The Sworn Brothers: A Tale of the Early Days of Iceland

THE SWORN
BROTHERS

The
Sworn Brothers

A TALE OF THE EARLY DAYS OF ICELAND

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH OF

GUNNAR GUNNARSSON

By C. FIELD AND W. EMMÉ

NEW YORK
ALFRED · A · KNOPF
1921

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
GUNNAR GUNNARSSON

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

[BOOK I]

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.

They went steadily forward, although their progress was slow. To his joy, Ingolf noticed that the wind was abating. The snow-clouds were gradually dividing, and the moon's pale disc shone against a background of blue. Around him spread a white expanse, abruptly broken by the dark line of the edge of the wood a little to the right. There was no longer an upward incline; he sped along easily and softly on his ski, and looked about him. The snow-clouds as they departed opened an ever-widening horizon to his view. He must clearly ascertain where he was. Now he knew the place and could do that correctly for himself. Yes, he was up on the heath, and had only to turn to the right and follow the line of the wood. His snow-shoes glided easily upon the smooth, even surface of the snow. With each step he increased his speed. For now a mental tension took hold of him, and filled him with restlessness. He called to his dog, roused it up, and urged it on with short, explanatory shouts. He made it understand that he was seeking something, and counted on its help. Suddenly the dog was awake in every nerve. Now he could understand his master and feel with him. Eagerly he ran on ahead, nosing at the snow. Hither and thither he ran, in larger and smaller curves. Now and then Ingolf seemed to perceive in it an impulse to stand still. But it never came completely to a stop, only making a half pause. The dog was so engrossed in its mission of finding something, though it knew not what, that it completely forgot its tail, and let it hang obliquely down behind, completing the impression of self-forgetting absorption.

It was as though Ingolf's mental tension had transferred itself to the animal, which continually increased its speed. Ingolf had difficulty in keeping up, although he sped as though for his life, so that the sweat poured in streams down over his face and dropped from his eyebrows and chin.

Thus they sped on for a long time. Ingolf knew well that he must husband his strength. But it seemed as though the part of his excitement which had communicated itself to the dog had returned to him with double strength. He completely forgot to economize his forces. He put them all forth, well knowing that by doing so he imperilled the success of his quest. He simply could not do otherwise. The one thing was to hold out and follow the dog. He dared not keep it back. "On!" he said to himself. "As long as you can keep your head up."

Suddenly the dog stopped and began running round and round. Ingolf was a good way behind him. He hurried on as quickly as possible, and gave close attention to the animal, which now stood and sniffed for a time. Then it ran a little way in the direction of the wood. Oho! Here it was, then! But what now? The dog stood still, sniffed, and ran some way back. Then it paused again. What was the matter?

And see! Now it lifted its head, stood and sniffed now towards the wood, now in the opposite direction, with a slight, hasty jerk of its body. Its tail was lifted too, and stood straight out.

Now Ingolf felt certain. This was where he should enter the wood. Now there remained nothing necessary but to take off his ski and to walk.

But before he had quite got up to the dog, the latter had already started again—away from the wood. Ingolf shouted to it. It must be mistaken. It stood still as it was ordered, but did not come back. It remained standing, waiting for further directions. Ingolf called it again, but it remained standing as before. And now Ingolf heard it utter a low whine. What did it want? Ingolf shouted encouragingly to it and immediately it started off again. Ingolf followed, without yet leaving the edge of the wood. He thought the dog was still on the track, and only following it in the wrong direction. It would soon perceive its mistake and turn round.

But it was far from turning round. On the contrary, it came to a stop and remained standing by a slight elevation in the snow. There it paused and ran about, nosing here and there eagerly. It was easy to see that it had found something of great importance.

Ingolf came to a stop. He had to rally all his will power in order not to collapse.

He could not stir from the spot. Was Leif lying there? Had a tragedy happened after all? The gods he had braved had at last taken vengeance on Leif for his insolence and mockery. Ingolf felt himself struck in a vital nerve. For how could he live after that?

As he stood there it occurred to him suddenly that here his race came to an end. Leif was dear. Only he and Helga were left. He with a stain upon his honour—in a fit of temper he had let Leif ride unhindered away from him to meet obvious death—a stain he could only wash away in one way—by giving himself a sacrifice to Odin. And Helga ... yes, Helga would not survive that. So here the race would cease. All his dreams, all his purposes blown away like chaff before the wind.

Suddenly Ingolf heard the dog close by him. It stood in front of him, with its snout lifted and its ears laid back, whining up at him. At first he looked down without seeing it and without giving heed to its supplicating look; then suddenly he woke to attention. The dog certainly did not look sorrowful. It looked rather as if it had something special, and to a certain degree joyful, to announce. And its whining also seemed to signify the same.

In Ingolf's mind there dawned a spark of hope. He set his ski in motion and followed the dog.

But the nearer he came to the white mound, by which his dog already stood, looking back beseechingly and whining softly—the slower he moved. Suddenly he stood still as though struck. What was it? What sort of a sound was that? He stood still awhile and collected himself to listen. But his own blood's throbbing made it hard for him to interpret the sound he heard. Suddenly the sound grew louder, till here was no mistaking it. It was the heavy snoring of one dead tired.

Here was Leif, then, calmly asleep. He was not too dead to lie there snoring, so that it could be heard a long way off.

In an instant Ingolf was there; he threw off his ski and began to excavate the snow with his bare hands. Leif in the horse's stomach was so covered with snow that no one could guess what this mound in the landscape really contained.

Ingolf took hold of a corner of the cloak and pulled. Leif did not follow it, as he had expected. The cloak came up empty, and only exposed Leif's legs to view. Leif was not interested in what was going on—he continued to lie there and snore. So Ingolf began to pull Leif's leg with all his might, and at last dragged him out. A hasty look in the hole showed him the ripped-up stomach of a horse. Leif opened a pair of sleep-drunken and astonished eyes, rose with a bound, looked closely at Ingolf and at the dog, gave a glance into the hole he had been hauled out from, shook off his stiffness, yawned, and began to rub his eyes, as though he wished to look more closely into the matter before he believed it.

Ingolf stood and stared at him without uttering a word. Leif looked dirty and bloody, but it was certainly not his own blood. He did not seem to have lost anything, and was at any rate alive. And how like Leif that was. He had at last rubbed his eyes well and was awake. For a moment he sat with his eyes wide open and looked at Ingolf.

"Well, you have been home," he blurted out in a voice that was hoarse and still a little sleepy. "Brought anything to eat?"

Then Ingolf sat down and laughed—laughed so that he had to hold his stomach with both hands—laughed so that at last he had to fall backwards, and rolled on one side. Leif looked at him, but his mental faculties were still a little benumbed by sleep. Then he, too, began to chuckle inwardly. When, a little while after, they had put on their ski, and were on the point of starting homeward, Leif stopped suddenly, and reflected. Then he looked Ingolf in the eyes and reached out his hand. He did not utter a word, but pressed his hand and looked straight in his eyes again. There was a slight quiver about his large mouth.

Then quickly they loosed each other's hands. And they started off home at full speed. They were as though born again, and did not feel weariness, cold, or hunger. By their side raced Ingolf's dog, his warm, bright red tongue hanging far out and his tail cheerfully erect.

So they sped along the way by the wood. Down the slopes above the house they went at a pelting pace. When at last they were at home in the courtyard, and had stowed away their ski in the outhouse, the dawn was beginning to break. No one was up yet. Noiselessly they crept to their beds. They did not feel bold enough to meet any one this morning. The best thing was to take refuge in sleep from all explanations.

VI

Helga, though she had only lived for twelve winters, knew already a good deal of life. She knew what it was to be anxious for one whom she loved. Long before she was conscious of her love for Leif, she suffered all a lover's anxiety. Leif took her thoughts with him wherever he went and travelled. And she could never feel secure about him. She could, on the other hand, be sure that if she had not seen him for the space of a day, not to speak of the occasions when he was absent many days, that during that interval he had been once, or probably many times, near the border of the next world, and that it was at any rate only due to the incredible luck which always followed him that he came home with whole limbs.

She knew, in fact, the long days and still longer nights of waiting and anxiety. She knew what it was to lie awake most of the night and see terrible sights. She turned restlessly on her bed, and neither dared to close her eyes nor to stare into the darkness, because everywhere she encountered the figure of him she loved, either dead or dying. She had learnt to prize two things which a woman, who must generally miss and be anxious for him she loves, cannot live without—dreaming and work. She knew how small occupations shorten the day, and the relief won by showing love to animals, being kind to them, and lavishing kind words upon them, and she experienced the joy it gives to be loved by dumb creatures. It was known to her, also, how the way is made easy to the land of dreams, where the hours fly quickly, by busying one's hands with needle and thread. When she sat making something ornamental for herself or small gifts for him, there were moments when she seemed to triumph over distance, and felt her friend so near that she suddenly let her hands sink, looked up, and was quite surprised that he was not standing behind her. Was it because she did not look up quickly enough? Just before, he had been standing there! Helga, with her twelve short winters, knew also happiness. There was the happiness of seeing Leif come home radiant, and hearing his dear, glad voice tell of great adventures. Leif always came across great adventures, so that his tongue nearly ran away with him. There was the joy of noticing that his eye always sought her first, and really only her. It was a joy that he never found rest when near her, except at her side, and that he could only be quiet and lose himself in dreams when she held his hand. It was a joy finally to see him forget everything, even herself, when he had some purpose in his head, or was bent upon going to some other place. Even the pain at seeing herself thus forgotten was mingled with the deepest feelings of joy. For that was just Leif's way. He came so near her by leaving her. She loved him exactly as he was, regardless of limits and without consideration. Because he was one of those whom no bond holds, it was such a happy thing to know that he was hers, when he only remembered it—hers and no one else's.

And, besides, she knew that she could not cease to love him. She was so completely convinced that though in knightly bravery and unbounded courage he might, perhaps, have an equal, he could not have a superior. It was impossible for her to cease loving him.

Yes, Helga knew happiness. She knew what it was to love, and to feel herself beloved. She knew by experience how absence deepens and intensifies affection. She felt how her latent longing slowly grew, and was prepared to burst all bonds. She possessed in full measure woman's pure and unbounded devotion. Matured early as she was, Helga often reflected on the relation between Leif and her brother, Ingolf, which caused her distress. She was fond of her brother. Ingolf, though fundamentally different from Leif, was such that if she once had to leave him in order to follow Leif, she would not make Leif so complete and happy as she ungrudgingly wished him to be. Therefore the great difference in their characters caused her perpetual anxiety—an anxiety which flamed up anew whenever Leif and Ingolf became angry with each other, or even a little at variance. In her heart she accused them alternately—Ingolf, when his phlegmatic character irritated Leif; and Leif, when, by his hastiness and teasing, he provoked Ingolf. Neither Leif nor Ingolf had any suspicion of Helga's deep distress each time a trivial misunderstanding divided them for a short time. For Helga concealed her anxiety, and fought her battle in silence.

She was always on the watch for the fluctuations in their temperaments. She could always perceive when they had been at variance, even when they had been reconciled and had forgotten what had occurred, before they met her. When anything concerned them, she was as sensitive as a feather in the wind. And she did not cease till she had examined the cause of their disagreement to the minutest detail, and cleared away the remnants of ill-humour which might still remain in one or both of their minds. They felt sometimes that it was a little tiresome, being called to account in this way. But they reconciled themselves to it, because both were so fond of her, and because she was wise, quiet, and impartial. They did not guess at all that she fought for her future happiness with a heart torn by anxiety, that her calm had been won by a severe struggle, that her seeming cool, wise impartiality was a screen behind which she concealed herself.

Helga was the only one who, to a certain extent, discovered the real circumstances connected with their journey over the heath. She was also the only one who discovered that they had separated, and separated in anger. Finally, she was the only one who obtained a truthful account of the slaughter of the horse.

Originally it was by no means their intention that she should find out anything of the matter. When Ingolf and Leif had slept uninterruptedly for twenty-four hours after their return from Gaulum, they woke the second night, towards morning, hungry and depressed, and began to examine the situation. They hastily agreed only to say that they had ridden over the heath, and up there had been obliged to kill their only horse, and for the rest to maintain an obstinate silence. If Orn and Rodmar were in the mood to punish them, they must submit; and, for the rest, ride out the storm as well as they could.

They had soon discovered that Orn and Rodmar had more important things to think about. It was enough for them that the boys had returned home safe and sound. They told them, seriously, that it was not the custom of a man of honour to break a promise once given, and that, since they had done that, they could not yet be accounted men. That hurt their feelings rather, but had to be borne. Ingolf and Leif discovered once more that one escapes most cheaply when one has been most anxious. So lightly did their fathers deal with them.

With Helga it was another matter. She held on, and held on. For many days they fought manfully; they did not want to make her their confidante in the matter. But she was not to be shaken off. And at last there came the moment when their tongues were altogether loosed, and she got a full account, down to the minutest details.

It happened in the following way. Their plan of defence had been to take care that neither should be alone with her. For many days it had been impossible for her to find them in a remote spot; not once had she succeeded in getting one of them alone. When she saw that it was not a fair fight, she had recourse to stratagem. She kept silence for a few days, and they immediately became less vigilant. Then she brought out some wild apples which she had kept since the preceding summer. She made them believe that she had seen her chance to snatch them. The apples smelt delicious. Leif and Ingolf were immediately willing to share the supposed stolen goods with her. So she succeeded in luring them into her ambush—an outhouse where they could eat them quietly. She let them bolt the door carefully, so that they should not run the risk of being surprised. She took her seat on the edge of a sledge, and let the boys sit, one on each side of her. And then she spoke in a way to cut off all evasions, and made it impossible for them to be silent any longer. Too late they discovered that they had been caught in a trap.

Embarrassed and unhappy, they began their confession. With red faces and downcast eyes, they related brokenly and alternately what had happened between them on the heath in the evening and the night. Each of them accused himself and excused the other. But Helga, who listened with more than her ears only, became quite clear in her mind regarding what had happened.

Quite still she sat with bowed head, and let them tell their narrative. When they had finished and were silent, she still remained still, without moving or speaking a word. At last her silence seemed so strange to Leif that he lifted his head and looked at her in alarm. And what he saw increased his fear. She sat there by his side with her face white and, as it were, sunk in. Her eyes stared straight before her, her mouth was firmly closed, and tears trickled from her despairing eyes and ran down over her pale face. Leif felt an icy chill run through his whole body which made him shudder. This drew Ingolf's attention, and he also looked up. He had never seen his sister look like that; immediately he seized one of her hands. It was ice-cold, and remained passive in his.

Tears came to Leif's eyes, and he sat there inwardly helpless. It was not possible for him to bring out a word. He found nothing to say, and simply dared not open his mouth, for he was on the point of weeping.

Ingolf was the first to speak. He pressed his sister's limp hand, shook her arm cheerfully, and said: "You must not be so sad about that, Helga. We have forgotten it now. And each of us has certainly vowed in his heart that it shall never happen again."

Helga opened her mouth to answer him, but her tongue would not obey her. She had to struggle hard to control her emotion. When she had waited a little, she at last began to speak. "That is just it," she said, with a broken voice. "It always gets worse and worse with you—always more dangerous. When you are grown, you will not so easily get over it, nor so easily be reconciled afterwards. Perhaps you will even fight each other. Perhaps some day one of you will kill the other. If things go on like this, there will at last be hatred between you. And what shall I do?"

Ingolf and Leif sat and felt very uncomfortable. Both saw for once the relation between them with her eyes. She was right. Things were growing continually worse. It was no use to shut their eyes to the danger. The next time they fell out, it might be under such circumstances as would not admit of their being reconciled again. They had not been far from that this last time.

Ingolf was the first who found firm ground in his thoughts. A secret purpose was suddenly quickened in him. Hurriedly he rose and reached out his hand to Leif. "Leif, will you be my sworn brother?" he asked quietly, and there was in his voice and bearing that adult composure which made him at times seem older than he was.

Leif sprang up and took his hand. He could not bring out a word, but gripped hard. Helga remained sitting and looked from one to the other. Then she rose slowly, laid her hands over theirs, and gave each of them a kiss. "Now you are both my brothers," she said, and looked at the same time at Leif. Her look made Leif understand that he was more than a brother. He turned red, and smiled in an embarrassed way. He had the habit of blushing easily. His embarrassed smile was very charming.

They had forgotten the apples. Now they were produced, and helped them over the slight embarrassment which followed on their extreme seriousness. Gradually Leif and Helga talked fluently. Ingolf, on the other hand, did not say much. He sat and took a secret oath that henceforth he would be a man, and no overhastiness of temper should master him. Nothing should by any means divide him from Leif or Helga. Now he and Leif were actually brothers, and Leif and Helga would hold by each other, he knew. Seldom had he felt so happy as at this moment. Quite unconsciously he sat and enjoyed his sense of strength and quiet. He continued so to sit till Helga roused him with a question. Thus they talked easily and enjoyed being together. When they separated, they had agreed that the solemn ceremony of initiation into blood-brotherhood should take place in the spring at the great festival which was to be held at the chief temple at Gaulum.

VII

Orn and Rodmar were able to make the winter pass. They sat most days and every evening on the high-seat, drank beer, and enjoyed each other's society.

From the north came rumours of disturbance. There was still peace and no danger in Dalsfjord and its neighbourhood. But it was best to be prepared for everything.

Now that Halvdan the Black was dead, and his son, Harald, made King, though but ten years old, there were several kings and chiefs who suddenly conceived a desire for the kingdom which Halvdan the Black had established. It was rumoured that Harald and his uncle, Guttorm, who was to be regent during the two years remaining of Harald's minority, had already gone out to meet the disturbers of peace.

When Orn and Rodmar heard of it, they remembered the exploits of their youth. The latter had not lost anything by being related through many years. Listeners obtained the impression that Orn and Rodmar had been present at the most important events of the world, and decided their issue. And it was not only men whom they had encountered. They had met evil and hidden powers in manifold forms. And here they sat after all.

Orn and Rodmar were reasonable men, who spoke in moderation. When one had spoken, he gladly let the other have his turn. And while the one who was silent played the part of an attentive hearer, his look became absent, he thought of fresh exploits, brought them forth, and arranged them in his mind. Then when the other at last was silent he was fully prepared. But first he nodded courteously and said, "Yes! Yes!" very thoughtfully, and still kept silence for a moment to show that he had been following. Then all at once he became an active narrator. "But now here!"

The servants in the hall were amused, but not in any unbecoming way. They winked at each other when the old men did not see it. They did not grudge the old men their reminiscences, and partly believed them. But they were amused.

And Orn and Rodmar showed a startling faculty at their age in discovering how to outdo each other's tales.

When they had bragged their best, they went to the temple and offered their fattest animals to the gods, feasted in their honour, and gave them gifts. They did not feel quite sure whether the gods allowed so much pride. And one should not offend the gods, but keep on good terms with them.

Thus the days passed for Orn and Rodmar. They grew old, sitting in the high-seat and drinking beer. They drank much beer.

VIII

One morning, shortly after Ingolf had offered Leif blood-brotherhood, they went to their fathers to tell them, and ask their permission for the ceremony to take place at the feast at Gaulum the first day of summer.

Leif found his father in bed. When he had spoken, Rodmar praised his luck in strong language, added that he had always had better fortune than he deserved, further remarked that on the rare occasions that he caused his father joy it was always without any merit of his own, and bade him go his way and leave him, Rodmar, to his beer.

Orn was sitting in the high-seat, slaking his morning thirst, when Ingolf came before him and asked permission to speak. Orn granted it with a nod of his white-haired head. The slightly absent look did not disappear from his face; he listened without moving to what his son had to say. When Ingolf had spoken, Orn remained sitting silent. Ingolf was not sure whether he had heard what he had said or not. It was easy to see that he sat in deep reflection. Ingolf remained standing for a time, waiting for an answer. When he saw that it was in vain, and that his father had probably forgotten that he stood there, he silently departed.

Orn did not touch his drinking-horn again that day. He busied himself with his thoughts, and was taciturn. Long before his usual time he sought his couch. Early next morning he summoned Ingolf curtly and bade him follow him. He led him to an outhouse where the tools of the house were kept, and bolted the door carefully. Then he took his seat on a chopping-block in the middle of the floor and sat silent. Ingolf stood before him, awaiting what he had to say, and carefully restraining his impatience.

"Sit down," said Orn at last thoughtfully.

Ingolf sat down on some lumber which had been piled up against the main wall. So they remained sitting a considerable time. Orn was long in commencing. "You have told me," he began at last, speaking very slowly and, with constant pauses, "that you intend to enter into blood-brotherhood with your cousin, Leif. I must presume that you are acquainted with duties of blood-brotherhood, and have carefully considered the matter, and also that you have not let yourself be surprised into talking rash vows, or have followed your feelings alone without consulting your understanding. I will not disguise from you that I could have wished a better brother for you in this. And I leave it to your discretion whether the circle of your brotherhood should not be extended so as also to include Atle Jarl's sons. On many grounds I have been led to understand that these young men, especially Haasten, would not be unwilling to exchange the bond of friendship for that of brotherhood. It needs but a word on your part, perhaps only a hint. My opinion is that you would stand stronger alone than with Leif as your sworn brother. You ought to be intelligent enough yourself to perceive that. But the three would balance Leif, and more than that. You would stand stronger afterwards, especially if another tie subsequently should unite us to Atle's sons, which I do not regard as impossible. For the rest, Leif is certainly our kinsman. We should therefore look after him, and perhaps he is best bound in that way. I do not wish to say more about the matter."

Orn was silent for a long time. Presently he resumed. "I feel I am growing old. The days depart and do not return to me. They seem, as it were, to go a very little way, and there is nothing to hold fast to in them; they slip through my hands."

He coughed, reflected, and began again. "Therefore I have considered that perhaps it would be best if I were to make over to you our property to manage. It will be good for you to be early accustomed to command people and to bear responsibility. And you are certainly a child no longer. I will therefore gladly see, before I die, how you prosper when you manage by yourself. For the rest, I leave matters without anxiety to you, and I shall be at hand, and can be useful. I will also advise Rodmar to do the same for Leif. Your task will certainly be increased by that, for you will have to look after your kinsman, at any rate at first. But since you wish to enter into brotherhood with him, you must bear the consequences. There is no more to be said about it at present. We must have time to prepare the matter, and can return to it later. There was also another thing I wished to speak to you about today."

Orn was silent and reflected. Then he commenced again hesitatingly, not without a certain embarrassment. "I often heard in her time your mother speaking with you. It is now long since, and you were little at the time. Probably you have forgotten some of what she said. But I have noticed that you have remembered part of it—perhaps you remember every word. I have never spoken to you of your mother. You have never given occasion for it, and one should not talk too much. When one talks too much, words easily become mere wind. Therefore I have never hitherto spoken with you about something, of which, however, I wish to speak with you—not because I believe it necessary—perhaps you are already as clear on the matter as myself—but because I want you to remember that I have spoken to you. The fact that I cannot well postpone it has also determined me to speak now.

"You know that Odin and Thor are especially my gods. They have been the gods of our family as far back as tradition goes, and I want you, like your forefathers, to hold them especially in honour. If you do that, it will go well with you. For wisdom and strength are the two things a man must have. If he has them, he has honour too, in Valhalla as well as here upon earth. Goods and gold, power over men, and great possessions are good things, which you should strive to acquire, and hold fast when you have them. But all those things can, in case of need, be dispensed with. Honour is the one indispensable thing, because, after all, it is the only thing that uplifts a man, and the only thing that survives him on earth, when he is dead and done with. And because honour can be lost during a man's lifetime, a dead man with honour preserved is happier than the man who is still alive, and whose honour is exposed to peril. It is not necessary to impress upon you anything else than that; when your honour is concerned, you must be prepared to stake your life. The memory of a man outlives him. And honour casts a glory over a man's memory, just as dishonour casts a shadow. No man in our family has a shadow on his memory. This is the most important thing which I wish to say to you. But if you have the patience to hear me, I have something more to say. And that is this. You shall respect your land's law and justice, for as long as you have not renounced its law, you are bound by it, and dishonour yourself by breaking it. You shall not stir up unnecessary quarrels, but avoid disunion and strife, as long as your honour is not injured. Peace in the land produces fruitful fields. But if you have a lawful vengeance to inflict, do so with a heavy hand, as behoves one born to such a place as yours. But be always ready for reconciliation when it is offered sincerely. An honourable reconciliation is preferable to a victory which may carry in it the seed of future defeat.

"And never break a treaty, for only a wretch ignores his vows, only a traitor breaks his word. A brave man is prepared to support his least word with his life, thereby the high-born are recognized. The churl, on the other hand, regards his word as nothing more than the breath of his mouth. His tongue shall be eaten of snakes, and his evil memory will ride his soul like a nightmare for ever."

Orn had become excited. Then he was silent, composed himself again, meditated, and was still.

When he had finished meditating, he rose solemnly and drew from his arm a heavy gold bracelet graven with runes and signs. Ingolf sprang up when his father rose, and remained standing before him with bowed head, and his bright face slightly flushed.

Orn spoke: "This bracelet has for a long time belonged to our race, and has always been an heirloom in the head branch of the family. Some of those who bore it have worn it till their death. Others have transferred it to the future wearer when they found that their time was near. My son, I am growing old, and it is no use to deny it or to hide it. Forgetfulness is getting more and more the mastery over me. Reach me your hand."

Ingolf stretched out his right hand, and raised his head. There was a moist glimmer in his eyes. Deeply moved, Orn drew the bracelet on his arm. "Now you wear the ring."

Ingolf fell on his knees before the old man, and Orn made the sign of the Hammer over his head, and said quietly: "Odin give you wisdom, and Thor strength. Frey make your land fruitful, and Njord guide your seafaring! All the bright Ases help thee! Rise, my son."

Ingolf rose silently. Orn laid his hands on his shoulders, looked for a moment closely at him, and let him go. They went out into the courtyard of the house. For a while they stood there silent, side by side, and looked out over the landscape where the snow-covered mountains rose and the valleys sank. Ingolf saw everything, as it were, with new eyes. The fjord was such a crystal blue, and seemed to have something to say to him. The dark edge of the wood, which he caught a glimpse of here and there, held today a secret and certain promise of the spring and the snow-free earth. The sky was high and clear, and the day had a solemn stillness about it. The frost in the air seemed to be relaxing. In Ingolf's eyes the whole scene wore a solemn aspect, and seemed in a way newborn. Even the low houses with snow-covered roofs seemed to have altered their appearance, and looked twice as home-like. When Orn went in, Ingolf remained standing there, and enjoyed the freshness of the day.

Orn went straight in to the high-seat and his drinking-horn. His throat had become dry from much talk. He emptied the horn in a moment and had it filled afresh. He emptied the horn many times that day.

IX

Ingolf informed Leif in carefully-chosen words that his father would be glad if they extended the proposed brotherhood so as to include the sons of Atle. Leif stood looking down while Ingolf talked. As soon as Ingolf had spoken the first word, he felt sorry that he had brought the question up at all. Leif's attitude had an effect on him. He stood and fumbled with words which would not arrange themselves properly.

When he finished, Leif looked up askance at him. He did not say much at first.

Ingolf felt a profound and unusual depression. He felt as if he had in some degree deceived Leif. "I only wished to tell you that," he tried to add, but was quite sure that his voice did not sound convincing.

"What do you think yourself?" asked Leif at last quietly, and looked up again, still with a rather unsteady glance.

"I have never thought about brotherhood with Atle's sons," answered Ingolf quietly, suddenly recovering his equilibrium. "I have offered you brotherhood with myself alone, and am therefore prevented from forming brotherhood with another. But I understand from what my father said that there perhaps was a possibility that Atle's sons would like to enter into brotherhood with us. And in such a case I would like to know your opinion beforehand."

"I have never contemplated forming brotherhood with Holmsten," answered Leif in a quiet, firm voice, quite different from his usual one. "In fact, I do not choose to be everybody's brother."

"Well, let us say no more about it." Ingolf tried to speak lightly.

But Leif continued. There was a tremor of swelling wrath and distress in his quiet voice. "I understand well that for you a brotherhood with Atle's sons is quite a different thing from brotherhood with me. By entering into the blood-tie with them you gain power and consideration. Do you enter alone into brotherhood with Atle Jarl's sons; I will not stand in the way. I release you from your word. I am able to stand alone."

Ingolf paused a little and then said: "You misunderstand me, Leif. I only want to bring the matter before you. It is possible that I should not have done that. But I took for granted that we might already talk together like brothers. I will gladly confess that, for my part, I might think it good to enter into brotherhood with Atle's sons—yes, I should even like to have Haasten for a brother. But I could not think of entering into any brotherhood without you. There is no one else whom I would rather be brother to, and that you know well, or ought to know. No power could induce me to release you from your word, Leif."

Leif stood thoughtful awhile. Then he raised his head and looked in Ingolf's eyes with a firm and trustful look. "I know well," he said in the same quiet tone, "that I am not the best brother you could have. But you shall never have reason to find fault with my faithfulness. I imagine, Ingolf, that you are afraid that I shall some day be the cause of enmity between you and Atle's sons. With my good will that shall not happen. My temper shall never again get the mastery of me before Holmsten. That I swear to you. I know that you like Holmsten, and that you wish to preserve that friendship. You shall see that you can trust me."

The two cousins pressed each other's hands in silence. They referred no more to the matter.

X

There came a beggar to the house: an old bent man, clothed in dirty rags and torn leather, entered the hall one evening and took a place by the fire on the outer-most bench. There he sat and warmed his crooked fingers, that were blue with cold, and meanwhile squinted about him with pale, cunning eyes. As he sat there, his yellow beard, in which a quantity of nondescript rubbish had been caught, hung down between his legs. His grey hair lay in tatters over his back. But his powerful eyebrows were the most marked feature in his face. Grey and bushy, they almost concealed his eyes when they were lowered, and he had a habit sometimes of drawing them both up together and slightly lifting one at a time, which gave his face a strangely mobile, almost animal, expression.

He was questioned regarding news from the north, but had little information to give. As soon as it was evident that he had nothing important to communicate, he was allowed to sit in peace and warm himself. It seemed as if he valued being left to himself. When he had sat for a while and warmed his hands, he loosed the rags from off his legs and stretched his feet to the fire. They were a marvel of knotted bones and dirt. He looked exhausted. Some remains of the evening meal were brought him. He received the food with a grunt, set it upon his knee, and began eating. With eager hands he first sought the best bits, and, groping about in the food, turned the contents of the dish round, chewing with his whole head. He certainly could eat.

Ingolf and Leif had sought a place near him, and sat looking attentively at him.

"I think he can hold as much in his maw as a cow," whispered Leif, absorbed in looking at him. "And he mumbles just like a cow chewing the cud. Ha! Ha! What an old swine he is!"

The beggar emptied the dish so that only bare bones remained. Then he gulped comfortably and relieved himself of air. Subsequently he fell into a cosy nap while he digested. Thus he sat for some time, apparently sound asleep. But suddenly he raised his eyebrows both together and peered round him with wide-open pale eyes.

Ingolf and Leif had come near to him, and were contemplating him closely—one his legs, and the other his face. They had seldom seen anything like him. He was certainly a remarkable object both above and below. He sat for a time and looked at them without saying anything, looked from one to the other, contemplated them closely, and gave himself plenty of time.

"Point and sword," he said at last in a deep bass tone. "When the point breaks, exploits are over.... But you sit where you should." He turned suddenly to Ingolf and thrust his face with his wide-opened eyes close to his. Then he drew his head back, murmuring in a deep tone, as though at his own thoughts. The boys believed at first that he talked in delirium. They sat still and only stared at him—Leif with his mouth half open. "A curious creature!" he thought, and felt internally much amused.

The old man remained still for some time, looking closely and a little cunningly from one to the other. Their staring did not seem to affect him. "Shall I tell you something?" he asked at last, growling, and winking meaningly with his pale eyes. "Shall I tell you about the new land?"