting his weight to them. At times he had but just time to get a grip with his hands, when his foothold gave way. Then, clinging tightly with his fingers, he had to feel about with his feet for a rest before shifting his grip. Inch by inch, by the exercise of all his strength and all his will, he climbed on, until at last he reached a ledge that allowed him a much-needed rest. He looked down at the way he had come, but the sight made him dizzy, and he hastily averted his eyes. It seemed incredible that he should have come up there; from where he was, the rock seemed to fall away inwards beneath him. He determined not to look back again; he felt that if he did so he would never reach the top. He turned instead to a scrutiny of the way before him.

A cold sweat broke out on him as he realized that the cleft he had been climbing ran but some ten or twelve feet more, making perhaps a sixth part of the height.

But the ledge, he remembered, continued to the left, in a series of jutting crags, until it reached another vertical cleft running right to the top. One thing was clear: it would be impossible to pass along the ledge with the rope coiled round his body; the path was far too narrow, and if the rope should catch on any projecting point he would be thrown off his balance.

Another thing was borne in upon him now—that to think overmuch about the task before him was more dangerous than all else. Without more ado, he loosened the rope and let one end fall, fastening the other carefully to the rock on which he was seated.

Where it was possible to get along the ledge, it would surely be possible to come back the same way, he thought. It was only in the actual descent that the difficulties were greater. And if he came to any point that was absolutely impassable, he could always give it up and return—“Perhaps,” he added, with emphasis.

Little by little he made his way along the ledge, depending at times upon the grip of his hands alone, with his body entirely unsupported. First a firm grip with the one hand and then a careful search with the other for a fresh hold. All his thoughts were concentrated upon his hands and their hold. When at length he had reached the flat rock that he had been making for, he found himself exhausted for the moment. He closed his eyes, and allowed his whole body to relax for a brief respite.

It gave him some relief; when he opened his eyes again, he felt as if he had slept. Once more he recommenced his perilous way, creeping carefully and with every nerve strained, to the next projecting rock. This brought him to the commencement of the upward cleft he had in mind. The first part was an easy slope, and could be managed well enough; higher up, however, it grew steeper. Ørlygur realized that, even if he succeeded in getting up, it would be almost impossible to get down again. For a moment he considered whether it would not be better after all to go back for the rope, but he gave up the idea at once. The passage along the ledge was one he felt he had not strength now to repeat. And with the rope round his body it would mean almost certain disaster to attempt it. Losing no time in further reflection, he started up the cleft.

At first all went well. Then came a stretch of smooth rock rising straight up on either side. The slightest false move here would be fatal, and there were some ten or twelve feet of it to be covered. How he managed it, he never quite knew, and from this point onwards he moved unconsciously, knowing nothing of his own progress until he found himself lying, exhausted and breathless, at the summit. His clothes were torn, his hands bleeding and bruised, and there was a cut on one knee. The keen mountain air refreshed him, and he lay quietly drinking it in before rising to his feet. He remembered now how he had been on the point of slipping at that last stretch of smooth rock, and, nerved by fear, had made a superhuman effort. It had been muscle acting without brain, for his mind had been a blank at the time. But it was done now. After that terrible moment, the last part of the way had been easier, and he had not stopped to think.

After resting for a little, he went to the edge and peered over. Now that he was here, he felt no sensation of dizziness as when he had looked down before. But it was evident beyond doubt that it would be certain death to attempt to descend by the way he had come.

Still, here he was. And down he must get somehow.

He was terribly thirsty, and looked around for water. After some searching he found a tiny spring, clear and cold as ice. A little moss grew round about it, in beautifully varying shades of green. He lay down and drank, rested and drank again, till his thirst was quenched and he felt himself refreshed. Then he rose.

“And now for that monument!” he cried gaily.

He had only his bare hands to work with, and they were bruised and sore, but there was no lack of material at hand; rocks of all sorts and sizes lay strewn about. He chose, first of all, a big flat stone as a foundation, looking first to see that its position was such as to render the cairn visible from the valley below, and set to work building up carefully with suitable pieces. After a couple of hours’ work, the thing was done—a compact pile of stone, tapering from a broad base evenly towards the top. On this he placed a large flat stone spreading out like the brim of a hat, and above it a smaller one again.

When the work was finished, he patted the stone with his hand, and laughed.

“There you are,” he said. “Now, see and stay there as long as you can, for I doubt if any one will come to set you up again if you fall.”

Then, putting on his jacket, which he had laid aside for the work, he commenced to walk round the little platform which formed the summit of the peak. On three sides the rock fell away sheer; on the fourth was a steep slope of loose sand mixed with a soft kind of rock. Here and there were hard projections of lava and stone. To miss one’s foothold there would mean rolling down, with the first stop some eight hundred feet below. And, likely as not, the rolling would develop into a series of bouncing leaps, breaking every bone in one’s body.

Ørlygur noted half-absently that it was no use trying to get down on this side. Then he sat down and gazed out over the valley below. The land merged into the horizon on all sides save the north-east, where the sea showed a leaden-grey surface, broken in places by white-topped breakers. To the south were snow-capped hills, that seemed more like part of the sky than earth, their glittering surface seeming out of keeping with the dark hues of the lower land. A bank of fog came gliding in from the sea, clear of the bottom of the valley and not touching the mountain heights, making a weird effect. Ørlygur found himself suddenly looking down from clear air into a sea of fog two hundred feet below, that hid the valley from view. He looked down the mountain-side. It seemed far less formidable now that the fog obscured the greater part. And he rose with a sudden impulse to try the descent now while it was less dangerous.

“How stupid,” he said to himself a moment later. “Of course, it is dangerous as ever. Still, I must try it. No use trying to go down the way I came up; it would be no better than jumping off the edge. The sandy slope on the other side is my only chance; I must try to get off it as soon as I can find a ledge, and take my chance of slipping before I strike one.”

He took off his shoes and stockings, and removed his coat. At first he thought of throwing them over on the side where he had come up, but on second thoughts he refrained. To look over there now might make him nervous. He left his things lying where they were.

“The stones will be rough, with bare feet,” he reflected. “But if I get back safely....”

Carefully he surveyed the slope, and marked out his path. Then, lying flat down, he thrust his feet over the edge. For a fraction of a second he paused, and then the struggle commenced. To seek for secure foothold was hopeless; the only thing was to make the most of such resistance as the stones offered, and prevent himself from going down too fast. His eyes could only see where to place his hand; his feet must be left to feel their way. Every movement had to be made swiftly, and yet with the utmost care, and, above all, without losing coolness and self-control.

The actual distance to the first ledge was not great; it was not more than five minutes from starting when he glanced to the side and found himself level with it. But it seemed like ages. A little below him, and slightly to one side, a point of lava jutted out. Possibly it might be loose and give way at a touch; anyhow, it was all that offered, and there was no time to waste. Already he could fancy himself gliding past the ledge, and then....

Before he could recall his mind from this dangerous channel, his body had done all that was needed; he found himself grasping what proved to be the point of a large rock. Feeling it would hold, he drew himself up and threw one arm round it. This steadied him, and gave him a chance to rest. A few feet to one side was the ledge and safety. But to reach it across the few intervening feet of loose ground seemed an impossibility. If he slipped but an inch or two beyond, it would be hopeless to try and work up again; he would go sliding down with but little chance of stopping himself.

Just then he heard his dog barking, but paid little heed.

No, there was nothing for it now but to make the attempt. But there seemed little hope of success.

The danger in no way unnerved him; on the contrary, the confronting of actual difficulty seemed to allure him. He would try—and then....

He closed his eyes and offered up a prayer. It was the first time he had done so throughout the undertaking. But the imminent peril of death compelled him, and his lips stammered out the old words. It was the age-old acknowledgment of the powers above—a tribute to darkness and the unknown. He uttered the words earnestly, but it was none the less something of a formality. He was prepared to die; it was only to loosen the last tie that bound him....

Before his prayer was ended, he was recalled to the present in startling wise.

“Hullo, there you are! Hung up nicely, by the look of you.”

Ørlygur opened his eyes in astonishment. Jon Hallsson was there, on the ledge, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a bag in his hand. The sweat poured down his face, which was flushed with unwonted exertion; he was so exhausted that he could hardly speak.

“Looks as though the best thing I can do’s to go down again, and wait for you at the bottom of your beastly mountain. Though I’m not likely to be much use to you when you get there. Wish you were safely over here, don’t you? Well, so do I, but how to get you there’s another thing.”

“You’ve come in the nick of time,” cried Ørlygur merrily. All thought of death or danger seemed to have vanished. “But how did you find your way up?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on the place—ever since this morning, watching through a telescope. First time I spied something moving on the top, I thought it must be an eagle. I hoped all along you’d have more sense. But when I saw the eagle building castles—sacrificial altars—on the topmost heights of pig-headed obstinacy, I took it that by some miracle or other you’d got here after all. So I packed up some tools and bandages and things, and came out to deal with a fine crop of fractures. But there’s neither god nor devil would persuade me to come crawling out to where you are now.”

“Don’t want you to, I’m sure. Does any one know you’ve come up here at all?”

“No sense in telling them that I could see. At least, not till I’d made sure whether you were mincemeat or not.”

“Have you a knife with you?”

“Sir—you insult me. Didn’t I tell you I’d come out here prepared for operations generally?”

“Well, I wish you’d content yourself meantime with amputating an end of that rope I left hanging down near where the dog is. About twenty feet. Then, if you’ll make one end fast where you are, and throw me the other, you’ll have me safe and sound on the ledge beside you in a moment. Not that I’m in any hurry to get away from here, really—it’s quite a comfortable place to rest a bit. But I’ve just discovered that I’m desperately hungry, and there’s still some food left in my bag.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” retorted the doctor. “Rope, you say? I can’t get it without climbing up that silly place, and I’m not an acrobat.”

“Well, then, slip down to Borg and fetch another.”

“Slip, indeed—very kind of you,” snapped the doctor. And, followed by a merry laugh from Ørlygur, he turned back towards the cleft where the rope had been left, muttering curses on all foolhardy boys and this present escapade in particular.

A little later he returned with the rope in his hand. He seemed even more angry than when he had started.

“Risking my neck for your mad pranks,” he grumbled. “I had to scramble up the rocks to cut it high enough—I hope you may hang yourself with it some day. Nearly got hung up myself. And came down with a run, and gave myself a most abominable bump at the end of it.”

He did not say where he was hurt, but when he fancied Ørlygur was not looking he rubbed himself tenderly behind.

It was but a moment’s work to make the rope fast, throw out one end to Ørlygur, and draw him slowly in on to the ledge.

“There! And now, where’s the damage?” asked the doctor impatiently, by way of welcome.

“No damage up to now, thanks. But if you feel put out about it, I’ll let you take off one leg at the knee for your trouble.”

They made their way back to the rock where Ørlygur had left his bag. The dog had not moved from the spot, and at sight of its master sprang towards him, greeting him with delight, and continued gambolling around, evidently overjoyed at finding him again.

While Ørlygur was eating, the doctor stared up at the rock and the rest of the rope hanging from the rock above. After a time he asked:

“The cleft seems to end there. I suppose you just flew the rest of the way?”

Ørlygur explained how he had made his way round the ledge. “It’s easy enough,” he declared. “You could drive a caravan round.”

“But why on earth did you leave the rope behind?”

“Oh, I thought it would be more fun to get along hanging by my arms, with the rest of me in mid-air. Neater, you understand.”

“I see. You’re pleased to make a jest of your own infernal wickedness—for it’s wicked, nothing less, to play the fool with life and death like that.”

But Ørlygur only laughed and went on with his meal. The doctor continued his study of the rock, as if imagining himself making the ascent, and shuddered. Then, abandoning his ill-humoured tone, he turned to Ørlygur with tears in his eyes.

“Oh, you young fool!” he said. “Can nothing content you but roads that were meant for the eagles?”

“I’m going another road tomorrow,” said Ørlygur, with a laugh.

The doctor looked at him doubtfully.

“Well, don’t count on me this time,” he said. “I’ll not go dangling at your heels with an ambulance train every time you’ve a fancy to risk your neck.”

“There’s not much risk this time—not in that way, at least. I’m only going over to the station to carry off your housekeeper.”

“And that’s what I get for my pains—not to speak of subsequent complications,” grunted the doctor. It was cool up there in his shirt-sleeves, and a recent bump made it uncomfortable for him to sit down. But there was a note of relief in his voice as he spoke.

As soon as Ørlygur had finished eating, they started on their way down. It was sunshine the first part of the way, but a little farther down they found themselves enveloped in a bank of clammy fog. At a distance, Ørlygur’s dog was magnified to the size of a calf, and well-known rocks became distorted and unrecognizable. Nevertheless, they found no difficulty in making their way down. The path was always just visible, and Ørlygur knew the track so well that he could have followed it blindfold. As they went on, the fog became thicker; the doctor’s horse was nowhere to be seen. They searched for some time without success; they could hardly see an arm’s length ahead. The saddle had been left beside the track, and this they discovered, but the horse was gone.

“We’ve always some horses in the paddock at home at this time of year,” said Ørlygur. “You can take one of ours. I’ll find yours tomorrow.”

On arriving at Borg, Ørlygur at once caught one of the horses wandering loose, and put on the doctor’s saddle.

“You’ll come indoors and have a cup of coffee before you go on?” he said to the doctor.

“Thanks, I won’t say no. And perhaps a drop of something stronger wouldn’t be amiss. But catch a couple more horses while you’re about it.”

“What for?”

The doctor turned his head away, and answered a trifle sadly:

“No need to put off that business you were speaking of till tomorrow, is there?”

Ørlygur looked at him without a word.

“Besides, you’d be company for me on the way home. I don’t feel like wandering about alone in this fog.”

Ørlygur set off at once after two more horses, and tied up the three in readiness. Then the two men went indoors, and Ørlygur ordered coffee.

After a while Ormarr came in.

“What brings you here, doctor?” he asked.

Jon Hallsson made no reply, but glanced at Ørlygur. Ormarr followed his glance.

“And where have you been, Ørlygur?” he asked, noticing the boy’s hands and clothing.

“I’d better go and change, I think,” said Ørlygur awkwardly—“I’ve been up Borgarfjall,” he added. “Up to the top.” And he rose to his feet.

Ormarr looked from one to the other in astonishment.

“Up Borgarfjall! And you, too, doctor?”

“No,” answered the doctor, with emphasis. “No climbing to the top of Borgarfjall for me, thank you.”

Ormarr turned to Ørlygur with a questioning look.

“What were you doing up there?”

“I thought a sort of monument would look nice on top.”

“Sort of monument!...” Ormarr shook his head. “But the top—the peak—it’s more than any man could do to get there!”

“Exactly,” said Ørlygur.

Ormarr and the doctor burst out laughing, in which Ørlygur joined. Then hurriedly he made his escape.

When he had left the room, Ormarr turned to the doctor.

“What does it all mean?” he asked.

“My dear Ormarr Ørlygsson, don’t ask me. I have to thank you, by the way, for finding me a most excellent housekeeper.”

“Oh,” answered Ormarr, somewhat at a loss, “I just happened to know....”

“You just happened to know my little weakness,” put in the doctor angrily.

Both men were silent for a moment. Then the doctor burst out laughing.

“Never been so done in all my life,” he said in an injured tone.

“I’m very sorry,” said Ormarr. “But it was the only way I could see to....”

“Oh, never mind. Most happy to reciprocate, if needed, and all that. But where am I to get another now?”

Ormarr’s face lit up with a sudden gleam of pleasure. He was about to speak, when the doctor interrupted him.

“Yes, she is,” he said sharply. “It’s all settled. I’ve played my little part. And Ørlygur’s going off now to fetch her.”

Ormarr rose, laughing, and held out his hand.

“My dear doctor, let me congratulate you.”

“Me!” snapped the other.

“Yes, you. A most rapid and satisfactory cure. If I can help you to find another housekeeper....”

“Thank you, I won’t trouble you.”

The doctor grasped Ormarr’s hand cordially. “I’m just as pleased with the result as you can be, really,” he said, with frank sincerity. “Ørlygur and I are rather friends, you know. But he is a headstrong young fool, all the same. You ought to go and look at that place where he went up.”

“Then you were with him?”

“Not at the time—no. But from something he let fall last night, and seeing something moving up there today, I had an idea, and went up to see what he was doing.”

“What’s all this about a monument?”

“I don’t know. But I fancy he wanted to relieve his feelings in some way—by doing something out of the ordinary, you understand.”

Ormarr seemed to be thinking hard. Then he looked up.

“What makes you think so?” he asked.

“It’s only an idea of mine. He is young, and full of energy.... But, of course, I may be wrong.”

“I fancy you are right,” said Ormarr. “More so, perhaps, than you imagine.”

There was a pause. Ormarr was the first to speak.

“Look here,” he said. “Let Ørlygur ride over now and fetch the girl, and you stay here for tonight. We have not seen much of each other up to now, but you have been a good friend to my son—my foster-son, that is. There are several things we two old fellows could find to talk about. Besides, you must be tired.”

The doctor accepted the invitation, and when Ørlygur was ready to start, Ormarr went up to him.

“You will bring her home here, of course. But I think you ought to go round by Bolli, and bring her mother as well.”

Ørlygur answered with a grateful glance and a nod. And no more was said.

Ormarr Ørlygsson and Jon Hallsson sat long talking together. Each sat by a window, watching the little streams of moisture that trickled down the panes.

The doctor seemed weary and in low spirits.

“I’m tired of life myself,” he said. “Have been for years now. And yet I potter about trying to keep others alive, when I daresay they’re just as tired of it as I am. Doesn’t seem much sense in it anyway.”

Ormarr shook his head.

“Life is a precious thing,” he said. “And often we don’t realize it until it is too late. Then we fall to musing dismally about it, instead of using our experience for the good of others—for those who are to come after us. We say to ourselves: I have suffered; so will they. Well, why not? Let them look after themselves. But why have we suffered? Because we are narrow-minded and ungrateful. Surely we have known some glorious moments; how can we complain of life after? Life is a round of ceaseless change, day and night, sunshine and rain; we ourselves pass from the unknown to the unknown again... and that is why a moment of harmony we call happiness is a wondrous thing—a thing that can never be paid for throughout all eternity.”

“You may be right,” said the doctor. “I feel myself an ungrateful creature at this moment.”

“I have only felt that harmony myself at moments when I was able to forget myself entirely in my music,” Ormarr went on. “And then it was really only a complete forgetfulness of all that was passing around me. How much greater must be the happiness of those who meet in harmony; two human beings sharing happiness! For them it is the rising of a sun that nothing can darken but the grave.”

The doctor bowed his head.

“And then?” he said. “When the grave had taken one of them?”

“Would you wish you had never known the happiness that has given you the greatest sorrow of your life?”

The doctor shook his head. “No! Not if it cost me all eternity in torture.”

“Have you ever thought of it before?”

“No,” said the doctor. “But I see what you mean. And you are right. It simply comes to this: that we should be grateful for life—grateful and happy for having been allowed to live.”

Ormarr nodded. “Happy and grateful—yes. And humble, too.”

Ørlygur and Bagga rode quietly through the mist over the hills from the station to Bolli. There was no need for haste. They rode side by side, keeping close together, holding each other’s hands in a clasp that seemed as if it were never to end.

They spoke but little. Each felt, in absence, that there was so much to say. But, on the surface, they were yet as strangers to each other in this, that it was not easy to speak of little trivial things. There was so much that they had not yet known; and their minds were full of a silent, happy longing and anticipation.

Yet they rode there together in the mist, as if it were but natural that they should—as if they already belonged to each other—were already one heart and one soul.

The mist that wrapped them seemed a light and kindly thing.

They did not think how life had played with them but a few hours back, like pawns in a game, or how the mist of the present hour was but a pause while life determined what the next move should be. They rode side by side, holding each other’s hand. And neither felt the vaguest glimmer of doubt as to the other’s will—the other’s love. Both felt that nothing in life could part them now. And the thought of death was far away.

They rode together over the hills, two grey figures in the mist. But there was sunshine in their souls.