  THE SWORN The A TALE OF THE EARLY DAYS OF ICELAND TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH OF GUNNAR GUNNARSSON By C. FIELD AND W. EMMÉ NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS
I In the red light of the fire in the midst of the hall, the age-browned pillars of the high-seat stood forth strongly lit in the middle of the main wall, against the background of smoky darkness which spread behind. The bright glow threw into relief the carved images of the gods, weird and grotesque shapes which kept changing as the fire blazed up or sank in its embers. Upon the broad seat between the pillars of the high-seat, with the dragon-ornaments and gaping beast-heads of its back towering above and behind, sat Orn, a broad, grey-haired warrior, leaning forward over the table, his strong, coarse fingers buried in his thick, white beard. Upon the table at his side stood a great carved drinking horn. Orn sat in silence. It was seldom that he drank much in the evening. One step below, and opposite him, on the other side of the fire, was the table round which his men-servants sat. Only now and then a low-voiced exchange of words between man and man broke the silence of the hall. Otherwise there reigned an oppressive stillness. Often they glanced towards him, but each time looked uneasily at one another afterwards. For he sat very still, with a fixed, absent look in his eyes. A shiver passed through them as they thought that perhaps he saw something which they could not see. It was not comfortable in the hall that evening. All the more swift was the circulation of the beer-mugs. But they were not set down on the tables with a bang, as was the rule when they were empty, but cautiously placed on one side. On a dais at the end of the hall, farthest removed from the entrance door, sat women at work, spinning and carding wool in silence. For once silence prevailed on the women's dais. Only a faint rustle was heard now and then when one of them rose to help another or to fetch more wool. The only one who did not feel depressed by the silence in the hall was a fourteen-year-old boy, seated at the table right opposite the high-seat on the other side of the fire. He was content to make holiday by sitting quietly with his thoughts, and felt easy and unoccupied in mind. He sat quite still, letting his gaze linger alternately on his father and the pillars of the seat. He had little resemblance to the stalwart figures round him. His skin was as clear as a young girl's, and his long, bright yellow hair fell in heavy locks over his neck. On his face, with its regular features, there lay an expression of peculiar calm. The mouth under his straight nose appeared firm and composed. The look of his blue eyes was tranquil and fixed. It was Ingolf, Orn's son. He often sat thus, especially of an evening. His attention was particularly taken up by the pillars of the high-seat. They seemed so strangely alive in the red light of the evening fire. By day they were quite dead. It seemed as if the breath of the gods had crept into the hard, dry wood. Perhaps the gods slept by day, or had they possibly flown on adventures to other countries and lands? The gods had tiresome habits, for all that they were gods; one never knew exactly where to find them. Anyhow, the pillars stood by day as though they were empty. But in the evening they came to life again. Either the gods returned, or breath issued at any rate from the inner part of the wood and seemed to wander over the surface. Already in the gloaming, when shadows were gathering in the deep carving, they began to live. But it was a strange, deceitful, and threatening life, as though the gods were ill-humoured on first awakening, as men are sometimes in the early morning hours. Ingolf did not like to stay alone in the hall in the evening before the fire was lit. He had a certain consciousness of the gods' discontent in the twilight, and felt by no means sure that they might not cherish some evil purpose. And when the gods were wroth or morose it was best to keep at a respectful distance. But as soon as the fire was kindled on the hearthstones, it became bright and comfortable in the hall. The fire sputtered with a cheerful crackling which seemed as though it were chatting pleasantly with the gods; it blazed up and cast its bright light over them, and diffused a kindly penetrating warmth. Then the gods recovered their good-humour; they smiled openly, and their eyes grew somewhat more friendly. Then one ventured to look at them calmly and to sit near them. Ingolf liked to sit quietly and look at the images carved on the pillars. Certainly those in the temple were far more splendid, decked as they were with costly clothes and heavy rings of gold and other valuable metals. But the gods in the temple were those to whom they prayed at solemn festivals and offered sacrifices. It required enormous daring to approach them, for one hardly ever saw them, and knew them but little. Although they were the same gods, they seemed strangely distant in the sanctity of the temple. The gods on the pillars of the high-seat, on the other hand, were house-gods. He had grown up in their company, he had seen them in daily intercourse, as far back as he could remember. He had long been confidential with them; they were his and the family's friends. They were quiet and peaceful and made no demands. Maybe they had fits of ill-temper in the evenings. But for the most part they were almost like men, saving, of course, that as gods they were naturally higher than men. But one ventured—it was indeed a duty—to count them as friends, as belonging in some degree to the family. One could safely rely upon them, and that led to everyday familiar intercourse with them. They constituted, besides, so to speak, the axis of the home. They were the immovable real centre round which all things revolved. They were the persisting element. They were the visible sign of the family and of the family's continuance. They had become dark brown in the course of time, nay, almost black, and hard as stones from age. Ingolf knew well how they felt. He had once, after a long inward struggle, ventured to touch them. And it was not strange that old age could be both felt and seen in them. For no one knew how old they were, or whether indeed they had any age at all. Whether they were of the race of gods or men was therefore doubtful. From time immemorial they had belonged to the family. They had passed by inheritance from father to eldest son since as far back as there was any tradition, probably from the earliest dawn of time. The pillar on the right of the throne represented Odin, the All-Father, the old, one-eyed, and wise. His ravens, Hugin and Mugin, sat on his shoulders and whispered wisdom and knowledge to him. The ravens told him everything, past and future. So wise was Odin that nothing found him unprepared. Odin was the Head of the Gods, consequently the most important to have as a friend. The place on the right side of the high-seat belonged justly to him. The pillar on the left side represented Thor, the Wielder of the Hammer, the slayer of giants, the one whose goats amid thunder-claps kicked fire from heaven when he drove to battle with the giants. Proudly stood Age-Thor, with his legs planted wide apart, his arm lifted up to smite, and in the bent fingers of his mighty hand he gripped the hammer, Mjolner. And there in the chief seat, on whose brown, worn plank only the cushions and the sitters changed, sat his father. Ay, there he sat, cheerful and comfortable between his gods. Every evening he sat there, when he was not out journeying or visiting, with his men sitting at tables round him, a step lower down. He sat calmly, stroking with weather-tanned fingers his thick, white beard, talked wisely, or was silent. There he sat at the feast with the chief guest by his side. And when it chanced that he raised his voice, his ringing tones filled the hall, and an attentive silence prevailed as far as the outer-most seats. Though his father, Orn, did not often talk in a loud voice, yet when he did, what he said was weighty. He seemed then to Ingolf to have a certain resemblance to Thor, especially when he raised his powerful clenched fists over his shaggy head. Otherwise, when he sat silent and meditated, he reminded him most of Odin, except that he had two eyes. In the chief seat his father was at home. There he sat, friendly and comfortable in the place of his ancestors. There had sat his grandfather, Bjornulf, who together with his brother, Roald, had been obliged to quit the old family estate in Telemarken on account of having slain a man. And there had sat also before him, his father, Romund Greippson. All high-spirited, strong men, whose names were remembered with reverence. And some day he himself would sit there. And after him again his son, and his son's son. Generation after generation, family after family, till the earth vanished. Whenever he thought of the time when his father would be no more, and he himself should assume the place between the throne-pillars, his cheeks flamed, and a strange, anxious shudder robbed him of strength and will-power. It was this knowledge that he would have to assume a responsibility, and one which he had long ago sworn to sustain with honour, and which he waited to assume with a mixture of joy and suspense, that had impressed on his countenance a composure and on his whole nature and bearing an air of assurance far beyond his years. Even before his bones had fairly hardened, he had had impressed on him by his mother, whom he now only indistinctly remembered, who he was and what he should become. With his mother's milk he had imbibed the unbroken traditions of the family. Before he understood what was really involved, he had learnt to understand that his life was only partly his own. Already, for a long time past, it had become clear to him, that not only his own, but the honour of the dead and the unborn was committed to his hand. For a man without honour cast shadows on two sides. Both his ancestors and his descendants had a peremptory claim on him—the claim of honour. And he had no intention of disappointing either himself, the dead, or the unborn. Just then it was very quiet in the hall. The confidential crackling of the fire was the only sound audible. Then suddenly came the sound of tramping steps without. Orn raised his head and was again wide awake. All sat still and listened. There was a knock at the door. Orn made a sign to the porter, who pushed back the bolt, and in came Rodmar, Orn's kinsman, followed by his son, Leif, and some servants. The peace and quiet of the hall was suddenly interrupted. Orn rose with a dignified air. Stately of mien, he left the high-seat and went to meet his relative. His ceremonious "Welcome, cousin," sounded cheerful and hearty. Ingolf sprang up and ran round behind the seats to meet Leif. He greeted his relative, who was his junior by two years, with a kiss and very sincere friendliness. Orn laid both his hands heavily on Rodmar's shoulders. "I was sure you would come, cousin." "Such important news should be looked into," answered Rodmar seriously. "We have had prosperous though chequered years. What will happen now?" "The good times are passed," answered Orn gloomily. "I guess what will happen. Follow me to the high-seat, cousin." Orn seated Rodmar at his side, and called for fresh beer. They drank to each other with deep draughts. When Rodmar had sucked his beard dry, he turned to his kinsman, who was a little older than himself, and asked: "Do you think there will be trouble in the country?" "Trouble there will be," answered Orn, speaking slowly and solemnly. "After peace and prosperous years follow hard times. We have had the good times; now we shall have to face the bad. Only it may be that the struggle will not reach these parts. We are getting old, Rodmar. Our swords are rusty, our arms stiff. And our sons are at the worst age possible—old enough to entangle themselves in difficulties, not old enough to manage them." "I see that you cherish fears for the future, cousin. What do you advise?" "I advise that you stay here with Leif and as many of your servants as can be safely spared from home. We should be prepared for everything. In times like these most unexpected things can happen." "I will follow your advice, as I always did. Do you think of seeking light on the future from the gods?" "One should not trouble the gods before necessity demands it. But we should offer them sacrifices diligently and without stint." It was only a week since Rodmar and Leif had driven home from the winter festival at Orn's. But for Ingolf and Leif it had been a long week. They had found it difficult to be apart. They had had a cushion drawn up to the fire and lay there on their stomachs right opposite each other, each with a host of things to ask about and report. Leif was a tall, loose-knit fellow with a long, bony face, browned with freckles and discoloured by wind and weather. He had a large nose, and a broad mouth with thick lips. The expression of his sparkling grey eyes changed suddenly, and constantly shifted from close attention to distant dreaminess, from icy coldness to beaming warmth. Red curly hair hung in long locks down both sides of his smiling face. When the most important news had been told, he could keep quiet no longer. With a teasing look in his eyes, he stretched his head forward and asked in a whisper: "Say, Ingolf—did your gods dine on the Yule meat?" Ingolf gave a start of annoyance. His smile disappeared, and over his face spread an expression of vexed seriousness. He looked anxiously round, but discovered to his relief that no one was listening. He made no answer, but looked angrily and warningly at Leif. Leif laughed softly and in a contented fashion. Then he made a funnel of his hands and whispered again: "They are fat, overfed animals, your gods!" He laughed deep down in his stomach, enjoying Ingolf's wrath. "And such gods! A decrepit, one-eyed old creature, who has to get his wisdom from ravens! And a stupid braggart who is so poor that he has to drive with goats because he has no horse." Ingolf clenched his fists and pressed his chin down hard on his whitening knuckles. "Hold your tongue, Leif!" he said threateningly, in reply. Leif laughed as before. Then he sprang up suddenly. By their side stood Helga, Ingolf's sister, a slim young girl with long, light-yellow hair, shining blue eyes, a small bright face, and a happy smile on her childish mouth. Leif, whose gladness at meeting again this girl friend of his own age beamed from his face and was visibly impressed on his whole bearing, embraced her, and saluted her with a kiss. Then he suddenly let her go, grew red and embarrassed, and began in his confusion to kick the burning logs. Helga watched his action with quiet, smiling eyes. "You are scorching your boots, Leif," she said, and laughed softly. He stood straight up, turned towards her, and looked at her. And the smile in her eyes put his embarrassment to flight. Immediately he was himself again. Beaming over his whole face, he seized her two hands and swung her arms apart. "I should give you greetings from the cat and from old Jorun. I have nearly forgotten to do so. The cat caught a huge quantity of mice at Yuletide, and then became fat and lazy—just like old Jorun, but she can't bear to be told so." "Surely you haven't said so to her." "Yes. I couldn't help seeing it. And when I saw it, I couldn't help saying it." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Leif. Have you forgotten how kind old Jorun has been to you since you lost your mother, and how many stories she has told us?" "I can make up better stories myself. Old wives' tales are wearisomely long," answered Leif in a quick tone, which concealed the slight wound in his conscience. "Do you believe she makes them up?" asked Helga, with an air of curiosity. "She talks about gods, trolls, and giants as though they really existed. The other tales are lies too, I suppose." "You are a stupid boy. How do you know that there are not trolls and giants?" "Well, you never see them, anyhow." Helga was already thinking of something else. "Are you not going back at once?" she asked in an expectant tone. "I hope to stay here the rest of the winter and all summer too!" Suddenly both were silent, and found no more to say. For a while they stood and looked at each other and were very happy. All at once Helga became aware that Ingolf lay there, and had not once lifted up his head. She cast herself on her knees beside him and peered into his face. Ingolf avoided her glance, but she could see he was depressed. Suddenly she knelt up and looked penetratingly at Leif. The smiles and brightness had vanished from her face. "Now, you have been vexing Ingolf again, Leif," she said in a tone of deep reproach. Leif avoided her look, and took his place, a little embarrassed, at the end of the cushion. He felt ashamed, but wished to laugh it off. When he did not succeed he bent his head, and whispered so low that only they two could hear: "He ought not to get angry because I say what I think. You know quite well that I do not believe in your gods." "But you ought not to laugh at them, when you know that you hurt Ingolf by doing so," whispered Helga angrily in reply. Ingolf lifted his head and looked at them. He spoke calmly, and his voice was quiet and sad. "It is not that alone," he whispered. "I do not mind so much that Leif mocks at the gods. But I grieve to think that the gods will some day take vengeance on you, Leif, for your mockery." "When I do not believe in the gods, you cannot expect me to be afraid of their vengeance," answered Leif, with quiet defiance. He sat with downcast eyes, and a discontented and vexed look in his face. "You can say what you like in return," he continued. "Why may I not say what I like? I cannot bear the gods. And I cannot endure that you should believe in them either. But since you make so much of them, I will say nothing." "Yes, you promise that now," said Helga. "You will have forgotten it tomorrow." "Can I help being forgetful? Then I will promise again tomorrow." For some minutes they sat silent and out of humour. Then Helga took Leif's hand. "Don't be cross, Leif. We have wished so much to see you again." Leif raised his head suddenly. He raised himself on the cushion, made a place by his side, and looked up at Helga with a smile. All ill-humour had passed away from his face. Soon after, all three were lying together confidentially discussing their own affairs. The hall was full of the hum of many voices and a stronger odour of beer. The fire burned yellow and bright. And the images of the gods on the carved pillars looked down as if following all that passed with a slow content, and waiting, calmly wise, for what should come. II A couple of months after, the two boys were riding over the heath. It was towards evening. The day was calm with biting frost; grey storm-clouds lined the whole horizon. The blue patch of sky above the heath grew ever smaller; it seemed as though a storm was brewing. Banks of clouds were already threatening to swallow the pale moon. The sun seemed stranded on golden mountains of cloud in the west. The two cousins were returning from a visit to their friends and comrades, Haasten, Haersten, and Holmsten, sons of Atle Jarl at Gaulum. Holmsten, the youngest of the brothers, was the same age as Ingolf; the others were a little older. The two cousins had come to know Atle's sons at the great sacrificial feast of the preceding year at Gaulum, and had become friends with them. On Leif's side the friendship was not very warm. During the last year they had visited each other regularly. And since there was still no sign of disturbance in that part of the country, they had obtained leave to journey to Gaulum again this winter. But they had been obliged to promise to exercise caution, to follow the main roads, to return home quickly on the least sign of trouble, and, finally, to conduct themselves circumspectly, and to remember whose offspring they were if anything happened. They had naturally promised all that had been demanded, Ingolf with the firm resolve to keep his word. They had not had any occasion to break their promises until today, when Leif had induced Ingolf to make a short cut across the heath. He had twitted him with want of courage till Ingolf, in a mixture of anger and love of adventure, consented. Leif, who was always the most eager for an expedition, was, on the other hand, most quickly and completely seized by homesickness. In the morning he had felt that he must see Helga before evening. And now they were riding here at a furious gallop. The long, wide, red cloaks, fastened by silver buckles on their breasts, fluttered behind them. So did as much of Leif's red and Ingolf's bright yellow locks as were not confined by their helmet-shaped caps. Leif rode at haphazard and carelessly, satisfied with things in general, without thought for anything but the exciting present. He rode with arms, legs, and his whole body. Ingolf, who sat as though of a piece with his horse, and moving neither arm nor foot, glanced at him sideways, and a faint smile passed over his firm mouth. "You ride like a fluttering chicken, Leif!" he shouted to him as they rode on. Leif looked quickly at him and was not at a loss for an answer. "And you sit your horse like an old idol, cousin!" The horses' frost-powdered heads stretched forward as they ran. Yellow flakes of foam flew now and then from their mouths; their warm breath rose like clouds of vapour from the quivering nostrils. The snow and the splinters of ice which they kicked up flew about the ears of the riders. Leif enjoyed travelling without restraint, and his delight found vent now and then in a ringing shout. Ingolf, on the other hand, rode in a mood of deep displeasure; but it seemed as if he could not give vent to it at once, for he, also, had become partly intoxicated with the wild ride. The rapid beat of the rough-shod hoofs against the hard, frozen snow sounded pleasantly in their ears. And the strength of the mighty muscles which were supporting them thrilled the young riders with a glorious sensation of invincibility, capacity for anything, and divine exultation which made their hearts light and filled their heads with blissful excitement. The sun, preparing to glide down the golden slopes of cloud, cast long and fantastic shadows of the horses and riders over the glittering plain of snow. Leif suddenly became aware of the rushing shadows, and burst into laughter. He shouted to Ingolf, and pointed to the shadows, suddenly anxious to make Ingolf also amused at them. Ingolf must laugh also. But Leif's mirth was too violent, too overpowering. He laughed out all the laughter that there was at once, and left nothing for Ingolf. Leif's uncontrolled glee blocked up all the feeling of amusement in Ingolf, and directly evoked his dawning displeasure. He no longer gave himself up to the mere pleasure of riding. His fits of forgetfulness never lasted very long; thought and reason resumed their power over him. There rode Leif, and was happy! Did he not see that a storm was brewing? Did he not know that it was impossible for them to get home that night? Did he not reflect that if a regular snowstorm came on they might easily go astray on the heath? No, he saw nothing, knew nothing, thought nothing! He simply rode and was happy. And yet it was all his own fault. As they rode on side by side, a sullen, smouldering anger penetrated deeper and deeper into Ingolf's mind. He had great mental stability, which is always something to hold fast to. He tried to struggle against his feelings; he would not ride here and become gradually furious with Leif. But the process in his mind had already gone so far that he was powerless to control it. What happened afterwards was in spite of his will and better conscience. Leif's ecstasy also blew up the smouldering embers of wrath in his mind like a pair of bellows. Leif's joyful shout caused flames to flare up within him. Why should Leif just now become so senseless, so idiotically happy? Why? Why? There were innumerable "whys?" to answer when Leif was in question. Why should Leif be always occasioning difficulties and vexations for him? Why should he be allowed to transfer all responsibility from himself to him? What was the sense of his alone having to bear inconveniences for them both just because Leif did not choose to be inconvenienced? His only fault, after all, had been that he had always been, and still was, too yielding towards Leif. Leif, who rode there so merrily, without thinking of his broken promise or the gathering storm—did he not remember the gash from Holmsten's knife which he carried in his coat as he rode? Did he not remember that it was solely due to Ingolf's presence of mind and powerful grip that the knife had not been buried in him up to the handle? Ingolf was angry now. His perception was distorted by evil powers. He only saw Leif's weaknesses and failings, and they were many. Ingolf held a reckoning, and was angry. Such was Leif! A child, a stupid boy! A forgetful and ungrateful beast! Not once in friendly games with Atle's sons had he behaved properly. Although Holmsten was two years older than he, he could not endure to give place to him in any matter. Times without number they had attacked each other like fiery wolf cubs. Times without number he and Haasten had reconciled them. Each time Leif had promised it should be the last time; next time he would be careful not to let his temper run away with him. But Leif's promises were like flying snow in a storm. Such was Leif, the great humbug, unreliable and unintelligible. Why should he, because Holmsten at parting had given him the knife he had nearly killed him with—why should he for that reason unclasp his most valuable money-belt, and with his own hands clasp it round Holmsten? Weaker characters could do that! Next time they met they would, all the same, attack each other like fiery wolf-cubs. That would certainly end some day with serious enmity between the two; and that would mean a feud with Atle's sons. It might well happen that Leif would yet entangle him in murder and bloodshed. Some day they would certainly have to quit Dalsfjord, as their grand-fathers in their time had been obliged to quit Telemarken. Thus Ingolf's thoughts were forced to run on possible division of the family, murder, and exile. Why could not Leif be content with the difficulties he had stirred up for him at Gaulum? Why further entice him into breaking the promise he had given his father to follow the main roads and to be cautious? At first Ingolf had only been angry with himself for having let Leif seduce him into disobedience and breaking his word. But in his present condition he had no power to apportion his anger. He had to heap it all together with the blame on Leif. The riders had slackened their pace, and rode quietly side by side, close together. But they avoided looking at each other, and did not say a word. Leif perceived that Ingolf, for some reason or other, had become very angry. That did not surprise him. Ingolf, who was accustomed to preserve his calm on occasions when others became angry, was also wont to become angry at the strangest times. Leif searched his conscience. It was fairly uneasy, as usual, but nothing more. It was impossible to see how he had deserved Ingolf's wrath at that moment more than at others. He had not mocked at the gods, and he had till just now been so cheerful. He felt a little irritated, and was also curious to see what had happened in Ingolf's mind, but he had resolved that it was not worth while to irritate him by speaking. He would see if he could not, by keeping silence, charm the anger out of him. Ingolf could not well remain angry indefinitely. Still, it was a nuisance; all the pleasure of the ride was gone. They rode on at a rapid trot, and Leif remained silent. But he was not accustomed to ride in that way. A great feeling of heaviness came over him, and quenched in its darkness all the lively sparks of his humour. But they would soon be home. He yawned till his jaws seemed to crack. Would there be a storm? He felt reckless. But what an endless way back it seemed when they approached the forest which they must go round. What sense was there in the forest lying there and barring their way to the valley? But for that, they might easily be home by bedtime. If the horses only had such long legs as their shadows on the snow possessed, they could stride over the forest. What wretched short-legged jades they were! Yes, everything had gone wrong that evening. Nothing was as it should be. There rode Ingolf with a bee in his bonnet. One dared not even speak to him. And why had they no food with them? He felt suddenly so ravenously hungry that he actually seemed to sniff the scent of roast meat. Meat and bread and beer—hm hm! And now that he had once begun to think of food, he continued to do so. He could at last almost taste it upon his tongue. Could they not ride through the wood? He suddenly forgot all caution and addressed Ingolf in the simplicity of his heart. "I know a path through the forest." It sounded quite naturally, as though he had suddenly thought of it. But for those who knew Leif, his voice was too sincere to be able to conceal a lie. Ingolf saw through him at once. So Leif was not yet content with the harm done! He looked angrily and scornfully at him. "Do you?" he answered, with an excessively quiet and indifferent air. "Then you'd better make a short cut through." Leif looked uncertainly at him. He knew no path through the wood; on the contrary, he had lost his way in it one summer's day, and only with great difficulty got out of it again. It had just occurred to him that if he induced Ingolf to try the wood, they would be able to manage it. It was only a matter of keeping the right direction, and that can always be done when there are two going together. The wood could certainly not be impassible. And to try it would at least be a change. To stay here would be tedious in the long run. "Shall we see if we can find it?" he braced himself up to ask in a conciliatory and almost submissive tone. He dared not express his request more plainly; he was afraid that Ingolf had already seen too much. "I'll share in no more foolishness today," said Ingolf coldly and decidedly. Leif started as though struck by the lash of a whip. Ingolf's tone kindled a flame in him like fire in dry straw. The consciousness of having lied, and the fear of its being perceived, made him sensitive and irritable beyond measure. He was seized with rage, and felt a shiver run through his whole body. Senseless evil words and terrible execrations rose in his mind, but in such rapid succession that his tongue could not utter them. With a jerk he turned his horse and rode toward the wood. He wanted to get away from Ingolf: he would show him— Ingolf looked after him. And as he sat there and saw him ride away, his arms and legs waving all ways at once, a revulsion took place in his mind. His wrath had come to a head, and now began to subside. "There was no sense in that," he thought, and could not recover himself after Leif's disappearance. "I did not think to drive him so far. But surely he will have the sense to turn back!" No, Leif did not turn back. And Ingolf, who had let slip the opportunity of calling him to return, could not yet bring himself to ride after him. "Now we shall be separated for life," he thought again. "That is too ridiculous. That must not happen." He would not be separated from Leif like that. But the consciousness of his own right and Leif's obvious wrong had still too strong a hold on him. It seemed to him impossible to turn his horse round. Yet once more he repeated to himself: "It must not happen." But all the same he rode on. He let it happen. III Ingolf rode on. The sun went down. A wind blew from the north, bringing thick clouds of ice-cold snow as fine as sand. He could not see the wood any more. And Leif had long disappeared in the sea of snow. Night began to come on. A faint glow high above him on the left betrayed the whereabouts of the full moon. With the help of that and the wind he tried to guide himself. He was so alone, so completely forsaken, as he had hitherto never guessed that anyone could be. And he felt his loneliness and desolation as accusation and guilt. He had, as it were, grown smaller since Leif had left him. The uneasiness of dissatisfaction gnawed his mind like hunger. He was displeased with himself and also with Leif, but more with himself. He was, after all, the elder, and was responsible for them both. Also he felt seriously anxious for Leif. Leif did not know any path through the wood. He had once ventured into it, and lost himself. And if he lost himself in the wood in this cold he would be frozen to death, unless, indeed, the wolves attacked him. Ingolf was in despair. He asked himself whether it were yet any use to ride after Leif? But now it was too late. He felt a lump rise in his throat. Remorse came over him like an avalanche. He had to defend himself in order not to be utterly overwhelmed. As far as Leif was concerned, it was his own fault. It was he who actually would ride over the heath. It was he who, in spite of reason, made for the wood. If he were frozen to death, or eaten by wolves, he only had himself to thank. But Ingolf soon discovered that these thoughts did not yield him any comfort. In the first place, he was not sure that the fault was really Leif's. He ought not to have allowed himself to be persuaded to ride across the heath, and, by doing so, break his word. Neither ought he to have become angry with Leif because he had allowed himself to be persuaded. Least of all should he have let Leif observe his anger. For that was what had driven him to the wood. He knew Leif, and how susceptible he was. Treated in the right way, he was not unreasonable. By means of good-humour and friendly talk one could turn Leif's mind from or in any desired direction. But if he saw that any one was angry or embittered against him, immediately he became twice as angry himself. And all sound sense forsook him as soon as he became irritated. And another thing: even if the fault was Leif's, that did not make the matter really better. There was, in fact, no satisfaction in being in the right as against Leif. Leif's whole character was so made up of hastiness and want of sense that nothing was easier than to be in the right against him. But that was not the least relief to his mind. Leif was not one of those to be settled with in that way. Even if there was not the least doubt that one was in the right, there always remained something unsettled when Leif was in question. Ingolf rode on. He forgot to pay any attention to the direction of the wind or the light of the moon. An absorbing consciousness of having done wrong, and of remorse, which continually increased, gnawed his mind and destroyed his peace. He could not shake off the thought of Leif. How was he now? How would he fare? He tried to persuade himself that Leif must really know a path through the wood, and might be home before him. Ah, how he wished that he might find Leif's horse in the stable when he himself at last reached home! But he knew well that this was only something he wished to believe. Leif's voice was so sincere that it betrayed him when he lied. Leif was a stupid boy. Ah, Leif! Leif! Ingolf struggled hard to keep his tears back. He had not the least idea what to do. What should he do? He was riding here, and had lost his best friend. And it was his own fault. Even if he found Leif at home they would not be friends any more. And Leif, like himself, as far back as he could remember, could not do without him. He did not understand it all. He did not comprehend how it could happen. Yesterday, nay, only a little while since, they had been friends. Now he was riding alone in the night and the snowstorm, and Leif was lost in the wood. Leif had left him because he could not overcome himself sufficiently to keep with him longer—Leif, who this morning would have sacrificed everything for him, and given his life for him, yes, ten lives if he had possessed so many. He did not know any one else of whom he could safely say the same. Half his strength had lain in the consciousness that Leif was his friend for life and death; that he had, so to speak, two lives. He was himself also prepared to die for his friend. All the same, a sudden misunderstanding and a few words had parted them. For the first time Ingolf realized the dangerous power of anger and evil words. And he made a vow never again to be angry, and never again to speak evil words to a friend. It had a certain soothing effect upon him, thus to take himself to task, to acknowledge his failing, and resolve to overcome it. But this was of no help with regard to Leif. There could not be the least doubt now that Leif was roaming about lost in the wood. It was hopeless to expect that he should have given up his purpose. It could never occur to him to be so reasonable as to follow the edge of the wood. For Leif knew nothing of fear or even caution, bold to the point of madness, daring to folly as he was. Yes, Leif was by no means merely a mocker of the gods or a practical joker. He was as fearless and brave as any one whom Ingolf knew. That was what forced one to love him, and feel that he was indispensable in spite of all his failings and the difficulties he caused. That was also the reason why Helga liked him so much, and became restless and lost her balance as soon as she did not see him, but immediately became quiet and peaceful when she knew he was near. How should Ingolf look his sister, Helga, in the eyes when he came home without Leif? Ingolf rode on. He no longer knew where he was going, and felt indifferent. Without Leif he could, at any rate, not go home. He could not get Leif out of his mind. Leif was in every way difficult and unaccountable. There was no use denying it. As far back as Ingolf could remember at all, he had had incredible difficulties with Leif. All the troubles he remembered to have had, had been caused by him. Numberless times, Helga had been obliged to appease greater or smaller quarrels between them. For Leif was really impossible as a comrade. One never knew what to expect of him, or what he might devise. There was no feeling secure in Leif's society; he always brought, as it were, changes and adventures with him. But such as he was, one could not do without him. In spite of his difficult character he was such that one missed him as soon as he was out of sight. Ingolf noticed that his horse suddenly changed the direction in which he was going. He did not take the trouble to check him. It was all the same to him where he went, now that he no longer had Leif. He had wound his cape twice round him, yet the cold penetrated it. He felt frozen and shivered, but did not mind. It even had a certain soothing effect on him to be so cold that his teeth chattered. Immediately afterwards he had forgotten himself, and began thinking again of Leif. Hitherto he had always felt vexed that Leif was not like others. Now he realized suddenly that, in spite of all, he did not want to have Leif otherwise. Such as he was, he was just Leif, and his friend. On his side the friendship was certainly not past. If he met Leif again, they would become friends afresh. He knew that Leif was always ready for reconciliation so soon as he had worked off his rage. No, Leif was not like others. There was no doubt that he was a good and skilful ski-runner. He was always inventing new tricks and difficult feats. Wherever he found a rock or a hill he must attempt it. Not even the steepest descents made him pause. The fact that he had one fall after another, each worse than the preceding one, had no effect upon him at all. Leif did not like learning by experience. And, strangely enough, he had never had any serious accident. When Ingolf had once reproached him for his mad foolhardiness, he had merely replied that he trusted his luck blindly for so long as Fate had allotted it to him, and not a step further! He was obviously not in the least interested as to where the limit was set. One might be vexed at it, but it was not of the slightest use. He had an incredible faculty for getting into desperate situations, and after all saving his skin. The cause probably was that he was not merely a little unreasonable. In that case he would hardly have completed his twelve winters. He was, on the contrary, so boundlessly unreasonable that it seemed as though the reasonable penalties which always pursued Ingolf and all others never exactly knew where to find Leif, and therefore could not strike him. Ingolf could not explain it to himself in any other way. There was, for example, the adventure with the bear. It was a year ago now, but he was likely to remember it as long as he lived. They had heard from the people in the farm that there was a bear's lair up on the heath, a place about which they only knew that it would be found in the neighbourhood of two hills which had been described to them. They were continually thinking and talking about the bear's lair, and could not get away from the subject. Both of them had a great desire to see the place. But Ingolf's desire was of the quiet kind which is compatible with patience. In his opinion there was no need to go and scent out a bear's lair when one was grown big and could receive him when he presented himself. Leif's desire, on the other hand, was measureless and insatiable. "If you don't come, I will go alone," he said. So Ingolf went with him. They set out from the place one morning in late summer; they trudged far, found no hill nor bear's lair, but, on the other hand, came across a slope covered with bilberries, the like of which they had never seen. Immediately Ingolf was aware of a high-pitched voice within, which shouted, "Bilberries! Bilberries!" And that Leif must have heard a similar voice was easy to see. Crouching to the earth they went and gathered bilberries with both hands, eating the little bitter leaves along with them without hesitation, when they found opposite them a bear who was also eating bilberries. For a moment Ingolf remained standing, staring at a bear with a blue snout; then he came to his senses and fled for all he was worth. Not till he had run a long way did it occur to him that Leif was not with him, and that he was not pursued. He stood still and looked round, prepared to see the bear coming after him with Leif in his stomach and hungering for more provender of a similar kind. What he did see was almost more terrible. There on the bilberry-slope stood Leif and the bear confronting each other. Ingolf stood thunderstruck. Why did not the bear eat Leif? He did not understand it, did not see that there could be anything else to wait for. As though rooted to the spot, he remained standing and staring, and could not stir. It seemed to him as if several days had passed when at last something happened—the bear sneaked off. He could not trust his own eyes! Yes, the bear trudged away from the bilberry-slope and left Leif alone with the berries. And Leif quite quietly resumed his gathering of bilberries. Ingolf did not understand it. He found the occurrence so unintelligible that he believed the whole must be a dream. He was soon made aware of his mistake. In dreams one is accustomed to glide comfortably through the air, but he had just to climb back on his weary legs to Leif. When Ingolf got near him, he stood and looked at him, and was astonished to see nothing remarkable about him. And so he remained standing for a time. There was something which needed explaining before he could go on with the bilberry-picking. At last he asked: "Why didn't you run?" "Do you think one can run from a bear?" Leif answered quite quietly and as a matter of course. "What would be the use of that? No, I made him think that I was not afraid of him. And at last I really was not any more. So he got tired of standing and staring, and went his way." Such was Leif, and such was his method with bears. Was it easy to understand him? How could one get the mind with which to understand him? Ingolf answered himself with a meditative, negative shake of the head. And the adventure with the bear was by no means unique. He remembered another incident of the same summer. He lived through it again in his need to occupy himself with Leif, and yet at the same time forget that Leif at that very moment might be hunted by wolves. They had agreed together that it was time they learnt to swim. Naturally it was just when no one had time to teach them. But that kind of trifle had no decisive weight for Leif when he had got a fixed idea in his head. One of Orn's servants, so he informed Ingolf, who was a good swimmer, had shown him that he had only to move his arms and legs in such and such a way and keep afloat. Leif straightway laid himself across a piece of timber in the courtyard and showed Ingolf how to move his arms and legs. Thus; and thus!—that was all! It did not seem very difficult to Ingolf. But suppose one sank in spite of all? But Leif was unwearied in his persuasions—oh, it was ever so easy. You simply scooped up the water with your arms and kicked with your legs—that was all. At last Leif made him lie on the piece of timber and taught him the strokes. So! and so! Kick out strongly! Stretch your arms properly! Now, I bet we swim like a pair of seals as soon as we get in the water. Now let us go! They went down to the Fjord. On the way he made Leif promise that first they should not go farther than where they could touch the bottom. Otherwise he said he would not go. Leif promised, and swore in addition. As soon as they got near the shore, Leif had his clothes off and stood naked and careless and stretched himself in the sun. Ingolf stood and looked at the water, and was a good while unclasping his belt. Leif jumped about and hurried him on, but at last would not wait any more. As a matter of course, he had either forgotten his promise or did not choose to keep it. Instead of wading out where he could reach the bottom he ran out on a rock, flung his arms over his head, launched away, and was off. Ingolf, still with most of his clothes on, ran out on the rock with his heart in his mouth. Down there lay Leif; the water had swallowed him. He lay and worked his arms and legs. Now he approached the surface; now his head bobbed up. But only for a moment. His arms and legs moved very much as when he rode. But either he could not manage the swimming-strokes or they were no use. In any case, the water would not support him. He went to the bottom again. Never had Ingolf been so frightened as when he stood there and saw Leif in the water—never so helplessly anxious and despairing. He stood, and could neither move hand nor foot. He felt paralysing terror like a dead weight in his whole body. Then he suddenly began to shiver. At the same moment all power of cool reflection deserted him and he forgot that he was no better a swimmer than Leif. He must get out and help him. And he was on the point of plunging from the rock with his clothes on when he saw Leif come crawling up through the water. Leif crawled up and got his head above the surface. He spat and snorted and made grimaces. It did Ingolf good to see him. And he did not go to the bottom again. Leif, the incredible, swam! Not with arms and legs working on both sides as he had practised the motions. No, he simply crawled through the water with a long stroke and did not sink. It looked so ridiculous that Ingolf had to laugh aloud. No, Leif of course could not be so easily drowned as others die naturally. Now he felt the ground under his feet. He stood still, coughed, and spat up water and shook himself so that the red locks flew about his head. He laughed suddenly when he set eyes on Ingolf. "What, not yet out of your clothes?" Quite calmly he waded to shore. And when he stood opposite Ingolf, he said simply and unaffectedly, although he shivered over his whole body: "I was nearly drowned that time! Who could guess that it was so difficult? If I hadn't just happened to think, while I was down there, how dogs swim, I should be lying there still!" When at last he had finished spitting and shaking the water out of his ears, he took the same header again as a matter of course. Such was Leif. He could not break his neck, he could not drown, and bears sneaked off when they met him. Could he, then, be lost in a wood and frozen to death? Or would he extricate himself again as he alone could? Ingolf thought it not quite impossible, and that was his only hope and comfort. It would be just like Leif to crash his way through a wood in which anyone else would be lost, and to be first home. If only he were already there, in bed and asleep! Ingolf was aroused from his reveries by his horse suddenly coming to a dead stop. He looked round him, and was not long in discovering that he had reached home. The horse had stopped exactly opposite the door of the stable. Stiff in all his limbs from the cold, he crawled down and opened the door. His only thought was whether Leif's horse might already be inside. He went from horse to horse, felt them, and noted their distinguishing marks. He knocked against his own horse, which had followed after him into the warmth with its saddle and bridle on. He freed it from the bridle, but forgot the saddle, and went on. No, Leif's horse was not in the stable. That was only what he had expected. Nevertheless, he felt suddenly paralysed with disappointment. Leif, then, had not reached home. Leif was still somewhere without. At that very moment he was roaming about lost either on the heath or in the wood. Leif's horse was not one of those which could find its way home by itself. Ah, Leif! Leif! He hoped that it was not already all over with him. Ingolf seemed to see him in front of him lying on his back in a snowdrift with arms and legs stretched out. The snow was drifting over him and already nearly covering him. By the side of him stood his horse, with its head hanging down. Ah, Leif! Leif! Ingolf collected himself. He did not feel the cold any more, nor did he notice how hunger was gnawing him. He shut the stable and went to the courtyard. There was something feverish and yet resolute about all his proceedings. He entered the outhouse where the ski were kept, and found his own and Leif's. He opened the house-door a little and whistled softly to his dog. The dog was wild with delight at seeing him again, jumped about him, and licked his cold hands with his warm tongue, while Ingolf, his fingers stiff with the frost, was buckling on his ski. He had no time to take notice of it. As soon as he had buckled his snow-shoes firmly on, he sped away from the house, the same way he had come. Now he again paid attention to the direction of the wind and the light of the moon. Leif must be found—there was no question about that. He could not return home alive without him. IV Leif had gone riding on till he reached the wood, his mind full of wrath and defiance. There was not one reasonable thought in his brain; he had only the instinct to ride on. The motion cooled his irritation. It did him good to be out in this wild, chaotic expanse. There was a sense of freedom in casting away the yoke of reason, a relief in knowing that one was committed to something which had two sides and might mean life or death. He would show Ingolf that though he himself did not know any path through the wood he was not afraid of riding there all the same. He would show him that if he wished to go the straight road home he would do so in spite of woods and other hindrances! He would show him that there was a difference between a man and an old woman in breeches! The snowstorm beat against him from the side, and he had to turn his head so as not to have it directly in his ear, yet all the same he had to ride with his eyes half shut. But he gave no heed to the weather. A man who was intent on performing an exploit could not worry about a trifle! Thus, filled with exulting presumption, he approached the border of the wood and rode in among the whistling, crackling trees. Here he had to slacken his pace, and, as he did, it struck him all at once that there was a fair chance of his losing himself in the wood and never getting out again. But nothing could stop Leif when he had got up the speed for a piece of folly. Besides, it was part of his reason for not giving up his project that he was convinced that the worst turn he could do Ingolf was to ride through the wood. If he won through it, Ingolf would be mortified; if he got lost, Ingolf would be grieved. And Ingolf, sulky beast, deserved no mercy. How thoroughly he would look down on him if he happened to get home first! And if not, he knew well that Ingolf would not have a quiet hour till he saw him again. And serve him right. Here in the outskirts of the wood Leif made such good progress that he already felt sure of getting home first. At the same time, he found room in his heart and mind for a certain anxiety regarding Ingolf. He hoped he would not be lost upon the heath where he had nothing to guide him. Now that his fantastic assurance for himself had left room for anxiety for Ingolf, his wrath suddenly vanished. Should he not ride after Ingolf, try to overtake him, and convince him how much better it was to ride through the wood? But then Ingolf would only believe that he had turned round because he did not dare to ride through the wood alone, which was just what he was going to show him he could do. His arms and legs came again into action. But the deeper Leif penetrated into the wood, the harder it became to make progress. The going was not so good here. The horse went on at an irregular pace. Leif had continually to turn because of low branches and fallen trunks. He had to go slowly and gradually, step by step. Besides, it was not very comfortable here in the dense parts of the wood. Leif did not venture to startle his horse by shouting, though he was not really afraid. But all the sounds which he could not account for made him silent and alert. On all sides there was an uninterrupted whistling, creaking, and groaning. Snow fell from the branches with a thump. Hasty flappings of wings, which sent a chill through him, penetrated through all other sounds, producing a foreboding sense of vacuity and gloom. Besides, it was darker here than was pleasant. He could hardly discern the nearest tree-trunks. He wished he were out on the heath again and in Ingolf's company. What had he wanted to go to the wood for? Leif was not long in losing himself so completely that he thought it just as well to give up altogether aiming at any particular direction, and go on at haphazard. He felt it really a relief to be free from the trouble. The chief thing now was to sit on his horse and keep warm, which was beginning to be a difficulty. But now Leif was in high spirits and proof against blows. He had prepared his mind for troubles and schooled himself to confront Fate. He had cast all responsibility from him far into space! Let any one who chose undertake it! He was riding here—that was all. Could his horse get on? Let happen what would! He did not doubt for a moment that the matter would finally turn out well for him. He would get clear. How, he did not guess, neither did he trouble himself about it. He had reasonably or unreasonably come to the conclusion that he might just as well stop interfering. Yes, he would not venture to interfere. Suppose he turned off to the left now, and by doing so lost the right direction? No, he would not touch the bridle, but simply trust to luck. If he must pay the price for his rashness, he might just as well do it with the same coin. And if he got home in that way, the account would be settled. Thus he rode for a long time, but not so long as he thought. He was checked in his progress, and therefore the time seemed more than doubled. He thought he got on faster than he actually did. At last he sat half asleep upon his horse, which he kept going by half-mechanical movements of his arms and legs. The horse went slower and slower. It had lost heart, and would rather have stood still, hung its head, turned its back to the storm, and let time and destiny roll over it. Leif did not agree with the horse in the matter. He himself sat there and let come what would. But something must be kept going, or there would be a complete full-stop. So the horse must continue. But that was so contrary to the horse's will that Leif at last had to shake off his drowsiness in order to keep the animal going. And, in spite of all, it only went step by step. Leif was working again with his whole body. Nevertheless, he felt how the cold was tightening its clutch on his limbs and already threatening his stomach and chest. Leif was no fool. He clearly perceived that his life was in danger. In full consciousness he took up the struggle against weariness, which by its temptation to drowsiness sought to surprise him with sleep, that would be fatal in the frost. Leif rallied himself with a firm resolve. That was not at all to his mind. He did not in the least intend to give up. Twelve years could not satisfy a hunger for life like his. He had much to do in the world. He was, for one thing, a good way yet from becoming a Viking and marrying Helga. Would the forest never come to an end? At last it did. Leif went on riding and riding. And what did he see? Tracks of a horse which had been going through the snow. So he had then been riding in a circle. And where was he? That the wood only knew. But now he would follow the tracks in the direction he had come from to see if he could break the circle and, if possible, find his way out of the wood. Now it seemed to him the chief thing to find his way out, no matter where. That was for the present object enough. He resolutely avoided looking further in his thoughts. Unconsciously he armed himself against the tendency of thought to weaken the mind. He would not have his strength paralysed by too much reasoning. His business was simply to ride on and fight against the cold. He had lost the track again. The horse became more and more unwilling to proceed. It only went on because it must. Suddenly and unexpectedly he noticed that he was out of the wood. He saw no more tree-trunks. Here there were only whirling clouds of snow around him. His only resource was to go on. He kept riding to see whether he would not come across trees farther on. No, there were no more trees. And what was he to do now? On which side of the wood was he? He rallied his reasoning power and reflected. Yes, he must be on the same side by which he had entered. The wind was due north—the direction he came from—there then was the north. So he had been very sagacious as far as looking went. He should only have been sharp enough to see when the wood ended, then he would have had the edge of the wood to guide himself by. Should he turn round and try to find the wood again? No, no, he might get among the trees. And he had lost all desire to ride to the wood. The horse had availed itself of Leif's reflections to come to a stop. Without Leif having noticed it, it had turned its back to the storm, and simply stood still with its head drooping. Leif sought to rouse it up and set it in motion again. Here there was no use in remaining at a standstill. But the horse had formed its own opinion of the whole expedition. It stood immovable, and intended to remain so. Leif expended much energy on its back, tugged at the reins, struck it with his whip-handle, since lashing seemed of no avail, but it was useless. The horse had had enough and more than enough. It stood, and intended to remain standing for an indefinite time. Leif jumped down and looked with astonishment in its eyes. What was the matter with the beast? Had it suddenly got fancies in its head? He pulled at the bridle, tried to tug the horse to one side, and made his whip whistle over it. The horse sighed a little at such a cruel and senseless proceeding. But it had once for all made up its mind to stay where it was. At that moment there was nothing that would make it budge an inch from the spot. Leif looked helplessly around him. He could not understand the horse's sudden predilection for precisely that spot of ground. Was there perhaps something to guide them? Completely exhausted it could not be, as there was still so much refractoriness in it. So he tried to treat it kindly. He talked gently to it, patted it, and scratched it behind the ears. He overwhelmed it with flattery, and sang to it in a high-pitched voice. Then he clambered with some trouble on its back again, and hoped that it had now changed its mind. But it had not done so by any means. Leif began to get angry, but he patted its neck and kept a friendly tone. Since this still proved useless he uttered a wild howl with all his might, and threw his arms, legs, and whole body into motion. At last he was nearly crying with vexation. Then he tried it again with friendliness and kind words, but it was all of no avail. So he gave it up. The horse evidently would not go farther. And since he could neither compel nor persuade it, there was nothing to be done with the creature. He slipped from its back and tried to review the situation. On nearer inspection it seemed to be just as threatening and impenetrable as the snow-clouds round him. As he stood there the wind lashed his face and pierced icily cold through his clothes. He perceived clearly the danger of the situation. If the cold and his weariness made him yield a little, it was all over with him. It was no use to let the horse stand and go on with his own strength. The energies he had still in reserve were in no reasonable proportion to the storm and the length of the way. It was only a little strength and endurance which he had remaining. But it was that little which was to rescue him. He kept his hands tightly clenched together as if it were a matter of extracting some device by purely physical pressure from his oozing energies. He intensified his thoughts till he seemed to hear them beating in his skull. But it was as though all possibilities had conspired against him and forsaken him. He stood and set his back against the wind, and sought to combat a creeping foreboding that there was no way of escape. He knew that once he gave up it was all over with him. So long as he could keep erect and resolute there was still hope. His thoughts forsook the beaten paths and travelled in the labyrinths of imagination, seeking a last possibility. A picture came up in his memory. He remembered a Yuletide sacrificial feast at home ... the penetrating odour of blood and entrails ... the warm, gaping hollow of an ox's body emptied of its viscera. Before he had yet time to connect thought with action, his knife was out. He took the bridle off the horse, with feverish fingers sought a certain spot in its neck, waited a moment while he overcame his repugnance, and then made a thrust. With a groan the horse collapsed on its knees. Leif rolled it over on one side, and so it remained, lying with stiff, struggling legs, now and then shaken by a faint shudder. Leif made a cut in its neck, so that he could, when possible, extract the windpipe and gullet. A warm stream of blood spouted straight into his eyes and blinded him till he had again rubbed them clean. And now the intoxication of blood overcame him. He had the scent of it in his nostrils and the taste of it on his tongue. With a single long cut from the fore to the hinder-part he slit open its stomach. The warm, smoking entrails bulged out of the streaming gash. Leif snatched them out with his hands, but had to stop, because the heat nearly scalded him—shook his hands like a cat its paws—and set to work again. In a very short time he had cleared the animal's stomach of all the entrails, with a round cut of his knife he loosened the diaphragm, extracted the lungs with the grey windpipe adhering to them from the breast, and threw them away. Then at last, with trembling fingers, he sheathed his knife, heaved a long sigh, and crawled head-first into the horse's empty stomach. He coiled himself together like an animal, audibly growling with the sense of comfort and the prospect of secure rest. But however he turned and twisted himself, he could not find room for his legs. So he crawled rather crossly out again, stripped off his cloak, wound it several times round his feet and legs above his knees, to preserve them from being frostbitten, and crept in again. He enjoyed the delightful warmth inside. Now it would do him real good to have his rest out and sleep. With a light and untroubled heart he lay down comfortably. Sleep—sleep. When he awoke again, the snowstorm would doubtless be over. He chuckled inwardly; he would simply stay here till it was quite finished! If it still lasted long he could easily live on frozen horse-flesh. He had still a conviction that he would not die that day. Nonsense! Here he lay, and liked it. The future seemed bright and cheerful to his inner eye. He wondered whether Ingolf would be home by now? In his fulness of satisfaction and quiet he allowed himself to hope so. A little after he was sleeping a sound, untroubled sleep. V Ingolf bore towards the west. He had the wind on his right side, a little against him. He had to climb rising ground, although not very steep. He only made slow progress. But he felt his strength and how his body was, as it were, braced together in one strain. And it was as though this consciousness of his own strength continually produced new strength again. He was so absolutely determined to hold out till he found Leif or fell dead that there was not the slightest breach in his will, where doubt and fatigue might insinuate their poisonous disintegrating vapours. For the present, his object was only to go round the wood to the other side and see whether he could not find Leif's tracks and the place where he had entered the wood. If he could find Leif's, or rather the horse's, tracks, his dog would be a considerable help in following them. And if he could not find them, it was not impossible that the dog might. Such was Ingolf's plan. Now and then he looked at the dog faithfully plodding after him. When it ran along unnoticed, it dropped its tail discontentedly. It did not see any object in such an expedition in this weather, and could not possibly approve of it at first. But as soon as Ingolf spoke kindly to it, or it only noticed that it was observed, it cocked its tail and sprang forward at his side, gladly barking, and talked to him in dog-language. |
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