Guest the One-eyed limped wearily along by the side of the stream.
The path he followed wound with many turns, following the course of the
water, and in places quite near to the edge, the bank sometimes
overhanging the riverbed below. At one spot the river actually tunnelled
its way underground for some few yards, leaving a kind of natural bridge
above. When he reached this spot the wanderer knew that he was not far
from Bolli.
His thoughts were busy with recollection of the young man he had met up
in the hills.
“So that was he,” he thought to himself. “A handsome lad, strong and
manly, and of a kindly heart, by his eyes.” He thought of the evident
pleasure with which the boy had given him the shoes and shared his food
with him. Ay, a true son of his race—little fear of _his_ bringing
sorrow upon Borg.
And the old man’s heart beat faster at the thought that he would soon
see the girl whom Ørlygur had chosen for his bride. His knowledge of men
had enabled him to read clearly enough the signs of Ørlygur’s feeling;
it was evident, also, that the two young people understood each other.
He forgot his weariness and hurried on.
Then, rounding a bend of the river, he came suddenly upon the tiny
homestead, a cluster of small buildings on a little piece of rising
ground. A thin smoke rose from a chimney—that must be from the open
hearth in the kitchen. The ground outside was marked by heaps of hay, in
regular rows; a solitary horse was grazing on the hillside, and a few
sheep nosed about among the rocks down by the river.
For some minutes he stood looking over the place. So this was where the
two women passed their quiet lives. Mother and daughter, living for some
reason apart from their neighbours. The old wanderer knew well enough
that it was often not the worst of human kind that chose to live aloof
from their fellows.
As he approached the house, a dog ran out barking angrily. Immediately
after, a young woman appeared. At first sight of the strange figure
coming towards her, she turned as if to go indoors again, but changed
her mind and advanced to meet him.
“Here is one who is tired,” said she. “Can I help you, old man?”
And she took his arm.
“Thanks, blessed child,” said the old man, with a smile.
The girl looked up at his face.
“Oh—you have only one eye!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” answered the stranger, with a chuckle. “Worms couldn’t wait for
it. They’ll have the other one soon, and the rest of me with it.”
“You should not talk like that,” said the girl, with childish
displeasure.
Guest the One-eyed changed his tone. “Yes,” he said earnestly. “You are
young and wise, and I am old and foolish. ’Tis not a matter for jesting.
What is your name, child?”
“Snebiorg is my name. Mother calls me Bagga, but I don’t let other
people call me that—or only one other, perhaps, if he cares to. And you
perhaps, too, because you are not like other folk.”
“One other—if he cares to? Don’t you know whether he cares to or not?”
“No—for I have never spoken to him.”
“But—are you not lovers, then?”
“Yes.”
“And you mean to say you have never spoken—only written letters to each
other?”
“Written? No.” Bagga looked up in surprise. “We have looked at each
other. Isn’t that enough?”
There was a strange earnestness in the old man’s voice as he answered:
“Surely it is enough. And are you very fond of him?”
“I love him.”
They walked on in silence. Guest the One-eyed wished to have his message
given before going into the house.
“I have seen him,” he said. “And I was to bring you greeting from him.”
The girl stopped still and clasped her hand to her breast. The colour
had risen to her cheeks as she spoke of her lover; now she turned pale.
The old man looked at her intently, taking in her fine profile, her
beautiful eyes and lovely hair, the fineness of her figure. He realized
that these two were destined for each other; that they _must_ love each
other at first sight.
Bagga could hardly speak at first. After a while she said:
“You have spoken to him? Is it long ago? What did he say? Did he ask you
to bring me greeting?”
“No.”
“But you said so just now!” She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
“I asked if I should bring you greeting, and he said yes. And I read
more in his eyes. Can you guess what?”
“No.”
“That he loves you, and is for ever thinking of you. That he will always
be true to you.”
“That I knew long ago. But how could you know that it was he?”
“It needs not long to find out that. Shall I tell you his name?”
“No,” answered the girl, colouring deeply. “Did he say anything else?
Was he looking for a lamb that had strayed?”
“Yes, a favourite lamb, and he was afraid some fox might have harmed
it.”
Bagga looked serious.
“It is here,” she said hesitatingly. “It strayed over here early in the
summer, and I have been keeping it with our sheep. I knew it was his,
and I could not bear to part with it. But tonight, when every one is
asleep, I will take it over to Borg. Then he will find it in the
morning, and be glad.”
She smiled with pleasure at the thought.
“Can’t you remember any more he said? Did you have a long talk with
him?”
“Yes—but I have forgotten. He gave me these shoes I am wearing now.”
Bagga was immediately keenly interested in the old man’s shoes.
“I hope you have not worn a hole in them yet. But, if you have, I will
mend them for you.”
“No,” answered the old man, with a quiet smile. “I am sorry to say there
is nothing to mend.”
Bagga blushed again, but added quickly, “But you can let me set them in
oil for you tonight, then they will be soft in the morning. You will
stay here tonight, will you not?”
“Gladly, if you will house me.”
They had reached the door of the house, and Bagga led him through a dark
passage into the room. Seated on a bed was an elderly woman, busy
mending some clothes. The visitor noticed for the first time that the
girl’s clothing was almost as patched as his own. It was not so
noticeable, however, in a pretty girl.
The old woman sat up and stared at him.
“Who is this?” she asked in surprise.
“A beggar, lady. Peace be with you.”
The woman’s glance softened.
“Come in,” she said, “and welcome to what we can give. Sit down. Have
you come far?”
“From across the Dark Mountains.”
“So far—and you are lame? Quick, Bagga, make some coffee.”
Bagga whispered something in her mother’s ear. The latter looked at her
daughter, and then at the stranger. Her glance expressed concern.
“Is it true? You have lost an eye, and lame as well?” She came towards
him. “Then you must be ... you are Guest the One-eyed?”
“So I am called,” was the reply.
She grasped his hand, and her voice trembled.
“God bless you!” she said earnestly—“God bless you! And blessed be the
hour that brought you here.”
Bagga had left the room, and the two were alone.
“Where did you spend the night?”
“On the hills.”
“And without shelter? How can you endure such hardships—an old man?...”
“I am well hardened to it by now. Though, to tell the truth, my shoulder
is somewhat stiff from last night.”
“I hope it may be no worse. Let me make up a bed for you now, and you
can have a good rest.”
“I would rather lie in the hayloft. A bed would seem strange to me now.”
Somewhat unwillingly the widow agreed to let him have his way.
“So you have come to Hofsfjordur after all, though after many years.”
“Yes; Fate has brought me here at last, in my old age.”
“Then Fate is kind to us.”
“Fate is always kind,” replied the old man earnestly.
“Even when it brings us trouble and distress?”
“Then most of all, good soul, if you did but know.”
“Even when it leads us into temptation—drives us to sin?” The widow
looked up at him quickly as she spoke, and lowered her eyes again.
“We mortals are poor clay; God has need of strange ways to work us to
His will.”
“Then you think all that happens is decreed—a part of God’s plan with
us?”
“In a way, yes. Each man’s actions are determined by the nature of his
soul; that makes his fate. All that men do is a result of their own
character. But the deeds that we do most naturally are good. Therefore,
we should each be master of ourself.”
“But a sin committed can never be a good action or lead to any good.
Surely it were better that such an act had never been?”
“A sin committed can bring out the good in one who is so made that the
good in him can be reached by no other way. One can wander through many
lands and yet not escape from one evil deed. The memory of it will stay
fresh in the mind, and in time can soften the hardest heart, or make the
weakest strong; good thoughts and strength of will grow out of it. I
speak as I have found it. But perhaps you have not found it so.”
The woman bent over her work.
“Yes,” she said. “You speak the truth. I, too, have sinned, and the
memory of it has made me better than I was, or ever could have been
without it. But I never thought of it so until now.”
Bagga entered with some food. She wore a bandage over one eye.
“What is it, child?—have you hurt yourself?” asked the mother anxiously.
Bagga blushed hotly, set down the plates, and tore away the handkerchief
from her head, laughing nervously.
The others laughed too—it was easy to see what the girl had been doing.
“I forgot to take it off,” she explained shyly. “It’s not so very bad,
after all, to have only one eye.”
“Better to have two,” said Guest the One-eyed. “More especially if they
are as blue and as good as yours.” And he looked at her with a kindly
smile.
Bagga was still embarrassed; she glanced anxiously at the visitor, and
asked: “You are not angry with me?”
He patted her arm. “How could I be? After you have given me leave to
call you Bagga?”
“When you go away from here, I will go with you all the way to the next
place. I am strong, and I can carry your sack for you.”
“That’s kind of you. And I shall not be angry with you, not even if you
fasten a stick to one leg just to see what it feels like to be lame!”
Bagga’s checks were burning now; she was nearly crying.
“I—I did just now,” she confessed. “And it was much worse than—the
other. But I’ll never do it again.”
Guest the One-eyed burst out laughing. Even the girl’s mother could not
help joining in. And there was not much of anger in the rebuke she gave
her daughter.