And Halfred kept his word.
Year after year passed away--he told me he no longer knew how often.
Meanwhile midsummer returned--and Halfred lived a life which was as a
living death.
Hartvik and Eigil commanded the Singing Swan, and ruled their sailing
comrades. They chose the design, the port, and the course of their
voyages. Halfred without word, wish, or choice, let everything be.
Only, when the south wind grew too strong for Hartvik's hand, Halfred
strode silently to the helm, and steered until the sea was calm again.
Also, when Vikings attacked the ship, Halfred had forbidden that the
Singing Swan, either by sea or land, should do harm to any--and the
danger became overwhelming, Halfred silently--he raised the battle cry
no more--grasped his hammer, and dashed among the enemy until they gave
way.
But he wielded his hammer only with his left hand--his shield he had
laid aside--and neither with helmet nor mail did he protect his head
and breast.
And throughout the whole year he wore the garment which on that
midsummer night smoke, flame and blood had darkly dyed.
When the Singing Swan drew near the land--the black flame marks on the
wings none were allowed to efface--and Hartvik and Eigil and the
sailors went to the halls of kings, Halfred stayed lying upon deck, and
kept guard over the ship.
And he drank only water out of a cup of the bitter juniperwood.
Eigil brought once, from a king's halls where the Sigskald of yore had
often been a guest, a splendid golden harp, which the queen, in
greeting to her old friend, had sent as a present.
But as the ship turned out of the bay the harp, with a light rush,
glided into the sea.
And once Halfred lay at midsummer in Iceland, on the shore by the black
stone--for every midsummer night he spent alone there, his friends must
remain on the ship--and looked very very sad. For his face had grown
very pale.
Then there came a woman, and a wonderfully beautiful maiden, who was
her daughter, and stood before him; and he turned away his face, but
the mother spoke--
"I know thee, even yet, Halfred Sigskald. I can never forget thy face,
although the smile of Oski no longer plays thereon, and though the
furrows on thy brow are deeply scored as with a plough. This maiden
dids't thou, fifteen years ago, lay in my arms a sleeping child. See
how beautiful she has become, as no other in all Iceland. And this
wreath of summer flowers has she twined for thee. Set it upon thy pale
brow, and thou shalt be healed, for gratitude has woven it."
Then Halfred sprang up, took the wreath from the beautiful blushing
maiden's hand, lifted with mighty force the huge block upwards, threw
the wreath under it, and let the black stone fall heavily in its place
again.
The mother and maiden, weeping, departed.
And during these years Halfred spoke hardly to any, save Hartvik and
Eigil, and to them only when he must.
And what he said was weak and mournful.
And his voice had become very low.
And he was very kind to everyone, above all to those below him.
And often in the night the sailors heard him sigh, and turn himself
upon the straw bed upon the deck, where always, even in the cold
winter, he lay under the stars.
And they heard him often speak when there was no one at hand with whom
he could talk.
And at table he rested his head upon his left hand, and kept his eyes
cast downwards, or looked into the far far distance.
And he almost never complained, only he often shook his head gently,
and pressed very very often his left hand upon his breast, and said
many times--
"The fresh air of heaven shuns me. I cannot breathe. If I will breathe
I must sigh. My heart is almost crushed."
And Hartvik and Eigil said one to the other--"He is ill."
And once, when they sailed to Greece, Hartvik secretly called a
physician--they are very skilful there--and the physician watched
Halfred many days and nights, and said--
"It is a heavy malady under which this poor man suffers.
"And many have already quietly died of it, or sunk into madness.
"We call it 'Melancholy.'"