THE HOLY ISLE.
With the first glimmer of consciousness, Estein became aware of an
aching head and a bruised body. Next he felt that he was very wet
and cold; and then he discovered that he was not alone. His head
rested on something soft, and two hands chafed his temples.
"Helgi," he said.
A voice that was not Helgi's replied, "Thanks be to the saints! he
is alive."
Estein started up, and his gaze met a pair of dark blue eyes. They
and the hands belonged to a fair young girl, a maid of some
seventeen summers, on whose knees his aching head had just been
resting.
They were sitting on a shelving rock that jutted into the tideway,
and at his feet his kindly plank bumped gently in an eddy of the
current.
He looked at her so silently and intently that the blue eyes
drooped and a faint blush rose to the maiden's cheeks.
"Are you wounded?" she asked. She spoke in the Norse tongue, but
with a pretty, foreign accent, and she looked so fair and so kind
that thoughts of sirens and mermaids passed through the Viking's
mind.
"Wounded? Well, methinks I ought to be," he answered; "and yet I
feel rather bruised than pierced. If I can stand--" and as he
spoke he rose to his feet, and slipping on the seaweed, slid
quietly into the water.
The girl screamed; and then, as he scrambled out none the worse
and only a little the wetter, an irresistible inclination to laugh
overcame her. Forgetful of his head, he laughed with her.
"Forgive me," she said; "I could not help laughing, though, to be
sure, you seem in no laughing plight. I thought at first that you
were drowned."
"'Tis your doing, I think, that I am not. Did you find me in the
water?"
"Half in and half out; and it took much pulling to get you wholly
out."
Estein impulsively drew a massive gold ring off his finger, and in
the gift-giving spirit of the times handed it to his preserver.
"I know not your name, fair maiden," he said, "but this I know,
that you have saved my life. Will you accept this Viking's gift
from me? It is all that the sea has left me."
"Nay, keep such gifts for those who deserve them. It would have
been an unchristian act to let you drown."
"You use a word that is strange to me; but I would that you might
take this ring."
"No, no!" she cried decidedly; "it will be time enough to talk of
gifts when I have earned them. Not," she added, a little proudly,
"that it is my wish to earn gifts. But you are wet and wounded;
come where I can give you shelter, poor though it be."
"Any shelter will seem good to me. Yet, ere I go, I would fain
learn something of my comrades' fate."
He scanned the sound narrowly, and in all its long stretch there
was not a sign of friend or foe. About a mile back the fatal reef,
bared by the ebbing tide, showed its line of black heads high out
of the water, but of ships there was no vestige to be seen. It was
long past mid-day by the sun, and he knew that he must have been
unconscious for some hours. In that time, such of the Vikings as
had escaped the rocks had evidently sailed away, leaving only the
dead in the sound.
"They are gone," he said, turning away, "friends and foes--gone,
or drowned, as I should have been, fair maid, but for you."
They scrambled together up the rocks, and then struck a winding
sheep-path that led them over the shoulder of a heath-clad hill.
At first they walked in silence, the girl in front, going at a
great speed up the narrow track; and Estein watched the wind blow
her fair hair about her neck in a waving tangle, and he saw that
she was tall and slender. By-and-by, when they had crossed the
hill and reached a less broken tract of ground, he came up to her
side.
"How did you come to be down where you found me?" he asked.
"I was on the hill," she answered, "when I saw ships in the sound
rowing hard to escape the current, and then I saw that some had
been wrecked. Wreckage was floating by, and I espied, for my eyes
are good, a man clinging to a plank; and presently he drifted upon
a rock, and I thought that perhaps I might save a life. So I went
down to the shore--and you yourself know the rest."
"I know, indeed, that I have to thank you for my life, such as it
is. And I know further that every girl would not have been so
kind."
She smiled, and her smile was one of those that illuminate a face.
"Thank rather the tide, which so kindly brought you ashore, for I
had done little if you had been in the middle of the sound. But
you have not yet told me how you came to be wrecked."
Estein told her of the storm at sea and the fight with the
Vikings; how they had fallen man by man, and how he too would have
been numbered amongst the dead but for the tideway and the rocks.
As she listened, her eyes betrayed her interest in the tale, and
when he had finished, she said,--
"I have heard of Liot and Osmund. They are the most pitiless of
all the robbers in these seas. Give thanks that you escaped them."
He asked her name, and she told him it was Osla, daughter of a
Norse leader who had fought in the Irish seas, and had finally
settled in Ireland. There his daughter was born and passed her
early girlhood; and it was a trace of the Irish accent that Estein
had noticed in her speech. In one fatal battle her two brothers
fell, her father was forced to fly from the land, and Osla had
left her Irish home with him and come to reside in Orkney.
"He is a holy Christian man," she said. "Once he was a famous
Viking, and his name was well known in the west seas. Now, he
would even have his name forgotten, and he is only known as
Andreas, which was the name of one of the blessed apostles; and
here we two live in a little lonely island, keeping aloof from all
men, and striving to live as did the early fathers."
"That must be a quiet life for you," said Estein.
"I sometimes think so myself," she answered with a smile. "And
what do men call you?"
For an instant Estein hesitated. The thought passed through his
mind, "She must not know me as son to the King of Sogn till I have
done some deed more worthy of a prince of Yngve's line than lose a
battle with two Orkney Vikings." Then he said, "I am called
Vandrad; [Footnote: The Unlucky.] from my youth up I have been a
sea-rover, and I fear I may prove ill suited to your father's
company."
"My father has met sea-rovers before," she said, with a smile in
her eye.
By this time they had nearly crossed the island, and Estein saw
before them another long sound. On the far side of this lay a
large and hilly island that stretched to his left hand as far as
his eye could reach, and on the right broke down at the end of the
strait into a precipitous headland, beyond which sparkled the open
sea. In the middle of the sound a small green islet basked like a
sea monster in the evening sunshine.
As they stood on the top of the descent that ran steeply to the
sea, he cast his eyes around for any signs of life on sea or on
shore. Below him, and much to the left, a cluster of small houses
round a larger drinking-hall marked the residence of a chieftain
of position; on the island across the water lay a few scattered
farms; and on the little islet his eye could just discern a faint
wreath of smoke. The seas were deserted, and the atmosphere seemed
charged with an air of calm loneliness.
"That is my home," said Osla, pointing to the little green island.
"The early fathers called it the Holy Isle. Our house is an
anchorite's cell, and our lands, as you see, are of the smallest.
Are you content to come to such a place?"
Estein smiled. "If you dwell there, I am content," he said.
Osla tossed her head with what quite failed to be an air of
impatience.
"Such things are easy to say now," she said. "If you say them
again after you have lived on a hermit's fare for one whole day, I
may begin to believe you."
They descended the hill, and in a little creek on the shore came
upon a skiff.
"This is our long ship," said Osla. "If you wish to show your
gratitude, you may assist me to launch her."
"Now," she said, when Estein had run the boat into the water, "you
can rest while I row you across."
"It has never been my custom to let a girl row me," he replied,
taking the oars.
"But your wounds?"
"If I have any I have forgotten them."
"Well, I will let you row, for the tide is at the turn, and you
will not need to watch the currents. There is a great roost here
when the tide is running."
Estein laughed. "I see that I am with a skilful helmsman," he
said.
"And I, that I am with an over-confident crew," she answered.
Only a distant corncrake broke the silence of the lonely channel,
its note sounding more faintly as they left the land behind. The
sun set slowly between the headlands to seaward, and by the time
they reached the shore of the islet the stillness was absolute,
and the northern air was growing chill. Osla led the Viking up a
slope of short sea-turf, and presently crossing the crest of the
land, they came upon a settlement so strange and primitive that it
could scarcely, he thought, have been designed by mortal men.
Facing the land-locked end of the sound, and looking upon a little
bay, a cluster of monastic cells marked the northern limits of the
Christian church. From this outpost it had for the time receded,
and all save two of the rude stone dwellings looked deserted and
forlorn. A thin thread of smoke rose straight heavenward in the
still air, and before the entrance of the cell whence it issued
stood an old and venerable man. Despite a slight stoop, he was
still much beyond the common height of men. His brows were shaggy,
and his grey beard reached well down over his breast; a long and
voluminous cloak, much discoloured by the weather, was bound round
his waist by a rope, and in his hand he carried a great staff.
As Estein approached, his brows bent in an expression of
displeased surprise, but he waited in silence till his daughter
spoke.
"I have brought a shipwrecked seafarer, father," she said. "He is
wounded, I fear, and certainly he is both wet and hungry. I have
told him we would give him shelter and food, and such tending as
his wounds may require."
"Whence came he?" asked the old man.
"From the sound beyond the island; at least, he was in the sound
when I first saw him."
"And I have to thank your daughter that I am not there now,"
Estein added.
"What is your name?"
"I am known as Vandrad, the son of a noble landowner in Norway."
The old man looked for a moment as though he would have questioned
him further on his family. Instead, he asked,--
"And why came you to these islands?"
"For that, the wind and not I is answerable. Orkney was the last
place I had thought of visiting."
"You were wrecked?"
"Wrecked, and wellnigh drowned."
In a more courteous tone the old man said, "While you are here you
are welcome to such cheer as we can give you. This cell is all my
dwelling, but since you have come to this island, enter and rest
you in peace."
Stooping low in the doorway, Estein entered the abode of Andreas
the hermit. Lit only by a small window and the gleam of a
driftwood fire, the rude apartment was dusky and dim; yet there
seemed nothing there that should make the sea-king pause at the
threshold. Was it but a smoke wreath that he saw, and did the wind
rise with a sudden gust out of the stillness of the evening? It
seemed to him a face that appeared and then vanished, and a far-off
voice that whispered a warning in his ear.
"Be not dismayed at our poverty; there is no worse foeman within,"
said Osla, with a touch of raillery, as he stood for a moment
irresolute.
Estein made no answer, but stepped quickly into the room. Had he
indeed heard a voice from beyond the grave, or was it but the
fancy of a wounded head? The impression lingered so vividly that
he stood in a reverie, and the words of his hosts fell unheeded on
his ears. He knew the face, he had heard the voice of old, but in
the kaleidoscope of memory he could see no name to fit them, no
incident wherewith they might be linked.
He was aroused by the voice of Osla.
"Let us give him food and drink quickly, father. He is faint, and
hears us not."
The tumultuous stir of battle was forgotten as they brought him
supper and gently bound his wounds. A kettle sang a drowsy song
and seemed to lay a languid spell upon him, and, as in a dream, he
heard the hermit offer up an evening prayer. The petitions,
eloquent and brief in his northern tongue, rose above the
throbbing of the roost outside, and died away into a prayerful
silence; and then, in the pleasant nicker of the firelight, they
parted till the morrow.
Estein and the hermit stepped out into the cool night.
"They who visit the Holy Isle must rest content with hard
pillows," said Andreas. "Here in this cell you will find a blanket
and a couch of stone. May Christ be with you through the night;"
and as he spoke he turned into his own bare apartment.
Estein looked upward at the stars shining as calmly on him here as
on the sea-king who lately paced his long ship's deck; he listened
for a moment to the roost rising higher and moaning more uneasily;
and then above both he saw a pair of dark blue eyes, and heard a
voice with just a touch of raillery in it. As he bent his head and
entered his cell, he smiled to himself at the pleasantness of the
vision.