The Project Gutenberg eBook, Guest the One-Eyed, by Gunnar Gunnarsson, Translated by W. J. Alexander (William John Alexander) Worster

GUEST THE

ONE-EYED

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE SWORN BROTHERS

A tale of the early days of Iceland by the most noted of living Icelandic novelists. “To read it is like being struck in the face on a sultry day with a breeze fresh from the glaciated mountains of the Viking North.”

—The Bookman.

“Gunnarsson has made his characters so genuine, so red-blooded and so masculine that they stand out like living men.”

—News-Tribune, Detroit.

NEW YORK: ALFRED A. KNOPF

GUEST THE ONE-EYED

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH OF

GUNNAR GUNNARSSON

BY W. W. WORSTER

NEW YORK

ALFRED · A · KNOPF

1922

COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY GUNNAR GUNNARSSON

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY

ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc.

[Original title: Af Borgslægtens Historie]

Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.

Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y.

Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

BOOK I
ORMARR ØRLYGSSON

CHAPTER I

Snow, snow, snow!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormarr had his suspicions, but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many have we got?”

“Oh, twenty.”

“Good, then give me mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Curse the little jackanapes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That makes but little difference in his books.”

“Ho—who says that—you?”

“’Twas Bjarni said so.”

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

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

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

“I didn’t want to meet anyone.”

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

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

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

“You mean—you’d....”

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

Ormarr sprang to his feet.

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

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

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

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

“Father!”

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

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

The words gave Ormarr the courage he had lacked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

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

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

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

He puffed away at his long pipe in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men played their parts well in the parish of Hofsfjordur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you paying this season?”

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

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

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

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

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

At last Bjarni spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, my son?”

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

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

“The horses!”

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

“Gryla, Køput, Kondut!”

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

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

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

“Father—may I?”

Ørlygur à Borg looked at his son in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you waiting for?”

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

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

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

“Good. We will take it back to Borg.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, turning to Bjarni, Ørlygur went on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well, then!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Sera Daniel spoke—simply and naturally:

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

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

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

Sera Daniel went on:

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

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

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