Leif sat doubled up with laughter and watched Ingolf and his men

dragging with solemn intentness the worm-eaten and bedizened pillars of

the gods from the temple down to the ship. Was Ingolf, then, no wiser?

Helga awoke from her trance of happiness as she stood with her hand

in Hjor-Leif's and sailed out between some small islands covered with

spruce and fir, from whence a strong pine-scent was carried towards

her by a gentle breeze. Hjor-Leif felt her hand grow cold in his. He

clasped the slender fingers more closely. Had he clasped them too

closely? Her little hand began suddenly to tremble in his. He looked

into her eyes with a searching and slightly troubled look. But there

was nothing the matter. She smiled her quietest and happiest smile at

him. He kissed her, made her sit in shelter, and wrapped a skin round

her, so that she should not feel cold. Soon they were outside the

islands. The wind blew stronger and more steadily. Before the bellying

sails the two heavily loaded ships steered over a sea blue with spring.

VI

The sworn brothers' ships lay rolling violently, rocking and pitching

in the heavy swell south of Iceland. The day was calm and warm. High

light clouds were spread over the deep blue vault of heaven. The sun

poured his strong spring light in broad floods over sea and land.

That day it was fourteen days since they had sailed out from Dalsfjord.

For fourteen days they had been in the power of the wind. A storm

which tore the sails and broke the yards had driven them about over a

raging sea, which ceaselessly sent cold showers of spray over the low

gunwales. From morning till evening, from evening till morning, four

men had stood in each vessel with the two baling scoops, working for

life to keep the water out. In spite of being continually relieved

the men were at last so worn out and wasted that they could scarcely

eat, and fell asleep and rolled over wherever they sat down even for a

moment.

By continual watchfulness and clever seamanship the brothers had

succeeded in keeping their vessels together. Each stood day and night

at the rudder. Only in the short intervals when the wind turned, or

there was a short pause, did they throw themselves down to sleep for

the moment as if dead. They had no time to think of Helga and Hallveig.

Helga was careful not to be in the way. She rendered the small service

she was able to do under these circumstances as much as possible

without making herself observed. Hallveig sat with her boy in her lap

and let the wind blow and the storm rage. She kept her eyes on Ingolf

and felt safe.

The sworn brothers fought for life and death with storm and sea. The

great thing was to hold out, not to give up, not to think of anything

but what concerned the steering and the quantity of canvas they should

carry, not to be wearied, not to lose one's head--to hold out, to hold

out. It was just this unceasing struggle which kept up their courage

and spirits.

The animals were ill and starving; some of them died and had to be

thrown overboard, others lay in their last agonies, pitiable to see.

Much of their corn and other food-stores was spoilt by the dense

showers of spray. The fresh water in the casks sank regularly and

irremediably. The men went about slackly, and had to be kept going with

a hard hand. There was hardly anything on board which was not otherwise

than it should be, and giving reason for deep anxiety. But the brothers

held out.

When at last on the previous day they had seen on the extreme verge of

the northern horizon a light from the snow-covered interior of the new

land like a faint white gleam, each had thought within himself that it

was not a day too soon.

During the last twenty-four hours the storm had at last slowly quieted

down, and now they lay here, held up by a presumably only short calm,

a few hours' sail from the coast, and gazed curiously and expectantly

over the sea at the land in the blue distance.

The ships lay side by side, kept in their places by long boat-hooks,

only so far from each other as was necessary in order to prevent their

chafing and injuring their sides.

Hjor-Leif and Helga had gone on board Ingolf's vessel in order to

greet him and Hallveig and to talk over the situation. All four were

seated, Hallveig with her little boy in her arms, on the stern poop.

After the severe trial they had passed through there was a silence over

them which was difficult to break. They had not yet grown properly

accustomed to the fact that life and death did not hang on each moment

as it passed. Therefore they spoke but little. Towards the north-east

and north-west the soft lines of the slightly rising and falling

glaciers stood out behind the blue mountains that crowned this flat

land. The brothers followed the changing contours of the country with a

peculiar tenderness in their eyes. But their gaze always turned back to

the glaciers which shone sparkling white in the strong sunshine.

Hallveig and Helga also could not turn away their eyes from the

glaciers. The few words which they now and then exchanged were said

in low tones, as if they sat in a temple, and not at sea on a swaying

vessel.

Ingolf and Hjor-Leif had long sat silent side by side, inspecting the

land with keen eyes. Between a projecting point a long way to the

east, and another far to the west, there stretched a flat, unbroken

coast-line, distinctly marked by a white edge of rolling surf.

"It will be difficult to land here," concluded Leif at last, in a

slightly hard and irritated tone. "Also, it seems as if most of the

land nearest the shore is barren sand."

"There are enough landing-places by the points," Ingolf answered

quietly, "and behind the sands the land may be good and fertile, even

close up to the glaciers. We saw that on the eastern side last summer."

Ingolf was in secret rather disappointed that they had not found the

Svanefjords again. But he did not speak about it. It was not possible

to look for them now. At present, the great thing was to get on land as

quickly as possible, and almost anywhere, so that the men and animals

could have a good rest and recover.

The sworn brothers had agreed that they must settle for the summer

and the coming winter on the spot where they landed. Afterwards they

might look out for a permanent residence. Ingolf had very decided views

with regard to the choice of a dwelling-place. These views, however,

he had not yet confided to Hjor-Leif, nor to any one else. The matter

concerned the gods, and in all that concerned them his brother's

attitude was a foregone conclusion. Hjor-Leif, on his part, only

thought of finding a pleasant and fertile spot, preferably by the sea,

and protected by the mountains, where he could feel himself at home and

be comfortable.

For a long time they sat in silence, each deep in thought. Ingolf

reflected how he had best communicate his plan to Hjor-Leif. He saw

at once that it was no good to be silent about it longer. For already,

before they departed from here, it must be put into execution. He sat

and felt rather perplexed inwardly, and could not find words.

At that moment Hjor-Leif was sitting and reflecting over an experience

which he had had the previous night. He had lain asleep in his bearskin

bag while his old headman took charge of the tiller. Suddenly he

started up from sleep, having certainly dreamt of something or other he

could not remember, and as he did so he collided with a man who must

have been stooping over him. It was one of his Irish serfs, Duftak,

a man whose evil eye had followed him since he once in wrath had

stretched him on the ground with a well-deserved blow. Hjor-Leif was

not certain, but it seemed to him that the serf had thrown something

or other which he had in his hand overboard, just as he had stumbled

against him and stood opposite him. He thought he had heard a little

splash as when a hard object strikes the water. But he was by no means

certain of the matter, and neither the serf's eyes nor his behaviour

had betrayed anything. He had asked him what he was doing here, and it

seemed that he had come to look after a roll of rope which lay close

by. Hjor-Leif had had his thoughts occupied the whole day by this

occurrence. He had already observed for a long time that the serf's

eyes followed Helga wherever she went and stood, with an evil and at

the same time covetous look. He could not understand why he had not

already thrown the serf overboard, and why he did not intend to do so.

He was quite sure that it was not from fear, although there seemed

to be a peculiar understanding among his Irish serfs. It was rather

because he could not do without serfs, and because if he killed one of

them it would be safest to kill them all.

At length Leif unwillingly shook these thoughts off, and asked curtly:

"We shall sail southward, I suppose, when the wind gets up again?"

Ingolf was silent. It was certainly about an equal distance to the two

points, and he had a very great desire to seek a landing-place near the

more easterly of the two.

Instead of giving a direct answer, he began cautiously: "I have

thought, brother, that I for my part will let the gods decide where I

should settle in this new land."

Leif, whose temper at the moment was a little off its balance because

of the incident with the serf, gave a hard laugh: "How will you go

about it?"

Ingolf pointed to the pillars of his high-seat, which lay lashed

together with strong skin straps above a pile amidships.

"I will throw the pillars of my high-seat overboard. Wherever they

drift to land, I will settle."

"Even if they drift to land in the middle of the sands here?" asked

Hjor-Leif incredulously and a little scornfully.

"The gods will know how to find the place where it will be best for me

and my family to settle," answered Ingolf, undisturbed. "I lay with

confidence the choice of a dwelling in their hand."

Hjor-Leif was silent for a long time. There was a hard and pitiless

line round his large mouth. There was Ingolf again with his cursed

gods! At last he spoke, without looking at anything: "Instead, then,

of our choosing a place for ourselves where the earth is fertile and

luxuriant we are to settle wherever it pleases the wind and current to

wash up a pair of dead planks on shore."

He talked himself into a bad temper. And he wound up bitterly: "We

shall hardly be neighbours, then, brother!"

Ingolf sprang up from his place. He was on the point of giving an angry

answer when he remembered suddenly a snowy day when he and Hjor-Leif

had ridden alone over a desolate heath. He shut his lips tightly, and

stood for a while silent, leaning against the tiller. In his eyes

there was a seeking look which wandered in perplexity over the water.

The sun's glimmer dazzled his eyes. He could not find a word kind and

cautious enough to answer with. But his resolve stood immovably firm.

Suddenly he collected himself, and, calling a couple of his men, bade

them take the high-seat pillars down from the pile and lay them on the

gunwale. So he stood for a little and let his hands glide carefully

over the age-browned wood.

Hjor-Leif sat watching with a hard, evil look in his grey eyes.

Cautiously Ingolf let the pillars glide overboard. He remained

standing, and followed them with his eyes as they lay there floating on

the bright, oily water. Hjor-Leif could only see his back. There was an

air of decision and resolve about that back which irritated him still

further. Hallveig and Helga had followed the conversation, and now sat

silent and anxious, not daring to look at each other. Helga did not

at all reflect which of the two was more in the right. She was simply

troubled. In her gentle mind there rose a strange, impotent fear which

made her heart beat heavily and painfully.

Hallveig, on the other hand, was at first in her inmost heart on the

point of justifying Hjor-Leif. At the first moment it appeared to her

that one's own eyes' choice of a dwelling could always be as good as

that of blind gods, nay, really much safer. But when she had sat for a

while with her firm, open gaze fixed on Ingolf's back, a change took

place in her mind. The air of security and assurance which was about

her husband's whole person, and which his back just now so distinctly

expressed, had an unconscious effect upon her. She understood all of

a sudden that it was just this sign from the gods which was needed

in order to attach her husband's heart firmly and unbreakably to his

new home. There, where the pillars of his high-seat drifted on shore,

Ingolf would feel himself at home with all his soul and in spite of

reason. The gods' choice of the place would give his strength and

will the firm ground without which, in spite of all his strength, he

could not thrive. On a spot so chosen Ingolf would force happiness and

prosperity to dwell in the face of every imaginable difficulty. For in

alliance with his gods he was invincible.

Hallveig sat there and became assured and peaceful in mind.

She understood that it was from an unwaveringly sure and wise instinct

that Ingolf acted when he cast the pillars overboard. It was of vital

importance to him to feel himself in covenant with his gods and in

possession of their favour.

Hallveig stooped over her little boy and kissed him on the forehead,

and remained sitting for a while with bowed head, lest any should see

she had tears in her eyes.

With beating heart Ingolf stood and watched his treasured pillars

tossed by the billows, lightly, aimlessly, as though they were ordinary

pieces of driftwood. It was not without severe internal conflicts that

he had resolved to deliver his dearest possession to the power of the

sea. But here life was at stake. It was not only a matter of finding a

place where his cattle could graze and his house stand, but of finding

exactly _that_ place which the gods willed to grant him and his family.

The place where they could know he would stay for the future. The place

where his and his family's happiness and prosperity were not only under

his but under their care and responsibility.

When Ingolf had stood for a long time watching the pillars, which

gradually drifted astern in an easterly direction, his displeasure

towards his brother disappeared. He turned slowly, and, with a peculiar

smile upon his young face towards the others, went quietly and seated

himself by the side of Hjor-Leif.

"What do you think of our choosing the eastern point as a

landing-place, brother?" he asked in a quiet and friendly tone.

The question irritated Leif. There was no talk of choice; it was merely

a question where a piece of driftwood should decide their landing.

"I have already for my part chosen the west," he answered firmly, and

at the same time as quietly as he could, and not without a certain

satisfaction at the effect of his words.

But it was not only on Ingolf that Leif's answer had the effect of

a well-directed blow. Both Hallveig and Helga felt that here was

something evil and dangerous going on. Quite involuntarily Helga called

Hjor-Leif's name in a supplicating tone. She had no idea of wishing to

influence him in the least degree. She knew him, and was aware that it

was hopeless. The word fell like a prayer from her gentle and anxious

soul. In one hot wave the blood mounted to Hjor-Leif's head when he

heard Helga's voice. "You can remain with your brother, since you

prefer that to following me." The bitter words leapt from his mouth.

Helga broke down in a heavy and despairing fit of weeping. Leif sat

motionless, and apparently un-moved. But in his breast there tore and

tugged a fierce and intolerable pain which was not far from making him

powerless. It was not at all, as it now appeared, a sudden whim which

caused him not to wish to have Helga on board again. It was the scene

by night with the serf, Duftak, which from the beginning had given rise

to the thought in him that Helga would be really safer on Ingolf's

ship. Some vague and groundless presentiment or other, which made him

still more sensitive and impatient, told him that there was danger in

the journey for him and Helga. It was nothing but pure tenderness for

Helga which made him resolve that they should part before they were all

quite on shore. This time he had not thought of parting from Ingolf.

But in a moment Hjor-Leif was completely in the power of his restless

temperament which, as so often before, distorted his words and actions

and drove him to hasty resolves. To separate from the others, and seek

another landing-place, with the prospect perhaps of not seeing them

for a whole year, was for him a much greater trial than for Ingolf,

to whose equable temperament a year's separation contained nothing

unthinkable or alarming. Hjor-Leif could really not imagine how he

could hold out merely a month, much less a whole year, without them.

And if he now chose to land in another place than Ingolf, each for the

present would have to remain where he landed. But it was completely

impossible for him to expose his dependence and pain at parting. He

could neither humble himself nor subdue his spirit so far as to enable

them to discuss matters reasonably. As soon as the fateful words were

out of his mouth he was helplessly in their power.

While thoughts and feelings were rushing like violent streams through

Hjor-Leif's lacerated soul, Ingolf had already succeeded in reviewing

the matter reasonably. In separation there was the advantage that the

one who first found a landing-place could, by kindling a fire on his

point, inform the other, who perhaps would be seeking a landing-place

in vain, where he could look for one. Ingolf, with a seaman's practised

eye, had long before discovered that the coast here was difficult,

not to say impossible to land on. It confronted the open sea. The

heavy swells, which were certainly almost always prevalent here, would

shatter any ship that tried to land on the sands. It was by no means

unlikely that the character of the coast near the two points might be

equally difficult. And it was impossible to know if the coast east or

south of the points was better. Since Leif now wished it, Ingolf had

for his part nothing against their separation, for some days or for a

year, as it might happen. He therefore quietly proposed that whoever

first succeeded in landing should kindle a fire on his point as a

signal to the other. The latter could then make for that place, if he

had not found another harbour before, or in the contrary case might

answer with a fire on his point.

Hjor-Leif briefly agreed to this arrangement. It was he who had settled

that they should separate, and yet it was a severe disappointment to

him that it was now finally decided on. "I may come southward in the

spring, if I have not by that time found my pillars," said Ingolf

quietly, when the matter of the fires had been settled. "But if I

should not come, I will send you a messenger, if I have not heard from

you before."

Hjor-Leif nodded curtly. It was incomprehensible to him that Ingolf

could sit there and talk so quietly, as if nothing had happened between

them and everything was all right.

"If you find my pillars," Ingolf continued, with the same immovable

calm, "take good care of them, and let me know of the discovery as soon

as possible."

Hjor-Leif made no answer. Internally he swore that if he had the luck

to find the infernal pillars it would be a joy to him to let the fire

devour them.

All conversation gradually died out among the four persons who sat

there, swinging on the sea, swayed by the balance of fate, each mind

filled with its characteristic inner thoughts, peace or unrest, wearing

pain or assured contentment--sat there in the grip of their own souls

and of blind powers, while the brilliant spring day glided into a

light, soft night.

The red sun-gold over the sea in the west faded and died away into

other and colder colours. The world was new and strange, and charged

with presentiment as always on the boundary between day and night. The

four sat there, and let the day go and night come over their peaceful

or irritated silence. Ingolf's little boy, Thorsten, slept quietly

in his mother's bosom. All around was quiet. Peace was there for

whomsoever had a mind to receive it. The brothers sat side by side,

yet each in his own world. Ingolf, as always, kept his mind collected,

was his natural self, and knew it. Just as he ate what nourished his

body of the good things of sea and earth, so his mind absorbed whatever

benefited him from the changing moods of day and night, sea and heaven

and earth. Everything else remained lying untouched and harmless

outside the tightly closed circle of his mind.

With Hjor-Leif it was otherwise. He had no collectedness in his mind.

Every kind of experience or mood which approached him was seized by the

tentacles of his restless heart. Evil and good, health and injury--his

hungry nature swallowed and satiated itself with all, without any other

result than merely to increase his burning desire for something--a

condition or an experience--he knew no name for it. In a measure he was

himself just as Ingolf was. But his self was volatile and difficult to

grasp. It died away in grief and gladness, as though it were a part of

them.

Thus the night passed. And when day again bordered the east, it was

followed by a gentle breeze from the sea which could be used for

sailing equally westward or eastward.

Hjor-Leif rose and heaved a heavy sigh in the cool morning air. His

last hope: A stiff breeze from the west, which would oblige him

to follow his brother, was gone. Helga and Ingolf both rose with

Hjor-Leif. Helga went to him, put her arm round his neck, and pressed

close to him. No prayer came from her lips, but her whole soul was a

prayer.

Hjor-Leif examined his mind and found a fear there--some misty

foreboding of impending disaster, which determined him to stand firm,

to be hard both towards himself and towards her.

He responded to her caress, but not in the whole-hearted way which

would allow him to forget his words and revoke his determination not to

let her follow him. There was a distinct air of separation in his kiss

and in the gentle passing of his hand over her luxuriant fair hair.

So Helga gave up her hope and submitted silently to his will, as she

had always done.

Hjor-Leif silently gave Hallveig his hand in farewell. She looked

firmly and inquiringly at him, and pressed his hand silently. There was

something about Hjor-Leif, the man who was so unlike Ingolf, and whom

she did not understand, that stirred something in her heart.

When he had left her, she suddenly called after him: "Good-bye,

Hjor-Leif, till we meet again. We shall take good care of Helga."

Hjor-Leif turned towards her with a forced and wry smile on his

irregular features--a smile which betrayed such a pathetic and

involuntary gratitude that, immediately after he had turned and gone,

Helga fell into Hallveig's arms, and both wept. They had suddenly

divined, with the sure instinct of women, that it was out of tenderness

and love that Hjor-Leif had let Helga remain behind. There was much in

the whole sudden arrangement which they did not understand, but this

they did.

Ingolf followed Hjor-Leif to the gunwale amidships. The men were

engaged in drawing the ships close together with boat-hooks. The

distance between them had gradually become so small that he could soon

spring over into his own ship.

"I do not rightly understand why you let Helga remain behind," Ingolf

said at last, when Hjor-Leif already had his foot on the gunwale.

Hjor-Leif paused, and stood still a little, without meeting Ingolf's

searching look. "I cannot give you any reason," he answered at last,

and the hardness and gruffness in his voice spoke of feelings of quite

another sort in his heart, "except that in my judgment it is the best

for her."

Ingolf's whole bearing clearly showed that the answer did not satisfy

him.

Hjor-Leif became irritated. "I have ten serfs and only ten freemen," he

continued in a firm and rather annoyed tone, for he did not like, not

only before Ingolf, but also before himself, to clothe his forebodings

in such a distinct shape. "I cannot always be at hand, and the serfs

are not reliable. I may fall sick and misfortune come upon us. Many

things may happen. Are you satisfied?"

Hjor-Leif's tone was still equally hard and unyielding. But Ingolf

had seen through him, and smilingly reached him his hand. Hjor-Leif

squeezed it with his iron claw so that it hurt, and stood meanwhile

with averted face; his features worked visibly, and he bit his lip till

the blood came. Hastily he let go of Ingolf's hand, and at the same

moment sprang into his own ship.

Immediately afterwards Ingolf heard his voice from it. It was cuttingly

sharp, and rose higher and higher in a torrent of words. It soon

appeared that Hjor-Leif had quickly succeeded in putting life into his

men. Soon after, his ship, with sail hoisted, glided away before the

light breeze.

Ingolf stood and thought that such a lonely year might do Hjor-Leif

good. He would be a different man the next time they saw him. Ingolf

only lent a momentary hearing to the voice of a strange wounded and

groundless sense of loss in his soul. Quietly he turned round, roused

his tired men mildly, and bade them hoist sail and make the vessel

clear.

As early as the next night Hjor-Leif saw a fire shine from Ingolf's

point. So Ingolf was already on land, and everything was right there.

Hjor-Leif had not fared so well. The westerly breeze he had so strongly

desired had come when he had no more use for it. It had come too late,

and very inopportunely. After forty-eight hours he lay here pitching

in the choppy seas, tacking as well as he could without getting much

nearer his object. There was not a drop of fresh water on board. The

Irish serfs had discovered how to knead meal and butter into a mess

they called _mintak_, and declared that it was a food one did not get

thirsty by eating. None the less, all were suffering with thirst, and

the animals were in a miserable condition, unable to swallow a straw of

the hay they had brought with them. The _mintak_ quickly fermented, and

the whole mass had to be thrown overboard.

It was only Hjor-Leif's wretched and indomitable obstinacy which

prevented him from taking advantage of the wind and quickly running his

ship to Ingolf's point. By doing so all his sufferings would have been

got rid of at once. It needed only a little resolution, a slight change

of mind. The wind was there, the light was there. The fire gleamed

and beckoned. All was well so far. The only difficulty was that the

deciding little possibility was wanting--the possibility of Hjor-Leif's

bending his mind the little bit that was necessary--the possibility of

giving way. In Hjor-Leif's volatile soul there towered a steep rock.

He would see his animals perish of hunger and thirst, his crew perish

one by one, and himself die by any death whatever rather than turn his

vessel and use the favourable wind.

At last, on the evening of the third day, a little rain fell, and

Hjor-Leif succeeded in collecting some water in the outspread sail.

That refreshed both men and animals. Not till four days after Ingolf

had kindled his fire did he see a fire burning in answer on Hjor-Leif's

point. When he told Helga that, she went up on the point, sat by

herself, and stared fixedly at the faint red light, sometimes hardly

visible, far to the south-west. There she remained sitting for two days

and nights, as long as Hjor-Leif kept up his fire in order to be sure

that it should be seen.

Ingolf and Hallveig had at last begun to be anxious for Helga, for she

ate nothing, did not sleep, and hardly answered when they spoke to her.

But when after these two days spent up there on the point she returned

to the tents, she was herself again, and had recovered her old

self-command. There was nothing to show either Ingolf or Hallveig that

she carried about a burning sense of bereavement. Neither did they know

that she lay whole and half nights sleepless, breathing in fancy the

rich, delicious scent of pine trees.

VII

For the second time in his life Hjor-Leif lost his spirits completely.

After closer reflection he found his lonely situation so meaningless

and unjust, so devoid of all reconciling elements such as, for example,

a prospect of adventures or opportunity for exploits--in brief, so

utterly irrational, that he involuntarily began to show his teeth at

existence by drowning himself in perpetual melancholy, only now and

then interrupted by isolated attacks of ill-temper.

The days encountered him heavily and sulkily. It seemed as if all their

endeavours were directed to show him in earnest _how_ empty and tedious

and intolerable they could be, if they seriously set about it. The

bright, cloudless summer days sneered at him when they met him with

ice-cold scornful light from sunrise to sunset. Grey and rainy days, on

the other hand, showed him without disguise their dull side. Hjor-Leif

could not come to an agreement with himself which of the two kinds of

days was really the more intolerable. They were all alike impossible.

The one point he was clear about with regard to the days was that he

had without doubt still the worst remaining. He cursed them with oaths

which were powerful both in length and strength, and derived from an

inexhaustible supply. But they were no help--not even momentarily. In

the battle with the days he suffered one defeat after another; they

were far stronger than he. They were invincible. And they possessed,

although he daily experienced that, in spite of all, they did pass, a

peculiarity of appearing endless, which deprived him of all hope.

Hjor-Leif tried in every way to put a little meaning into them.

He set his freemen to build a winter dwelling, a house nineteen fathoms

long. It was to contain them all, together with their wives. He had

only taken young, newly married people with him from Norway, with the

single exception of his old headman. Hjor-Leif did what he could to

take a little interest in the work. But it was only self-deception. The

days did not for a moment let go their wild-beast clutch on his neck.

He set the serfs to build a house eighteen fathoms long, and

bullied them till they quailed and shivered and fell into helpless

embarrassment merely at the sight of him. Yes, he instilled a wholesome

terror into the Irish serfs. They slunk about, and hardly knew whether

to walk upright or on all fours. And they had no eyes--at any rate,

there seemed no more any sight in their eyes. Regarding them, he

felt sure that he had made them harmless for ever. But it brought

him no comfort either to treat them like dogs or to realize their

harmlessness. That did not bring a spark of his spirits back. There was

nothing to rouse them in that quarter.

One of the items in Hjor-Leif's despairing and hopeless struggle with

the days was going along the shore and choosing driftwood for his

buildings. When he found a stout, solid plank, he marked it with a

stroke of his ax; then he bade the serfs find the planks so marked and

bring them home.

Sometimes in these wanderings, Hjor-Leif found himself standing and

hewing wildly and meaninglessly at a plank, as though his life depended

on cutting it into a plaything for the winds. Whenever he awoke

from such an attack of frenzy he looked round him with a shamefaced

expression, and began eagerly, with a strong sense of humiliation, to

efface the traces of it, watched by the evil eye of a hostile day.

Hjor-Leif had one hope, and only one. His longing, strongly reinforced

by his despair, had treated with the rocky pride of his soul, and the

result was a reasonable agreement.

Therefore he went everywhere and searched for Ingolf's high-seat

pillars. Not in order to do away with them by means of fire, but to get

an excuse for seeking Ingolf at once, and so obtaining an honourable

and acceptable victory over all that pained and plagued him. Hjor-Leif

wanted to see what the day would look like when by finding the pillars

he was able to escape from his wretchedness with a bound.

This hope sustained him. But day after day passed without his finding

the pillars. Not even the sea and tides were friendly disposed towards

him. He talked in a loud voice with the sea, and reminded it of all

the honourable bouts they had had with each other. But either the sea

did not hear or would not recognize him. It had perhaps become hostile

towards him, like everything else in heaven and earth. Hjor-Leif had

been as far eastward along the coast as the impassible glacier streams

would let him go. Now he turned westward. He took food with him, and

remained away four days and nights. During his expedition he came to

know a new part of the country which he liked, and where he could well

imagine himself settling.

Below the green mountains, which first in a steep ascent and then

with a more gradual incline rose towards the white glacier which with

its two domes reminded one of a female giant's breasts, the low land

stretched with fertile meadows and picturesque bush-covered valleys and

luxuriant pastures towards the shining sea. In the south-west green

precipitous isles rose from the sea. Hjor-Leif gave the mountains names

after these islands, which simultaneously limited and enriched the

view, and called them Island-mountains. The western dome of the glacier

he named the Island-mountains' Glacier; the eastern he had already,

after a more eastern district, baptized Myrdals-Glacier. Hjor-Leif did

not turn round, for he saw the land open into a wide bay towards the

west. He examined the shore outside the Island-mountains and Myrdal

very closely. It was a great disappointment to him that the pillars had

not drifted on shore here.

Hjor-Leif returned home from this excursion still more taciturn and

depressed than he had started. Wearing unrest received him with open

arms every morning and did not release him from its evil embrace till

sleep at night had pity on him.

He set some of his men to get in hay, others he made go out fishing,

the rest he kept occupied with the houses. It was an insignificant

alleviation of his trouble to see his men busily occupied. For himself

he had no patience for anything. On the walks which he now and then

took along the coast to assure himself if the pillars had not drifted

on shore in his immediate neighbourhood, he was no more accompanied by

even the smallest hope.

During these walks Helga was always in his mind. But not openly and

consciously--he scarcely had patience enough to think of her in that

way. No, secretly and hidden away she lived in his mind. Through

memories and reminiscences she was near to him, without his being

obliged to face the fact that they were divided from each other by a

long distance and a sea of days, and that this separation was due to

a stupid and certainly quite groundless foreboding. He carried these

memories about very tenderly and cautiously, without any intention

of letting them slip quite out of the fog of unconsciousness. As a

man dying of thirst sips dew, he cheated himself into a reminiscent

happiness. It was a dangerous proceeding. For _if_ he woke from the

dream, his agony flung him on the ground in a passion of tears,

unworthy of a man, and which, moreover, brought no relief.

Hjor-Leif became at last weary of the sea and shore. He turned his

mind against them and made enemies again--evil emptiness and helpless

melancholy--Nature's immovable answer to all discontent. So Hjor-Leif

became hostile to all things round him. The echo of his own mind met

him everywhere and tortured him as only self-inflicted pain can torture.

He extended his lonely wanderings to the wide-stretching pastures,

overgrown with spreading coppice-wood, which reached from his point

right up to the blue mountains. But also in this region he soon became

homeless. His inner want of peace drove all peace around him away.

When winter came, Hjor-Leif sat like a bear in his lair, alone with

the fire and his half-share of the nineteen-fathom-long house. It was

uncomfortable near him. Therefore his men kept together in their

end of the house, even though no fire burned there. They were newly

married, and felt neither cold nor dull.

The serfs slunk in now and then, by twos, with fuel for the fire.

They shivered, and came hurriedly away from their task, even though

Hjor-Leif sat with his head in his hands and did not look at them at

all.

Hjor-Leif was poor now. He was so poor that he caught himself longing

for the break in the evening's brooding silence, which the serf's

coming caused. So poor, that in order not to betray his poverty he

showed himself perverse and ungracious towards his old headman, when

the latter once overcame his embarrassment and, out of devotion and

sympathy, sat with him one evening. Either he was silent with the old

man in his own comfortlessness, or he pained him with scornful words

and malicious laughter. The old man could not understand how Hjor-Leif

had lost all his good temper and indomitable spirits, unless the evil

spirits of this strange land had deprived him of them. He could not

endure this land where Hjor-Leif, his favourite, had neither living nor

dead foes to fight with. There were plenty of wizards and goblins here,

as he had himself experienced. There was an unearthly life in the rocks

and heights. But these were creatures without value for a man eager for

battle. One could not attack them weapon in hand. The sacred iron could

only protect one against them, and keep them out of the house.

Hjor-Leif's old headman fought bravely with his fear and discomfort for

an obviously bewitched man. But there came an end, and he also gave up

Hjor-Leif and let him sit alone by the fire.

For days and nights together the storm and hail beat on the house with

howlings and threatening hootings. The winter days were often only an

indistinct glimmer. And in the uncanny winter night all evil spirits

were loose.

Hjor-Leif sat through the long evenings in his bitterness alone by the

fire. And even the fire, his only friend in the wintry emptiness, now

showed fits of enmity, and spat out evil smoke which struck his breast

like a tearing cough.

Hjor-Leif sat most often with his face in his hands. By doing so he, as

it were, shut himself into himself, and cheated in a measure the evil

powers in him and round him. But there was a danger in thus sitting

hugging his pain. Solitude used the opportunity to whisper words of

madness in his ear. And often Hjor-Leif was near forgetting himself,

and beginning to listen to its alluring, unbridled talk.

But then sleep came, and saved him, and gave him some hours'

forgetfulness. A forgetfulness which, however short it was, armed him

for the morrow's encounter with a hostile, desolate, and lonely day.

VIII

Now there is this to be told of Ingolf, that when he had found a

practicable harbour, and unloaded his ship and drawn it on land, he set

his men immediately to work at building winter dwellings for men and

animals.

He himself rode about on horseback, followed by a young serf, Vifel,

who had grown up in his father's house, and whom he valued greatly. He

examined the district, and took long rides along the shore to look for

the pillars of his high-seat. He made use of his opportunities, and

was satisfied. The district suited him in many ways. From his point he

commanded a wide view eastward and westward along the coast--the most

extensive view he remembered to have seen.

Some distance inland, exactly opposite the point, divided from it by

luxuriant pasture-land, there rose a steep, high mountain. On both

sides of it the circle of mountains retired, on the south-west side in

a wide curve. Behind this mountain rose the glacier, a gigantic pile of

ice glittering white in the distance, which sent wrinkled feelers down

all the ravines as if to taste the lowland. Remarkably enough, no cold

emanated from this huge mass of ice; on the contrary, it seemed to warm

the air, perhaps by attracting all the bad weather and cold to its far

summit, which was only seldom visible. On both sides of the point there

stretched barren sand along the coast intersected by countless glacier

streams. These sands in some places spread themselves inland till they

met the edge of the glacier. But the wide-stretching pasture-land along

the mountains, which this barren sand surrounded, was of a peculiarly

rich fertility. There was abundance of coppice-wood, which in places

grew close up to the glacier and presented a singular appearance.

The cattle throve well here. The air was full of warm moisture, and

was suitable for grass and cattle and men. Ingolf had to admit that

the summer was better and the soil more luxuriant here than in the

Svanefjords. At the same time, he wished his pillars would drift ashore

in the Svanefjords. And in this Hallveig was one with him.

Secretly he derived not a little hope from the circumstance that

the pillars had apparently taken an eastward direction when he saw

them drift away from the ship. Who could say?--perhaps it was to the

Svanefjords! He did not dare to wish anything in that way; it was for

Odin to decide it. And it would be presumptuous of him to wish to

instruct or to influence the One-eyed with the ravens. But many things

pass through one's thoughts which one cannot control. Odin must know

that and would excuse it.

Ingolf endured the suspense for two months. Then he prepared for a long

expedition with his serf, Vifel. Hallveig did not like this journey.

Both Ingolf and his men had told her so much about the impassable

glacier streams. Ingolf, however, quieted her by promising to show

all possible caution. But he wished to go and look for himself in the

Svanefjords.

Ingolf and his serf rode over the sand-dunes. On each sand-hill sat

a gull. Full of an injured sense of proprietorship, the birds sat

there and followed silently with an inscrutable look these strange

animals who brought disturbance into the landscape. These sands were

intersected by a countless number of powerful glacier streams. But

fortunately the glacier proved passable in that part, so that Ingolf

and his companion succeeded in circumventing the rivers in that way.

On the evening of the second day they were again stopped by a glacier

stream as broad as a fjord, and with a treacherous bottom of fine sand.

It traversed the district Ingolf and Leif had penetrated on their

expedition southward from the Svanefjords the previous summer. Ingolf

tried to circumvent it in the same way as he had the other river. But

here the glacier was so full of deep crevasses along and across its

course, that after many vain attempts he had to give it up. There was

nothing for it but to turn round and put off the examination of the

coast till the winter had bridged with ice the impassable rivers.

The remainder of the summer passed in winter preparations of all kinds.

There were plenty of things to take in hand and look after.

Ingolf kept an eye on his sister, Helga, and showed her great

friendliness in his words and behaviour. He could not exactly ascertain

the real state of her feelings. She was quiet as ever, and all smiles

and good-humour. She played with the boy, helped Hallveig, and there

was apparently nothing in the least the matter with her spirits. But

Ingolf had now and then, early in the morning, before any one else was

up, surprised her standing staring with a long look towards the distant

mountains that showed bluish in the south-west. In that direction lay

Hjor-Leif's point, although so far away that it could not be discerned.

It cut Ingolf to the heart to see his sister stand gazing so--her face

was so unusually pale in the mornings, and her blue eyes darker than at

other times, as though shadowed by a twilight below them.

He had been many times on the point of telling her about the last

words he had exchanged with Leif. For he knew that she was not aware

of Hjor-Leif's real reason for letting her remain behind with himself

and Hallveig, and had no idea what she thought about it. But on further

reflection he gave up the thought of telling her every time. Perhaps

by doing so he would only cause her unnecessary anxiety and sorrow.

She would certainly hardly be so quiet as now, if she were seriously

anxious for Hjor-Leif. Best not to interfere with her thoughts. For his

own part, Ingolf was not for an instant afraid of anything happening

to Hjor-Leif, though he agreed with him that it was best not to

expose Helga to the results of any conspiracy among the serfs, which

he might well have reason to fear. But Ingolf knew Hjor-Leif. Even

if his brother had been alone with the ten seditious serfs he would

not have felt anxious for him. Hjor-Leif was on the watch, and he had

successfully managed worse situations.

The winter began with slight frost and much snow. It was past Yuletide

before the rivers were frozen.

As soon as possible, Ingolf equipped Vifel and another of his serfs,

named Karle, and sent them eastward along the coast with orders to

examine closely every creek and every promontory, and not to return

till they had inspected both Svanefjord's, except in the event of their

finding the pillars before.

The serfs experienced wretched weather, with snow-storms and intense

frost. They remained away for two weeks, and returned hungry and weary.

They had examined the coast-line as far as north of the Svanefjords,

but seen nothing of the pillars anywhere. When they had informed

Ingolf, he heaved a deep sigh and gave up the Svanefjords.

He allowed the serfs time to rest and recover after their severe

experience. Then he ordered them to get ready again. This time he gave

them horses and sent them westward along the coast. He enjoined them

not to return till they had found Hjor-Leif. If they had not found

the pillars before they met him they were to tell Hjor-Leif to come

westward with his men and cattle as soon as summer was in the air and a

sea-passage was safe.

But spring came this time earlier than it was expected. Already in the

night before the serfs started, a warm and strong south-west wind began

to melt the snows and melt the ice that covered the rivers. The serfs

only succeeded in passing the nearest rivers on ice. By the second day

they could neither get forward nor backward by reason of furious rivers

which carried huge volumes of muddy water and great blocks of ice.

But they had to push on, and did so with the horses' help, although

they often wasted days in finding a ford, and sometimes had to let

themselves be dragged through the water, hanging on to the horses'

tails or manes. It was the worst journey that Vifel and Karle had ever

been out on, and it was only due to Vifel's endurance and fidelity

that they went forward and escaped with their lives. On the way they

met men--Irish monks--who here far inland had built a temple with a

brazen voice which shook the air. The monks questioned them, and seemed

displeased with what they had to narrate.

They did not show them much friendliness. But Vifel and Karle were

eternally thankful for merely escaping with life from these strange men

who were in covenant with a god, the sound of whose voice alone cast

them terror-struck to the earth.

At last the serfs reached Hjor-Leif's point. They had been fourteen

days on the journey. They found the houses empty and the place

forsaken. They went down to the shore and found the ship. The boats, on

the other hand, were gone. Not the slightest sign of life was visible

anywhere.

IX

Hjor-Leif saw the winter come to an end at last. He lay one night and

heard the tone of the wind change. He knew the eager and implacable

voice of the south-east wind. It did not surprise him then to hear a

dripping indoors and out.

His heart began to beat a little as he lay there. But he lay still,

did not jump from his bed, did not run to salute the spring and bid

its warm wind take the bad weather from him, as in other circumstances

he would have done. There was not much left of Hjor-Leif's strength

now. He did not awake with the spring. Generally he was accustomed to

avoid the house when spring had first come. But this time he remained

within, sick in mind, and without power to shake off the burden of

winter and his bereavement. He remained sitting indoors while the young

year awoke the earth from winter's sleep, without paying attention to

it. That was not like Hjor-Leif. Indeed, it was so unlike him, that

his men avoided each other's looks and did not speak about him. He got

out of his bed each morning with a sigh, clothed himself wearily, and

went slowly and sluggishly out to see how far the spring was advanced,

and if the weather held. If it was bright he went up on the point and

looked eastward over the land and over the sea. Then he went home

again, dragging his feet like an old man or an invalid, and wrapped

himself in his solitude and waited. It was still too early in the year

for Ingolf to be coming--Ingolf and Helga.

He hardly dared to think of her name. The very thought scorched and

burnt his wounded soul that by this separation which he had insisted

on he had caused Helga fresh grief. His own sufferings were indeed

bitterly deserved--that he had to acknowledge--but that did not make

them any easier. The thought made the wilderness of his soul even

more desolate. Self-caused, self-deserved, every torturing day, every

sleep-forsaken night, every suffering, every whip-lash of longing,

altogether self-caused, without reason and to no use. That was bad

enough to think about. But it was worse with Helga--Helga who might

have reason to believe that he had left her behind in cold blood, and

to think that perhaps he looked forward without longing to seeing her

again. The thought was so intolerable that at times it seemed as if his

head would split and his heart stop beating. These and similar thoughts

tortured Hjor-Leif, but he sat and let the tedious hours pass.

Outside, the spring winds raged, while he sat within. The spring's

gladness found no way to his soul. His exhausted heart could not

welcome the days in its embrace and rejoice at the prospect of soon

meeting Helga.

Hjor-Leif used every opportunity of bullying the serfs. He heaped on

them kicks and blows whenever the fancy took him, and often without

cause. He hated these serfs, who crept before him like vermin, so

dog-like and abject that they did not dare to show the glances of

their eyes. His fear of their combining and attacking him and his men

had long ago died out of his mind to the last spark, and it seemed

to him now both ridiculous and incredible that he had ever cherished

such a thought. These abject animals, these crook-backed creatures!

_Their_ fault it was--all that he had had to suffer this year. And they

should pay for it! To the end of their wretched days they should pay

for it! Blows they should have--blows and kicks. He would fill their

currish hearts with never-appeased fear. He would not kill them; they

should live and suffer. In all that concerned the serfs, Hjor-Leif was

implacable. He had succeeded in inspiring them with such terror that

there was not a look in their eyes, nor speech in their tongue, save

when they were alone and sure of not being seen or heard.

As soon as the earth was released from the frost to a spade's depth

Hjor-Leif set his serfs to plough a piece of pasture-land west of the

point. They had an ox to draw the plough.

And now the serfs' time had come. Duftak, who had many kicks and cuffs

to avenge, had hatched a plan. The opportunity was ready to hand.

When Duftak and another serf went off in the morning with ox and

plough, he gave the other serfs a signal. They had knives and clubs

hidden here and there. Now these were produced and concealed in their

rags. The serfs were ready.

As soon as Hjor-Leif's free men had gone into their morning meal,

Duftak stabbed the ox with a knife in its neck and set out running home

with the other serfs close on his heels. Breathlessly Duftak burst in

to Hjor-Leif, and stammered, apparently in the greatest terror: "A

bear! A bear!"

The serf's fear seemed quite genuine. Hjor-Leif seized him by the neck,

shook him, and quickly learnt from him that a bear had come out of the

wood and had killed the ox.

Everything happened as Duftak had foreseen. Hjor-Leif let him go,

strangely enough without the usual kick, shouted to his men, and bade

them follow him and look for the bear, and scatter themselves well in

the thickets, so that the beast should not escape. Then he seized his

ax and spear and ran.

Ah, this meant something for Hjor-Leif. His heart was again in its

place, and beat gladly and quietly. The bear came as though sent by

good fortune itself. His soul expanded with a great and happy sense of

freedom. He sprang like a boy out of doors, and forgot in his haste to

take his sword with him.

Duftak only hesitated a brief moment--then he seized the sword and ran

after Hjor-Leif. He had undertaken to tackle him by himself alone, and

the sword was better than his short knife.

Everything happened as Duftak had calculated--while his men dispersed

in the thicket, Hjor-Leif ran to the ox. Duftak had counted on this

curiosity in his master. He knew that he _must_ see how the bear had

treated the ox, before he began the pursuit. Hjor-Leif set off in long

bounds, light at heart and untroubled. The old love of adventure had

awakened in him. He was too much absorbed to notice that the serf was

close at his heels.

Hjor-Leif reached the ox, stopped and started, bent down over it,

then slowly raised himself. His thoughts stood still for a moment in

surprise. What was this? The ox had been stabbed. Was the story about

the bear only a lie? He turned quietly and as though stupefied, and

looked round him.

Just opposite him stood Duftak, with Hjor-Leif's sword lifted--the

point quivered straight in front of his breast.

The recollection of the monk's saying flashed through Hjor-Leif's

mind, like a momentary weakness and irresolution. Then--before he

knew it--the gold-inlaid blade of the sword flashed, and he collapsed

with a chill sensation between his ribs--a strange, not uncomfortable

sensation, which, however, was immediately followed by a pang and a

loud crash, in which earth and sky disappeared.

As Hjor-Leif sank, a lightning thought reminded him that Helga was

in safety. Ah, Helga was safe! A dim consciousness that he had not

suffered in vain settled like a faint smile on his large mouth. The

blood poured steaming and gushing out of his neck. And so the world

passed from him....

Hjor-Leif had lived, and life had done with him. He had paid the price

of life, as was meet and right.

Once more the mistletoe branch had struck down the invulnerable.

X

One night towards morning Ingolf was awakened by the tramping of

horses' hoofs. He had begun to be anxious lest the serfs, who had been

away the best part of a month, might have perished, and, springing out

of bed, dressed quickly and threw a cloak over him.

Yes, it was Vifel and Karle home at last. When he came out, they were

standing outside in the half-light night and talking softly together.

They had not yet taken the saddles off the horses. Their manner showed

clearly that they were the bearers of evil tidings. Both turned their

heads when Ingolf opened the door, but remained standing irresolute,

and forgot to salute.

Ingolf stood still for a moment. Then he went up to them, greeted them

quietly, and bade Karle take the saddles off the horses and go and

sleep. "You had better not talk to any one," Ingolf concluded, turning

to Karle. Then he laid his hand on Vifel's shoulder and led him round

behind the house. There they could best stand and talk undisturbed.

Vifel was so silent that stillness seemed to envelop him like an

invisible vapour in the air.

When they had come to the back of the house, Ingolf let go of Vifel's

shoulder and leaned against the wall of the house. His first heavy

foreboding had quickly turned into a dawning certainty--a certainty

which all but overpowered him. For a few interminable moments he

remained standing there, leaning against the wall, and staring to

the eastward, where a faint flush on the steel-blue vault of the sky

announced the coming of the sun. He avoided looking at Vifel, whose

expression and behaviour so inexorably revealed what had happened.

He shrank from having his last despairing hope annihilated. He must

have an interval before he could endure to have his fears, his all but

certain foreboding, confirmed by the pitiless word.

The sun rose and was free of the clouds on the horizon before his mind

had slowly reached the point that uncertainty was intolerable to him.

He cast a glance at the serf. Vifel stood and wept, silent and

motionless. The tears ran in streams over his cheeks, and left light

streaks behind them.

"What have you to tell?" Ingolf asked at last, with forced quietude.

"Hjor-Leif's death," stammered the serf, with chattering teeth.

There was a long pause. Ingolf had bowed his head, and stood with

closed eyes and compressed lips. He wept.

At last, without raising his head or opening his eyes, he gave the serf

a sign to continue.

Vifel finished weeping and began stammeringly: "When we came to the

point we found the houses empty. We saw no one anywhere. We found the

ship in its place down by the shore, but both boats had gone. We

began to search the fields and the undergrowth round the point. First

we found Hjor-Leif. He lay in a field near the house by the side of a

piece of ploughed earth. He had been killed by a stab in the breast.

We continued searching, and found gradually most of his men, scattered

about in the undergrowth, all dead. Some of them had been obviously

stabbed from behind, others had many wounds, which witnessed to a fight

having taken place. The serfs and women we saw nowhere."

"Hjor-Leif had a foreboding of that," was the thought that passed

through Ingolf's mind when the serf was silent.

Ingolf remained standing quite still. His heart hammered and beat,

"Leif! Leif!" At last he lifted his head and looked round him with

weary eyes. His look had become very desolate. Otherwise there was

nothing to notice in him, now that there was no more doubt and the

first strong burst of grief was over.

In a quiet voice he questioned the serf more closely, and learned that

he and Karle had buried those of Hjor-Leif's men whom they had found.

Hjor-Leif himself they had covered and left lying where they had found

him.

A strange slackness had come over Ingolf. Now and then he roused

himself and put a question to the serf. Each time the serf had

answered, there was again a long pause.

Ingolf gradually got an account of their journey. Vifel told him of the

difficult rivers, of the monks and their temple, and how he and Karle

had caught and killed one of Hjor-Leif's sheep, which they had found in

the thicket, as food for their home journey.

Helga was up this morning early as usual. She was generally out before

any one else, especially when the weather was bright. It was in the

early morning that she could best go out, unseen and undisturbed, to

stand and gaze towards the distant mountains in the south-west which

hid Hjor-Leif in their blue mist.

This morning, as soon as she stepped out of the door, she heard quiet

voices behind the house. She could not distinguish words, but only

heard the sound. This half-heard conversation filled her at once with

a peculiar fear, and when she recognized Vifel's voice her heart beat

violently. A vague alarm filled her breast and rose choking to her

throat. For some time she remained standing and could not move from

the spot--stood leaning heavily against the house-wall, and pressed

her hand to her heart. Then the voices were suddenly silent. There was

stillness behind the house. What could Ingolf and Vifel have to talk

about in such a tone? Why had Ingolf not roused her at once? She knew

how restlessly he was expecting the serf's arrival.

At last Helga dragged herself the few steps round the house. She both

hoped and feared that she must have made a mistake--that it was not

Vifel's voice she had heard. But she _must_ have certainty. Her fear

was crushing her.

Yes, there stood Vifel, and there stood Ingolf. Helga only needed to

see them; the first glance told her everything. Ingolf immediately saw

his sister, and by a powerful effort succeeded in collecting himself

and going quietly towards her. As he went, he said quietly to the serf:

"Go and sleep, Vifel. You are a free man." Vifel departed silently. He

did not take the opportunity to thank Ingolf. His highest hope was at

last and unexpectedly fulfilled, yet he wept as he went.

When Ingolf had reached his sister he stood still in perplexity.

There was in her look a mingling of prayer and certainty which made

it impossible for him to say anything. There was a restlessness about

Helga which made it impossible for her to stand still.

"Let us go," she said appealingly. Side by side brother and sister went

over the ground without speaking a word.

Where the coppice wood began, they turned and went back towards the

houses. So they continued walking to and fro, silently, side by side.

The sun had risen, and already stood high.

Ingolf's men, who had learnt of Hjor-Leif's death from Vifel, kept

within doors. None wished to disturb Ingolf and Helga. Hallveig had

been out and glanced towards the pair. Then she had slipped in again to

her boy. Helga's grief made her very heavy at heart.

To and fro, keeping step, Ingolf and Helga went. Helga felt as if

she could not stop. As long as she could walk so, keeping herself in

movement, it seemed as if there was nothing which had ceased--ended. So

long as she had heard nothing, perhaps nothing had happened. There were

life and happiness at stake in continuing to walk--to walk, and not

stand still.

There was no sobbing in Helga's breast. It was so empty within. A

clammy pressure held her heart imprisoned in apathy. There were no

tears in her eyes. She was far past the narrow limits of weeping. Only

a great and threatening stillness and emptiness in her soul, and round

her a waste wilderness that would swallow her as soon as she stood

still.

At last she was so exhausted that she had to drag herself forward with

the help of her brother's arm. Ingolf helped her, supported her, and

held her up. He was in great distress. She walked there quivering on

his arm, and he had no comfort to give her. Such heavy hours Ingolf had

never experienced. He forgot his own sorrow: it was as nothing beside

his sister's mute despair. His whole soul was engrossed in her. His

powerlessness, his complete perplexity, his lack of any word to comfort

her, drove all other feelings out of his mind.

At last Helga had to give up. Her strength was spent. Exhausted, she

sank in his arms. He laid her carefully down, and she remained lying

with half-closed eyes, breathing heavily and slowly; then she fell

asleep. Ingolf remained sitting by her side and gazing intently on her

pale, tired face. She continued sighing in her sleep. Ingolf could not

take his eyes from her. "This was what Leif feared," was the thought

that echoed within him. There were not very many thoughts in his brain,

stunned as it was by his own and his sister's grief.

When he had been sitting thus for some time, Hallveig came out to him

from the house with her boy on her arm. She could no longer endure the

loneliness. She sat down silently by Ingolf's side. Her eyes were

circled with red rims, and there was a peculiar wry smile on her face,

called forth by the struggle to keep her tears down. When she had sat

a little and looked at the sleeping Helga, she could do no more; she

leant her head against her husband, hid her face, and wept.

Little Thorsten prattled cheerfully, and struggled to get down to

Helga. Ingolf had to begin to play with him in order to make him sit

still. The child's untroubled chatter cut him to the heart.

Helga slept but a short time. Suddenly she opened her eyes, rose

abruptly, and looked about her in bewilderment.

"What is this? Why am I lying here?" she asked in an astonished voice.

As soon as she spoke, she felt a choking in her throat, and remembered

all of a sudden what had happened, and why she lay there. Then she

collapsed with a groan, and remained sitting for a while with her face

hidden in her hands. Then she straightened herself abruptly.

"How did it happen?" she asked in a hoarse, uncontrolled voice, and

looked straight in front of her with a hard expression on her young

face. And when Ingolf did not answer at once, she added in a still more

unrestrained tone: "Tell me at once!"

Ingolf told her, hesitatingly and in disconnected words, that his serfs

had found Hjor-Leif and his men dead. It looked as if Hjor-Leif's Irish

serfs had killed them.

"But the women?" Helga asked in the same tone as before.

Ingolf gave it as his opinion that the serfs must have taken the women

with them to whatever hiding they had sought. He added a few cautious

words to the effect that he had grounds for supposing that Hjor-Leif

already a year ago had been afraid of what had now happened, and that

therefore he had let her remain with him and Hallveig.

Then Helga laughed, if the sound which issued from her throat could be

called laughter.

"It is all the same now," she said in a hard voice.

Then she collected herself and stretched out her hand toward the child.

For a while she sat stroking his hair and trying to smile at him. Then

suddenly she gave Hallveig the boy and looked up at her brother with a

look that revealed all her hopeless despair without disguise, and said:

"I want to see him. Can we not go there?"

Her voice was hoarse and passionate as before. There was nothing to

recall her former soft and gentle tone, but the hardness was gone.

"We will go as soon as we can," answered Ingolf quietly.

Helga rose impatiently. She was a little unsteady on her legs, but

declined all support both from her brother and her sister-in-law.

"Let us not waste time," she said irritably, and stumbled towards the

houses.

Ingolf and Hallveig followed her in silence. Hallveig took the boy on

her arm again.

That same day the ship was launched. Day and night they worked with

feverish haste to load it. The next day it lay ready for sea, and in

the evening the weather was fair for sailing.

Ingolf wondered a little at Helga. She did not weep. She did not seek

solitude. She went about among them much as usual--did her accustomed

work, took charge of the boy, and helped Hallveig. Only the change

in her voice and her strange, fixed look betrayed her grief--a grief

which made Ingolf fear, and troubled him more than any weeping and open

despair.

XI

The next day at sunrise they were there. Helga was supported by her

brother to shore on the slender landing-plank. When she stood on the

shore before Hjor-Leif's point and looked over towards the houses, her

strength failed her for the second time. She could do no more. She

leant against her brother to save herself from falling. He put his arm

round her and led her to a stone where she could sit and recover her

strength. There she sat down, and remained sitting, staring out over

the sea, that lay resplendent in the glow of sunrise, but her eyes

saw nothing. A light morning breeze played with her hair and gently

caressed her pale face.

Ingolf stood by her side, waiting. Since she so much wished to see

Hjor-Leif he would not oppose it, but he wished to follow her and be

near her.

Helga had forgotten him, and why she sat there. For the moment she

remembered nothing except that she was alone and had Hjor-Leif no more.

There were times when this fact seemed incomprehensible. If Hjor-Leif

was dead, why was she alive? She did not understand that. But so it

was--she was alive. And die she could not. Death would not come to her,

though she prayed for it to all imaginable Powers.

When Ingolf had stood for a while motionless by her side, he bent down

over her and said quietly that he must go for a little to give his

men orders. Helga started when he spoke to her, and looked hastily up

at him with a terrified look in her eyes. Then she came to herself,

remembered why she sat here, why Ingolf stood waiting for her, and

she seized his hand. She sat for a while holding it convulsively in

hers and moaning softly. Then she said in that strange, distant voice

which quite seemed to have displaced her own: "Ingolf--I cannot, after

all--let me just sit. I cannot rise. Ah, I can do nothing," she said,

half-wailing, and hid her face in her hands.

Ingolf stood a little irresolute; then he bent over her and said

softly: "I will come again and fetch you."

She nodded impatiently with her bowed head, as if begging him only to

go--to go!

As soon as she no longer heard his steps she began a low, heart-rending

wail. Ah, she had no hope now. Her heart was dead. But she lived, and

could not die.

Ingolf went back to the ship, helped Hallveig and her boy on shore, and

asked Hallveig to look to Helga while he went and buried Hjor-Leif.

Then he told Vifel and several of his men to take spades and a bier and

follow him. The others he set to work unloading the ship.

Ingolf was quite composed now. The stamp of the resolute firmness,

which was the real expression of his character, was more distinct

than ever before. He had reconciled himself to his brother's death

as a healthy man reconciles himself to the inevitable. He had sought

comfort in his faith, and had eradicated all despair from his mind, so

that only a healthy, hardening, beneficial pain remained behind. He

remembered the death-rune among the omens at the sacrificial feast; it

had then pointed at Hjor-Leif. Yes, Fate shields a man till she strikes

him--nothing can alter that. Against Fate even the bravest fight in

vain. Not even Odin can shake the sentence of the Norns.

Such were Ingolf's thoughts as, with a composed mind, he went to carry

out his last duty to his brother.

There had been an old agreement between him and Hjor-Leif that, if

Ingolf died first, Hjor-Leif should inter him in a funeral barrow with

exact observation of all the ritual of the Ase-religion. In return,

Ingolf had pledged himself, if he were the survivor, to bury Hjor-Leif

in the ground without any kind of solemnity. All that Hjor-Leif wished,

when he no longer lived, was to be buried in a dry spot, at the depth

of a man's stature, and to lie there with clean earth round him. It was

no more than reasonable that he should have his will, though Ingolf in

his inmost heart felt a strong impulse to inter him in a barrow and to

do him all the honour which became a chieftain.

The birds were singing in the dewy morning when the sailcloth with

which Vifel had covered Hjor-Leif was lifted. Their song sounded all at

once piercingly in Ingolf's ears. He stood for a while and looked at

his brother's decomposed remains. He had seen many dead men, without

being specially moved thereby. But now his self-control deserted him a

moment. He wept. When he had grown calm again he made the sign of the

Hammer over the body, and said softly, as though to himself: "A mean

fate here befell a good man, that a serf should cause his death, and so

it will happen to each one who will not sacrifice to the gods."

Hjor-Leif's corpse was laid on the bier, and Ingolf covered it with

his cloak. Then he went on ahead up to the point to seek for a

burying-place. Step by step the men carried his brother's body after

him.

Ingolf quickly found a place towards the south and the sun. The grave

was dug, and Hjor-Leif was lowered into it, wrapped in his brother's

cloak. Then they cast clean earth over him, and trampled it well down.

Ingolf remained standing by the grave till his men had gone. Then he

spoke for the last time to his sworn brother. "Hjor-Leif," he said with

emotion and in a natural tone, as though he were quite sure of being

heard, "if no duty had bound me to life, I would have followed you in

death. The days are poor without you, brother. But I comfort myself

with the thought that we shall meet again in Valhalla, and that you by

that time will have made your peace with the gods."

When Ingolf had spoken, he took a thunder-stone which hung on a chain

round his neck, a gift from his mother, of whom he had an indistinct

memory, pressed it deep down in the earth, and covered it up. Nothing

in his eye was so sacred as this lucky stone. Therefore he gave it to

his brother to take with him on the way.

Ingolf found his sister where he had left her. She sat in the same

attitude; not once had she moved since he left her. Her wailing had

died away. She sat silent. And when he laid his hand on her shoulder

she did not start, only turned her head quietly, and looked up wearily

at him. She tried to rise, but had become stiff from sitting in the

same position. It was some time before she could stand and walk. Ingolf

led her gently over the shore, up the point, to Hjor-Leif's grave. At

the grave she remained standing motionless, clinging to his arm, and

gazing down at the brown scar in the earth. For the first time since

she had heard of Hjor-Leif's death her eyes filled with tears. She

loosed her hold of Ingolf's arm and asked him impatiently to leave her.

When Ingolf had gone, she threw herself on the grave, pressed her

face down in the loose earth, and lay there weeping, silently and

ceaselessly. Now she could weep....

Long after Helga had wept all power of weeping out of her soul she

remained lying there, with her arms thrown out as though clinging to

the earth. Then at last she fell asleep, worn out with sorrow and

fatigue.

When she woke again it was evening. She rose and looked around her in

alarm, suddenly afraid lest any one should see her lying thus. As she

stood there and looked around her, she perceived a black round patch on

the greensward a little distance off. There had burnt the fire, which

about a year ago she had sat gazing at from Ingolf's point.... Ah,

that red fire....

And now it was quenched ... quenched for ever.

Helga sat down, looking alternately at the grave and the burnt patch.

Now and then her eyes filled with tears. But she could weep no more.

Later in the evening Hallveig came silently and sat down by her side.

They did not speak. Hallveig wept now and then. Helga sat motionless,

gazing before her with eyes that scorched and burned, but seeing

nothing.

The two women remained sitting there the whole night. When sunrise

streaked the horizon next day they rose quietly and went silently

homeward to the houses.

XII

Ingolf sent his men to search for the Irish serfs.

As the boats were gone, there was reason to suppose that they had

sought flight by sea. And as they knew Ingolf was in the east, it was

likely they had rowed farther westward along the coast.

Ingolf's men searched the coast westward for many days' journey. They

saw nothing of the serfs anywhere--not even a sign that they had

landed. And even if they had been drowned, their bodies must have been

cast ashore. Neither did they find the pillars of Ingolf's high-seat,

which they were also looking for.

When they returned home and told Ingolf that they had neither found

the serfs nor the pillars, he said in his quiet way: "The pillars shall

be found and the serfs too, if I have to search the whole country."

Ingolf sent Vifel with fifteen men in a boat out to the islands, which

from the mountains near the point were visible in the south-west.

There Vifel found the Irish serfs. They were living in caves scattered

about on the largest of the islands. When they found that they were

discovered, panic seized them, and they did not even try to offer

resistance. When they saw Ingolf's men coming over the island they

scattered in wild confusion. Some of them were cut down while flying;

others, among whom was Duftak, flung themselves down from the cliffs

and promontories and perished.

The women, whom the serfs had taken with them out to the islands, and

the most obstinate of whom were still kept bound, were able to tell how

Hjor-Leif and their husbands had been murdered. They spoke coolly and

calmly of the matter. They had forgotten how to weep and how to rejoice.

Vifel buried the serfs on the edge of the shore, where the ground is

dry at ebb and covered at full tide, as criminals should be buried.

Then he searched each creek and promontory in vain. The pillars had

not drifted to shore there. Afterwards he distributed his men in three

boats with the women and the valuables which the serfs had stolen and

taken with them to the islands, among them Hjor-Leif's costly sword.

Ever since then the islands have been called the Westman Islands after

the Irish serfs.

Ingolf met the boats down on the shore. Vifel told him of the death of

the serfs, recounted the women's narrative of Hjor-Leif's murder, and

handed him the sword.

Ingolf took it cautiously. He remembered the story about Hjor-Leif's

fight with the dead man, who was reported to have said that a charm

attached to the sword whereby everyone who killed with it should

himself die by it. Ingolf had comforted himself with the thought that

so long as Hjor-Leif had not killed anyone with the sword there was

no danger for him from it. Now, however, Hjor-Leif had been slain by

it. Perhaps the saying meant that whoever possessed that sword should

perish by it. At any rate he would not have it. Sorcery was not to be

trifled with. Ingolf went straight to Hjor-Leif's grave with the sword

and stuck it in the earth so that the golden handle projected from the

black mould. It was the only thing left by his brother which he was

unwilling to receive.

There was no danger of anyone taking it there. His men kept at a

distance from Hjor-Leif's grave. They asserted that he walked again,

and believed that Helga met the dead man when she went up there at

night, as she often did.

Ingolf did not share their superstition in that respect. But, on the

other hand, he well understood how Helga's appearance might give rise

to such thoughts in his men. She looked more like a dead man's bride

than a young living woman. Her fair hair had become white, and hung

dishevelled about her head. The light of her glance was quenched, and

the skin that stretched over her wan, emaciated face was grey and

without brightness or colour. The only signs of life she gave were

eating and breathing. She carefully took charge of Thorsten, with a

peculiar absent tenderness, since Hallveig had now a little girl to

watch over. She did nothing else.

That summer and the following winter Ingolf remained by Hjor-Leif's

point. The next spring he departed and went farther westward. He

stopped at a river whose mouth formed a comparatively safe harbour.

Good landing-places were generally scarce on these shores. Thither he

had his ships brought. Some way inland, west of the river, he built

winter dwellings under a hill, which was named Ingolf's Hill. In the

summer, as always, he had his men out to search for the pillars. When

they came back they were able to inform him that they had reached a

great promontory. North of the mountains there was a broad fjord.

In the winter, Ingolf sent Vifel and Karle to search the coast-line

north of the hills. Out on a barren promontory in a creek, which

because of some warm, densely smoking springs in the neighbourhood

received the name "Rogvig" ("smoke-creek"), Vifel and Karle at last

found the pillars. They had drifted ashore just below a little rounded

height. On the height there sat an eagle. It did not move when Vifel

and Karle approached. It sat there still when they went away, after

having secured the pillars. Vifel and Karle were much afraid of the

eagle. Only once before had they been equally afraid--that was when

the brazen voice from the monks' house had cast them to the ground.

Vifel and Karle went back and informed Ingolf of their find. Then

Ingolf was glad. Now he knew where he should dwell. Now he caught a

glimpse of meaning again in his life. He immediately arranged a great

sacrificial feast, and made sacrifices to Odin and Thor and gave them

thank-offerings.

When he heard about the eagle he became thoughtful. Neither he nor

anyone else believed that the eagle's having sat there was accidental.

There was in Ingolf's mind not the least doubt that the eagle had

really been his old father, who, in a shape corresponding to his name,

had been sent by Odin to guide and keep watch over the pillars.

Never again was an eagle seen on that height, which received the name

"Orn's Height."

As soon as spring came, and the roads were passable, Ingolf left

Ingolf's Hill and went over to Rogvig. The place where Ingolf's pillars

had drifted ashore was a large, bare promontory. The district was

stony, and there was not much pasture-land. By far the greatest number

of the parts he had traversed had been better and more suitable for

settling. But here it was _his_ lot to dwell. And, besides, he could

take possession of as large a territory as he chose, and build houses

for his people and cattle-sheds where he found fertile soil.

Already that summer Ingolf began to mark out his lands. For himself and

his posterity he took possession of the whole of the great promontory,

from the river-mouth where his ships lay up along its curving course

and across the hills to a fjord on the north side of the promontory,

which was named Hvalfjord, between two rivers, which received the

names of Brynjedal River and Okse River.

Many of Ingolf's men were dissatisfied at having to settle in this

unfertile region. The serf Karle, in great vexation, ran away with a

serf-woman. Ingolf found them long afterwards settled inland.

Ingolf gave land to his freed serf, Vifel. He settled on Vifestofte,

and Vifel's Hill bears his name. He became a well-to-do man. The next

summer Ingolf went to Norway to fetch timber for his houses. He built

a residence at Rogvig, which was not at all inferior to the chief seat

of the family at Dalsfjord in Norway. To the residence was attached a

temple which in its size and splendid equipment did not fall far short

of that at Gaulum. Ingolf was faithful to his gods and showed them

great honour. Since they had given him a new place of abode he felt

confidently assured that he had regained their favour.

Ingolf, who daily had his sister Helga before his eyes, was often

reminded of his sworn brother, Hjor-Leif. Now he understood much which

he had not understood before, and caught a sight of the connection

between events, which taken separately seemed accidental. He remembered

the beggar's words: "Point and blade!" Now he understood what the

beggar had meant. It was owing to Hjor-Leif's prompting that they had

journeyed to Iceland. Hjor-Leif was really the first occupant, even

though he had not come to settle there permanently. Fate, the blind and

immovable, had been out after him prematurely. Ingolf's heart was moved

when he remembered how Hjor-Leif had grown fond of this land from the

first. It was accordingly Hjor-Leif whom Iceland had first taken in its

embrace. Hjor-Leif was the first who had consecrated the soil of the

new land with flesh and blood. Had the gods, or perhaps the guardian

spirits of the country, claimed him as a sacrifice? It was at any rate

a great sacrifice. But Ingolf did not dare to find fault with the gods.

Already the year after Ingolf had settled in Rogvig people began to

flock to the country. They were for the most part Norwegian chieftains

who could not come to terms with King Harald. Ingolf gave several of

the settlers land in his territory.

Among the first settlers was Hallveig's brother, Lopt, who was called

Lopt the Old, and many of his family, which was a good and noble one.

Haasten, Atle Jarl's son, was also among the first occupants. He had

at last been obliged to leave his own lands and property and flee the

country to save his life. He took some land, guided by his high-seat

pillars, due east of the river which bordered Ingolf's territory.

Haasten lost his ship when landing, but his property and men were saved.

The very next winter he visited Ingolf in Rogvig. On the evening of

Haasten's coming, Ingolf sat as usual in the high-seat with his men at

the table round him, a step lower. The fire burned cheerfully on the

hearthstones and spread a genial and penetrating glow. The coarsely

carved images of the gods on the strongly illumined age-browned pillars

of the high-seat laughed broadly in the glaring light. The talk was

lively around the tables, and the beer-jugs were diligently emptied

and filled. Ingolf was not grudging of beer to his men. He sat with a

contented look in his peaceful blue eyes and listened to their talk. He

himself spoke but seldom, except when questioned.

Then suddenly there came three knocks at the door. All the talking

round the tables ceased. Ingolf turned his head and gave a signal to

the man at the door. The bolt was pushed to one side, and in stepped a

tall, erect, fair-bearded man in a red silk cloak with a golden helmet

on his head, followed by three other men.

Ingolf immediately recognized Haasten, in spite of his beard and the

ageing and weary expression of his thin face. He sprang up and went to

meet him. He was too much moved to speak. For a while the two former

friends stood silent, pressing each other's hands and looking each

other straight in the eyes. Then they fell into each other's arms.

When, shortly after, they sat side by side in the high-seat and had

drunk to each other, Ingolf said: "I did not know, Haasten, that you

were on this road."

Haasten smiled his weary, steady smile, and answered: "Yes, King Harald

has driven me from the country, as I in my time drove you two brothers.

Have you forgiven me that, Ingolf?"

"I have never been angered with you for it," Ingolf answered.

They spoke together of many things, and their talk was light and

untroubled. There was in Haasten's attitude towards Ingolf the same

deference that all other chieftains who came there showed the quiet,

confident, simple, taciturn man, who by his example had drawn all the

others to this new land. Ingolf was indeed his friend, and as such he

showed him confidence, but he was also the first settler in the land,

and as such he evinced for him a great and undisguised deference.

They talked of Hjor-Leif. "It happened as I fore-told," said

Haasten, and smiled sadly. "The mistletoe branch at last struck the

invulnerable."

"We all owe Odin a death," said Ingolf quietly, and drew a deep sigh.

"It is most often the survivors whose lot is the hardest."

His look involuntarily sought the women's dais. There sat Helga, gazing

before her without expression in her eyes, with his son, Thorsten, in

her lap.

Ingolf pointed out the boy to Haasten. "His name is built of Thor's

name and yours," he said in a gentler voice. While Ingolf talked,

he noticed how attentively his son's quiet blue eyes dwelt on the

high-seat pillars. Thus he had himself sat as a boy, he remembered

suddenly. And now he met his son's look. Were Thorsten's thoughts

something like his had been when he was a child?

Haasten had been sitting in silence, watching the boy. Then he said

suddenly: "He must have been born soon after _that_ winter."

"The winter after," Ingolf answered, a little curtly.

"He bears Thor's name and mine," Haasten continued thoughtfully. "May

that bring him good luck!"

He was silent a short time. Then he asked: "But who is the woman?"

"My sister, Helga," answered Ingolf quietly. The two friends sat silent

a long time.

Then Haasten beckoned to the boy, and when he came he took him between

his knees, and looked closely at him. "You have honest, intelligent

eyes; you will be a brave man," he said at last, and stroked his

fair hair. Then he took a heavy gold ring off his arm and gave it to

Thorsten.

"That is because you are in some part my name-sake," he explained,

smiling at the boy, who stood with the ring in his hand, staring

alternately at gift and giver. Thorsten tried the ring on his slender

arm. "It is too large," he declared, a little offended. Then he

suddenly brightened up. "But it will fit me well enough by the time

father is dead, and I sit in the high-seat."

Both Ingolf and Haasten laughed. Thorsten went to show Helga and his

mother the ring. Then silence came over the two friends. Shortly after,

Ingolf proposed that they should drink to their dead brother. The

friends' glances met over the rim of the drinking-horns. There were

tears in their eyes.

They sat late that night and drank and talked together. They were very

happy to sit side by side again. The solitude which had threatened to

imprison each severally was suddenly banished. Now they had each other

again, and felt the joy of friendship.

The fire burned yellow and brightly on the hearthstones. In its genial

warm light the images of the gods on the carved pillars looked down as

if following all that passed with slow content, and waiting, calmly

wise, for what should come.

THE END