So saying, he plunged his spade into the ground beneath him, with an

oath to drive it, and at the next instant there was a flash of blue

flame, an avalanche of smoke, a hurricane of unearthly noises, a cry

like that of a dying man, and then an awful silence.

When the air had cleared, Jason stood uninjured, but Michael Sunlocks

hung by his side inert and quiet, and blinded by a jet of steam.

What happened to Jason thereafter no tongue of man could tell. All

the fire of his spirit, and all the strength of all his days seemed

to flow back upon him in that great moment. He parted the ropes that

bound him as if they had been green withes that he snapped asunder.

He took Sunlocks in his arms and lifted him up to his shoulder, and

hung him across it, as if he had been a child that he placed there.

He stepped out of the deadly pit, and strode along over the lava

mountain as if he were the sole creature of the everlasting hills.

His glance was terrific, his voice was the voice of a wounded beast.

The warders dropped their muskets and fled before him like affrighted

sheep.

CHAPTER IV.

THROUGH THE CHASM OF ALL MEN.

It was still early morning; a soft gray mist lay over the moorlands,

but the sun that had never set in that northern land was rising

through clouds of pink and white over the bald crown of a mountain to

the northeast. And towards the rising sun Jason made his way,

striding on with the red glow on his own tanned and blackened face,

and its ghastly mockery of the hues of life on the pallid cheeks and

whitened lips of Sunlocks. From his right ankle and right wrist hung

the rings of his broken fetters, and from the left ankle and left

wrist of Sunlocks trailed the ropes that had bound them both. Never a

moment did he pause to breathe or think or question himself. On and

on he went, over lava blocks and lava dust, basaltic rock and heavy

clay, and hot blue earth and scorched and withered moss. And still

Sunlocks lay over his right side and shoulder, motionless and

unconscious, hardly breathing, but alive, with his waist encircled by

Jason's great right arm, and his waist-belt grasped tight as with the

grip of a talon by Jason's hard right hand.

Before long, Sunlocks recovered some partial consciousness and cried

in a faint voice for water. Jason glanced around on the arid plain as

if his eyes would pierce the ground for a spring, but no water could

he see on any side of him, and so without a word of answer he strode

along.

"Water, water," cried Sunlocks again, and just then Jason caught the

side-long glint of a river that ran like a pearl chain down the black

breast of a mountain.

"Water," cried Sunlocks again and yet again, in a voice of pain and

deep pleading, not rightly knowing yet where he was or what bad

chance had befallen him.

"Yes, yes, one moment more, only a moment, there--there--there!"

whispered Jason.

And muttering such words of comfort and cheer, he quickened his pace

towards the river. But when he got near to it he stopped short with a

cry of dismay. The river bubbled and smoked.

"Hot! It is hot," cried Jason. "And the land is accursed."

At that word, Sunlocks uttered a low groan, and his head, which had

been partly lifted, fell heavily backwards, and his hair hung over

Jason's shoulder. He was again unconscious.

Then more than ever like a wild beast ranging the hills with its

prey, Jason strode along. And presently he saw a lake of blue water

far away. He knew it for cold water, blessed, ice-cold water, water

to bathe the hot forehead with, water to drink. With a cry of joy,

which there was no human ear to hear, he turned and made towards it;

but just as he did so, softening as he went, and muttering from his

own parched throat words of hope and comfort to the unconscious man

he carried, a gunshot echoed through the mountains above his head.

He knew what the shot was; it was the signal of his escape. And

looking down to the valley, he saw that the guards of the settlement

were gathering on their ponies in the very line of the plain that he

must traverse to reach the water for which Sunlocks thirsted.

Then "Water, water," came again in the same faint voice as before,

and whether with his actual ear he heard that cry, or in the torment

of his distraught sense it only rang out in his empty heart, no man

shall say. But all the same he answered it from his choking throat,

"Patience, patience."

And then, with another look downward, the look of a human stag, at

the cool water which he might not reach and live, he turned himself

back to the mountains.

What happened to him then, and for many weary hours thereafter, it

would weary the spirit to tell: what plains he crossed, what hills he

climbed, and in what desolate wilderness he walked alone, with no one

for company save the unconscious man across his shoulder, and no eye

to look upon him save the eye of God.

And first he crossed a wide sea of lava dust, black as the ravens

that flew in the air above it, and bounded by hills as dark as the

earth that were themselves vast sand drifts blown up into strange and

terrible shapes by mighty tempests. Then he came upon a plain strewn

over with cinders, having a grim crag frowning upon it, like the bank

of a smelting-house, with its screes of refuse rolling down. By this

time the sun had risen high and grown hot, and the black ground under

his feet began to send up the reflection of the sun's rays into his

face to scorch it.

And still the cry of "water, water," rang in his ears, and his eyes

ranged the desolate land to find it, but never a sign of it could he

see, and his strong heart sank. Once, when he had mounted with great

toil to the top of a hill, where all behind him had been black and

burnt and blistered, he saw a wide valley stretching in front of him

that was as green as the grass of spring. And he thought that where

there was grass there would surely be water, streams of water, rivers

of water, pools of water, sunny stretches of sweet water lying clear

and quiet over amber pebbles and between soft brown banks of turf.

So at this sight his heart was lifted up, and bounding down the

hillside, over the lava blocks, as fast as he could go for his

burden, he began to sing from his cracked throat in his hoarse and

quavery voice. But when he reached the valley his song stopped, and

his heart sank afresh, for it was not grass, but moss that grew

there, and it lay only on big blocks of lava, with never a drop of

moisture or a handful of earth between them.

He was crushed, but he was strong of heart and would not despair. So

he pushed on over this green plain, through a hundred thousand mossy

mounds that looked like the graves of a world of dead men.

But when he came out of it his case seemed yet more forlorn, for

leaving the soft valley behind he had come upon a lava stream, a sea

of stones, not dust or cinders, but a bleached cake of lava rock,

with never a soft place for the foot, and never a green spot for the

eye. Not a leaf to rustle in the breeze, not a blade of grass to

whisper to it, not a bird's sweet voice, or the song of running

water. Nothing lived there but dead silence on earth and in air.

Nothing but that, or in other hours the roar of wind, the rattle of

rain, and the crash of thunder.

All this time Jason had walked on under the sweltering sun, never

resting, never pausing, buoyed up with the hope of water--water for

the fainting man that he might not die. But in the desolation of that

moment he dropped Sunlocks from his shoulder, and threw himself down

beside him.

And sitting there, with the head of his unconscious comrade upon his

knees, he put it himself to say what had been the good of all that

he had done, and if it would not have been better for both of them if

he had submitted to base tyranny and remained at the Mines. Had he

not brought this man out to his death? What else was before him in

this waste wilderness, where there was no drop of water to cool his

hot forehead or moisten his parched tongue? And thinking that his

yoke-fellow might die, and die at his hands, and that he would then

be alone, with the only man's face gone from him that had ever

brightened life for him, his heart began to waver and to say, "Rise

up, Jason, rise up and go back."

But just then he was conscious of the click-clack of horses' hoofs on

the echoing face of the stony sea about him, and he shaded his eyes

and looked around, and saw in the distance a line of men on ponies

coming on in his direction. And though he thought of the guards that

had been signalled to pursue him, he made no effort to escape. He did

not stir or try to hide himself, but sat as before with the head of

his comrade on his knees.

The men on the ponies came up and passed him closely by without

seeing him. But he saw them clearly and heard their talk. They

were not the guard from the settlement, but Thing-men bound for

Thingvellir and the meeting of Althing there. And while they were

going on before him in their laughter and high spirits, Jason could

scarce resist the impulse to cry out on them to stop and take him

along with them as their prisoner, for that he was an outlaw who had

broken his outlawry, and carried away with him this fainting man at

his knees.

But before the words would form themselves, and while his blistering

lips were shaping to speak them, a great thought came to him, and

struck him back to silence.

Why had he torn away from the Sulphur Mines? Only from a gloomy love

of life, life for his comrade, and life for himself. And what life

was there in this trackless waste, this mouldering dumb wilderness?

None, none. Nothing but death lay here; death in these gaunt

solitudes; death in these dry deserts; death amid these ghastly,

haggard wrecks of inhuman things. What chance could there be of

escape from Iceland? None, none, none.

But there was one hope yet. Who were these men that had passed him?

They were Thing-men; they were the lawmakers. Where were they going?

They were going to the Mount of Laws. Why were they going there? To

hold their meeting of Althing. What was Althing? The highest power of

the State; the supreme Court of legislature and law.

What did all this mean? It meant that Jason as an Icelander knew the

laws of his country, and that one great law above all other laws he

remembered at that instant. It concerned outlaws. And what were they

but outlaws, both of them? It ordered that the condemned could appeal

at Althing against the injustice of his sentence. If the ranks of the

judges opened for his escape, then he was saved.

Jason leaped to his feet at the thought of it. That was what he would

do for his comrade and for himself. He would push on to Thingvellir.

It was five and thirty heavy miles away; but no matter for that. The

angel of hope would walk with him. He would reach the Mount of Laws,

carrying his comrade all the way. And when he got there, he would

plead the cause of both of them. Then the judges would rise, and

part, and make way for them, and they would be free men thereafter.

Life, life, life! There was life left for both of them, and very

sweet it seemed after the shadow of death that had so nearly

encompassed them. Only to live! Only to live! They were young yet and

loved one another as brothers.

And while thinking so, in the whirl of his senses as he strode to and

fro over the lava blocks, Jason heard what his ear had hitherto been

too heavy to catch, the thin music of falling water near at hand.

And, looking up, he saw a tiny rivulet like a lock of silken hair

dropping over a round face of rock, and thanking God for it, he ran

to it, and filled both hands with it, and brought it to Sunlocks and

bathed his forehead with it, and his poor blinded eyes, and moistened

his withered lips, whispering meantime words of hope and simple

tender nothings, such as any woman might croon over her sick boy.

"Come, boy, come then, come, boy, come," he whispered, and clapped

his moist hands together over the placid face to call it back to

itself.

And while he did so, sure enough Sunlocks moved, his lips parted,

his cheeks quivered, and he sighed. And seeing these signs of

consciousness, Jason began to cry, for the great rude fellow who had

not flinched before death was touched at the sight of life in that

deep place where the strongest man is as a child.

But just then he heard once more the sound of horses' hoofs on the

lava ground, and, looking up, he saw that there could be no error

this time, and that the guards were surely coming. Ten or twelve of

them there seemed to be, mounted on as many ponies, and they were

driving on at a furious gallop over the stones. There was a dog

racing in front of them, another dog was running at their heels, and

with the barking of the dogs, the loud whoops of the men to urge the

ponies along, and to the clatter of the ponies' hoofs, the plain rang

and echoed.

Jason saw that the guards were coming on in their direction. In three

minutes more they would be upon them. They were taking the line

followed by the Thing-men. Would they pass them by unseen as the

Thing-men had passed them? That was not to be expected, for they were

there to look for them. What was to be done? Jason looked behind him.

Nothing was there but an implacable wall of stone, rising sheer up

into the sky, with never a bough, or tussock of grass to cling to

that a man might climb. He looked around. The ground was covered with

cracked domes like the arches of buried cities, but the caverns that

lay beneath them were guarded by spiked jaws which only a man's foot

could slip through. Not a gap, not a hole to creep into; not a stone

to crouch under; not a bush to hide behind; nothing in sight on any

side but the bare, hard face of the wide sea of stone.

There was not a moment to lose. Jason lifted Sunlocks to his shoulder

and crept along, bent nearly double, as silently and swiftly as he

could go. And still behind him was the whoop of the men, the barking

of the dogs and the clatter of hoofs.

On and on he went, minute after precious minute. The ground became

heavier at every stride with huge stones that tore his stockinged

legs and mangled his feet in his thin skin shoes. But he recked

nothing of this, or rejoiced in it, for the way was as rough for the

guards behind him, and he could hear that the horses had been drawn

up from their gallop to a slow-paced walk. At each step he scoured

the bleak plain for shelter, and at length he saw among piles of

vitreous snags a hummock of great slabs clashed together, with one

side rent open. It was like nothing else on earth but a tomb in an

old burial ground, where the vaults have fallen in and wrecked the

monuments above them. Through the cankered lips of this hummock into

its gaping throat, Jason pushed the unconscious body of Sunlocks, and

crept in after it. And lying there in the gloom he waited for the

guards to come on, and as they came he strained his ear to catch the

sound of the words that passed between them.

"No, no, we're on the right course," said one voice. How hollow and

far away it sounded! "You saw his footmarks on the moss that we've

just crossed over, and you'll see them again on the clay we're coming

to."

"You're wrong," said another voice, "we saw one man's footsteps only,

and we are following two."

"Don't I tell you the red man is carrying the other."

"All these miles? Impossible! Anyhow _that's_ their course, not

_this_."

"Why so?"

"Because they're bound for Hafnafiord."

"Why Hafnafiord?"

"To take ship and clear away."

"Tut, man, they've got bigger game than that. They're going to

Reykjavik."

"What! To run into the lion's mouth?"

"Yes, and to draw his teeth, too. What has the Captain always said?

Why, that the red man has all along been spy for the fair one, and we

know who _he_ is. Let him once set foot in Reykjavik and he'll do

over again what he did before."

Crouching over Sunlocks in the darkness of that grim vault, Jason

heard these words as the guards rode past him in the glare of the hot

sun, and not until they were gone did he draw his breath. But just as

he lay back with a sigh of relief, thinking all danger over, suddenly

he heard a sound that startled him. It was the sniffing of a dog

outside his hiding place, and at the next instant two glittering eyes

looked in upon him from the gap whereby he had entered.

The dog growled, and Jason tried to pacify it. It barked, and then

Jason laid hold of it, and gripped it about the throat to silence it.

It fumed and fought, but Jason held it like a vice, until there came

a whistle and a call, and then it struggled afresh.

"Erik!" shouted a voice without. "Erik, Erik!" and then whistle

followed whistle.

Thinking the creature would now follow its master, Jason was for

releasing it, but before he had yet fully done so the dog growled and

barked again.

"Erik! Erik!" shouted the voice outside, and from the click-clack of

hoofs Jason judged that one of the men was returning.

Then Jason saw that there was nothing left to him but to quiet the

dog, or it would betray them to their death; so, while the brute

writhed in his great hands, struggling to tear the flesh from them,

he laid hold of its gaping jaws and rived them apart and broke them.

In a moment more the dog was dead.

In the silence that followed, a faint voice came from a distance,

crying, "Sigurd, Sigurd, why are you waiting!"

And then another voice shouted back from near at hand--very near, so

near as to seem to be on top of the hummock, "I've lost the dog; and

I could swear I heard him growling somewhere hereabouts not a minute

since."

Jason was holding his breath again, when suddenly a deep sigh came

from Sunlocks; then another, and another, and then some rambling

words that had no meaning, but made a dull hum in that hollow place.

The man outside must have heard something, for he called his dog

again.

At that Jason's heart fell low, and all he could do he did--he

reached over the outstretched form of his comrade, and put his lips

to the lips of Sunlocks, just that he might smother their deadly

babble with noiseless kisses.

This must have served, for when the voice that was far away shouted

again "Sigurd! Sigurd!" the voice that was near at hand answered,

"Coming." And a moment later, Jason heard the sounds of hoofs going

off from him as before.

Then Michael Sunlocks awoke to full consciousness, and realized his

state, and what had befallen him, and where he was, and who was with

him. And first he was overwhelmed by a tempest of agony at feeling

that he was a lost and forlorn man, blind and maimed, as it seemed at

that time, for all the rest of his life to come. After that he cried

for water, saying that his throat was baked and his tongue cracked,

and Jason replied that all the water they had found that day they had

been forced to leave behind them where they could never return to it.

Then he poured out a torrent of hot reproaches, calling on Jason to

say why he had been brought out there to go mad of thirst; and Jason

listened to all and made no answer, but stood with bent head, and

quivering lips, and great tear-drops on his rugged cheeks.

The spasm of agony and anger soon passed, as Jason knew it must, and

then, full of remorse, Sunlocks saw everything in a new light.

"What time of day is it?" he asked.

"Evening," said Jason.

"How many hours since we left Krisuvik?"

"Ten."

"How many miles from there!"

"Twenty."

"Have you carried me all the way?"

"Yes."

There was a moment's pause, then an audible sob, and then Sunlocks

felt for Jason's hand and drew it down to his lips. That kiss was

more than Jason could bear, though he bore the hot words well enough;

so he made a brave show of unconcern, and rattled on with hopeful

talk, saying where they were to go, and what he was to do for both of

them, and how they would be free men to-morrow.

And as he talked of the great task that was before them, his heart

grew strong again, and Sunlocks caught the contagion of his spirit

and cried, "Yes, yes, let us set off. I can walk alone now. Come, let

us go."

At that Jason drew Sunlocks out of the hummock, and helped him to his

feet.

"You are weak still," he said. "Let me carry you again."

"No, no, I am strong. Give me your hand. That's enough," said

Sunlocks.

"Come, then," said Jason, "the guards have gone that way to

Reykjavik. It's this way to Thingvellir--over the hill yonder, and

through the chasm of All Men, and down by the lake to the Mount of

Laws."

Then Jason wound his right arm about the waist of Sunlocks, and

Sunlocks rested his left hand on the shoulder of Jason, and so they

started out again over that gaunt wilderness that was once a sea of

living fire. Bravely they struggled along, with words of courage and

good cheer passing between them, and Sunlocks tried to be strong for

Jason's sake, and Jason tried to be blind for sake of Sunlocks. If

Sunlocks stumbled, Jason pretended not to know it, though his strong

arm bore him up, and when Jason spoke of water and said they would

soon come to a whole lake of it, Sunlocks pretended that he was no

longer thirsty. Thus, like little children playing at make-believe,

they tottered on, side by side, arm through arm, yoked together by a

bond far tighter than ever bound them before, for the love that was

their weakness was God's own strength.

But no power of spirit could take the place of power of body, and

Sunlocks grew faint and very feeble.

"Is the sun still shining?" he asked at one time.

"Yes," said Jason.

Whereupon Sunlocks added, sadly, "And I am blind--blind--blind."

"Courage," whispered Jason, "the lake is yonder. I can see it

plainly. We'll have water soon."

"It's not that," said Sunlocks, "but something else that troubles

me."

"What else?" said Jason.

"That I'm blind, and sick, and have a broken hand, a broken heart,

and a broken brain, and am not worth saving."

"Lean heavier on my shoulder, and wind your arm about my neck,"

whispered Jason.

Sunlocks struggled on a little longer, and then the power of life

fell low in him, and he could walk no farther. "Let me go," he said,

"I will lie down here a while."

And when Jason had dropped him gently to the ground, thinking he

meant to rest a little and then continue his journey, Sunlocks said,

very gently:

"Now, save yourself. I am only a burden to you. Escape, or you will

be captured and taken back."

"What?" cried Jason, "and leave you here to die?"

"That may be my fate in any case," said Sunlocks faintly, "so go,

brother--go--farewell--and God bless you!"

"Courage," whispered Jason again. "I know a farm not far away, and

the good man that keeps it. He will give us milk and bread; and we'll

sleep under his roof to-night, and start afresh in the morning."

But the passionate voice fell on a deaf ear, for Sunlocks was

unconscious before half the words were spoken. Then Jason lifted him

to his shoulder once more, and set out for the third time over the

rocky waste.

It would be a weary task to tell of the adventures that afterwards

befell him. In the fading sunlight of that day he crossed trackless

places, void of any sound or sight of life; silent, save for the

hoarse croak of the raven; without sign of human foregoer, except

some pyramidal heaps of stones, that once served as mournful

sentinels to point the human scapegoat to the cities of refuge.

He came up to the lake and saw that it was poisonous, for the

plovers that flew over it fell dead from its fumes; and when he

reached the farm he found it a ruin, the good farmer gone, and his

hearth cold. He toiled through mud and boggy places, and crossed

narrow bridle paths along perpendicular sides of precipices. The

night came on as he walked, the short night of that northern summer,

where the sun never sets in blessed darkness that weary eyes may

close in sleep, but a blood-red glow burns an hour in the northern

sky at midnight, and then the bright light rises again over the

unrested world. He was faint for bread, and athirst for water, but

still he struggled on--on--on--on--over the dismal chaos.

Sometimes when the pang of thirst was strongest he remembered what he

had heard of the madness that comes of it--that the afflicted man

walks round in a narrow circle, round and round over the self-same

place (as if the devil's bridle bound him like an unbroken horse)

until nature fails and he faints and falls. Yet thinking of himself

so, in that weary spot, with Sunlocks over him, he shuddered, but

took heart of strength and struggled on.

And all this time Sunlocks lay inert and lifeless on his shoulder, in

a deep unconsciousness that was broken by two moments only of

complete sensibility. In the first of these he said:

"I must have been dreaming, for I thought I had found my brother."

"Your brother?" said Jason.

"Yes, my brother; for I have got one, though I have never seen him,"

said Sunlocks. "We were not together in childhood, as other brothers

are, but when we grew to be men I set out in search of him. I thought

I had found him at last--but it was in hell."

"God-a-mercy!" cried Jason.

"And when I looked at him," said Sunlocks, "it seemed to me that he

was you. Yes, you; for he had the face of my yoke-fellow at the

Mines. I thought you were my brother indeed."

"Lie still, brother," whispered Jason; "lie still and rest."

In the second moment of his consciousness Sunlocks said, "Do you

think the judges will listen to us?"

"They must--they shall," said Jason.

"But the Governor himself may be one of them," said Sunlocks.

"What matter?" said Jason.

"He is a hard man--do you know who he is?"

"No," said Jason; but he added, quickly, "Wait! Ah, now I remember.

Will he be there?"

"Yes."

"So much the better."

"Why?" said Sunlocks.

And Jason answered, with heat and flame of voice, "Because I hate and

loathe him."

"Has he wronged you also?" said Sunlocks.

"Yes," said Jason, "and I have waited and watched five years to

requite him."

"Have you never yet met with him?"

"Never! But I'll see him now. And if he denies me this justice,

I'll----"

"What?"

At that he paused, and then said quickly, "No matter."

But Sunlocks understood and said, "God forbid it."

Half an hour later, Red Jason, still carrying Michael Sunlocks, was

passing through the chasm of All Men, a grand, gloomy diabolical

fissure opening into the valley of Thingvellir. It was morning of the

day following his escape from the Sulphur Mines of Krisuvik. The air

was clear, the sun was bright, and a dull sound, such as the sea

makes when far away, came up from the plain below. It was a deep

multitudinous hum of many voices. Jason heard it, and his heavy face

lightened with the vividness of a grim joy.

CHAPTER V.

THE MOUNT OF LAWS.

I.

And now, that we may stride on the faster, we must step back a pace

or two. What happened to Greeba after she parted from her father at

Krisuvik, and took up her employment as nurse to the sick prisoners,

we partly know already from the history of Red Jason and Michael

Sunlocks. Accused of unchastity, she was turned away from the

hospital; and suspected of collusion to effect the escape of some

prisoner unrecognized, she was ordered to leave the neighborhood of

the Sulphur Mines. But where her affections are at stake a woman's

wit is more than a match for a man's cunning, and Greeba contrived to

remain at Krisuvik. For her material needs she still had the larger

part of the money that her brothers, in their scheming selfishness,

had brought her, and she had her child to cheer her solitude. It was

a boy, unchristened as yet, save in the secret place of her heart,

where it bore a name that she dare not speak. And if its life was her

shame in the eyes of the good folk who gave her shelter, it was a

dear and sweet dishonor, for well she knew and loved to remember that

one word from her would turn it to glory and to joy.

"If only I dare tell," she would whisper into her babe's ear again

and again. "If I only dare!"

But its father's name she never uttered, and so with pride for her

secret, and honor for her disgrace, she clung the closer to both,

though they were sometimes hard to bear, and she thought a thousand

times they were a loving and true revenge on him that had doubted her

love and told her she had married him for the poor glory of his

place.

Not daring to let herself be seen within range of the Sulphur Mines,

she sought out the prisoner-priest from time to time, where he lived

in the partial liberty of the Free Command, and learned from him such

tidings of her husband as came his way. The good man knew nothing of

the identity of Michael Sunlocks in that world of bondage where all

identity was lost, save that A 25 was the husband of the woman who

waited without. But that was Greeba's sole secret, and the true soul

kept it.

And so the long winter passed, and the summer came, and Greeba was

content to live by the side of Sunlocks, content to breathe the air

he breathed, to have the same sky above her, to share the same

sunshine and the same rain, only repining when she remembered that

while she was looking for love into the eyes of their child, he was

slaving like a beast of burden; but waiting, waiting, waiting, withal

for the chance--she knew not what--that must release him yet, she

knew not when.

Her great hour came at length, but an awful blow came with it. One

day the prisoner-priest hurried up to the farm where she lived, and

said, "I have sad news for you; forgive me; prisoner A25 has met with

an accident."

She did not stay to hear more, but with her child in her arms she

hurried away to the Mines, and there in the tempest of her trouble

the secret of months went to the winds in an instant.

"Where is he?" she cried. "Let me see him. He is my husband."

"Your husband!" said the warders, and without more ado they laid

hands upon her and carried her off to their Captain.

"This woman," they said, "turns out to be the wife of A25."

"As I suspected," the Captain answered.

"Where is my husband?" Greeba cried. "What accident has befallen him?

Take me to him."

"First tell me why you came to this place," said the Captain.

"To be near my husband," said Greeba.

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

"Who is this other man?" asked the Captain.

"What man?" said Greeba.

Then they told her that her husband was gone, having been carried off

by a fellow-prisoner who had effected the escape of both of them.

"Escaped!" cried Greeba, with a look of bewilderment, glancing from

face to face of the men about her. "Then it is not true that he has

met with an accident. Thank God, oh! thank God!" And she clutched her

child closer to her breast, and kissed it.

"We know nothing of that either way," said the Captain. "But tell us

who and what is this other man? His number here was B25. His name is

Jason."

At that, Greeba gazed up again with a terrified look of inquiry.

"Jason?" she cried.

"Yes, who is he?" the Captain asked.

And Greeba answered, after a pause, "His own brother."

"We might have thought as much," said the Captain.

There was another pause, and then Greeba said, "Yes, his own brother,

who has followed him all his life to kill him."

The Captain smiled upon his warders and said, "It didn't look like

it, madam."

"But it is true," said Greeba.

"He has been your husband's best friend," said the Captain.

"He is my husband's worst enemy," said Greeba.

"He has carried him off, I tell you," said the Captain.

"Then it is only that he may have his wicked will of him," said

Greeba. "Ah, sir, you will tell me I don't know what I'm saying. But

I know too well. It was for attempting my husband's life that Jason

was sent to this place. That was before your time; but look and see

if I speak the truth. Now I know it is false that my husband is only

injured. Would he were! Would he were! Yet, what am I saying? Mercy

me, what am I saying? But, only think, he has been carried off to his

death. I know he has--I am sure he has; and better, a thousand

thousand times better, that he should be here, however injured, with

me to nurse him! But what am I saying again? Indeed, I don't know

what I am saying. Oh, sir, forgive me; and heaven forgive me, also.

But send after that man. Send instantly. Don't lose an hour more. Oh,

believe me, sir, trust me, sir, for I am a broken-hearted woman; and

why should I not speak the truth?"

"All this is very strange," said the Captain. "But set your mind at

ease about the man Jason. The guards have already gone in pursuit of

him, and he cannot escape. It is not for me to say your story is not

true, though the facts, as we know them, discredit it. But, true or

not, you shall tell it to the Governor as you have told it to me, so

prepare to leave Krisuvik immediately."

And in less than an hour more Greeba was riding between two of the

guards towards the valley of Thingvellir.

II.

Jorgen Jorgensen had thrice hardened his heart against Michael

Sunlocks: first, when he pushed Sunlocks into Althing, and found his

selfish ends were not thereby in the way of advancement; next, when

he fell from his place and Sunlocks took possession of it; again,

when he regained his stool and Sunlocks was condemned to the Sulphur

Mines. But most of all he hated Sunlocks when old Adam Fairbrother

came to Reykjavik and demanded for him, as an English subject, the

benefit of judge and jury.

"We know of no jury here," said Jorgen; "and English subject or not

English subject, this man has offended against the laws of Denmark."

"Then the laws of Denmark shall condemn him," said Adam, bravely,

"and not the caprice of a tyrant governor."

"Keep a civil tongue in your old head, sir," said Jorgen, "or you may

learn to your cost how far that caprice can go."

"I care nothing for your threats, sir," said Adam, "and I mean to

accuse you before your master."

"Do your worst," said Jorgen, "and take care how you do it."

And at first Adam's worst seemed likely to be little, for hardly had

he set foot in Reykjavik when he was brought front to front with the

material difficulty that the few pounds with which he had set out

were spent. Money was justice, and justice money, on that rock of the

sea, as elsewhere, and on the horns of his dilemma, Adam bethought

him to write to his late master, the Duke of Athol, explaining his

position, and asking for the loan of fifty pounds. A long month

passed before he got back his answer. The old Duke sent forty pounds

as a remonstrance against Adam's improvidence, and stern counsel to

him to return forthwith to the homes of his children. In the meantime

the old Bishop, out of love of Michael Sunlocks and sympathy with

Greeba, had taken Adam into his house at Reykjavik. From there old

Adam had sent petitions to the Minister at Copenhagen, petitions to

the Danish Rigsdag, and finally petitions to the Danish King. His

reward had been small, for no justice, or promise of justice, could

he get.

But Jorgen Jorgensen had sat no easier on his seat for Adam's zealous

efforts. He had been hurried out of his peace by Government

inquiries, and terrified by Government threats. But he had wriggled,

he had lied, he had used subterfuge after subterfuge, and so pushed

on the evil day of final reckoning.

And while his hoary head lay ill at ease because of the troubles that

came from Copenhagen, the gorge of his stomach rose at the bitter

waters he was made to drink at Reykjavik. He heard the name of

Michael Sunlocks on every lip, as a name of honor, a name of

affection, a name to conjure with whenever and wherever men talked of

high talents, justice, honor and truth.

Jorgen perceived that the people of Iceland had recovered from the

first surprise and suspicion that followed on the fall of their

Republic, and no longer saw Michael Sunlocks as their betrayer, but

had begun to regard him as their martyr. They loved him still. If

their hour ever came they would restore him. On the other hand,

Jorgen realized that he himself was hated where he was not despised,

jeered at where he was not feared, and that the men whom he had

counted upon because he had bought them with the places in his gift,

smiled loftily upon him as upon one who had fallen on his second

childhood. And so Jorgen Jorgensen hardened his heart against Michael

Sunlocks, and vowed that the Sulphur Mines of Krisuvik should see the

worst and last of him.

He heard of Jason, too, that he was not dead, as they had supposed,

but alive, and that he had been sent to the Mines for attempting the

life of Sunlocks. That attempt seemed to him to come of a natural

passion, and as often as he spoke of it he warmed up visibly, not out

of any human tenderness towards Jason, but with a sense of wild

triumph over Sunlocks. And the more he thought of Jason, the firmer

grew his resolve to take him out of the Sulphur Mines and place him

by his side, not that his old age needed a stay, not that he was a

lonely old man, and Jason was his daughter's son, but only because

Jason hated Sunlocks and would crush him if by chance he rose again.

With such thoughts uppermost he went down to Krisuvik, and there his

bitter purpose met with a shock. He found Jason the sole ally of

Michael Sunlocks, his friend, his defender and champion against

tyranny. It was then that he ordered the ruthless punishment of

Sunlocks, that he should be nailed by his right hand to a log of

driftwood, with meat and drink within sight but out of reach of him,

and a huge knife by his side. And when Jason had liberated Sunlocks

from this inhuman cruelty, and the two men, dearest foes and

deadliest friends, were brought before him for their punishment, the

gall of Jorgen's fate seemed to suffocate him. "Strap them up

together," he cried, "leg to leg and arm to arm." Thus he thought to

turn their love to hate; but he kept his own counsel, and left the

Sulphur Mines without saying what evil dream had brought him there,

or confessing to his Danish officers the relation wherein this other

prisoner stood to him, for secrecy is the chain-armor of the tyrant.

Back in Reykjavik he comforted himself with the assurance that

Michael Sunlocks must die. "There was death in his face," he thought,

"and he cannot last a month longer. Besides, he will fall to fighting

with the other, and the other will surely kill him. Blind fools, both

of them!"

In this mood he made ready for Thingvellir, and set out with all his

people. Since the revolution, he had kept a bodyguard of five and

twenty men, and with this following he was crossing the slope of the

Basket Hill, behind the capital, when he saw half a score of the

guards from Krisuvik riding at a gallop from the direction of

Hafnafiord. They were the men who had been sent in pursuit of Red

Jason and Michael Sunlocks, the same that had passed them in the

hummock, where the carcase of the dog still lay.

Then Jorgen Jorgensen received news that terrified him.

Michael Sunlocks had escaped, and Red Jason had escaped with him.

They had not been seen at Hafnafiord, and no ship had set sail from

there since yesterday. Never a trace of them had been found on any of

the paths from Krisuvik, and it was certain that they must be in the

interior still. Would his Excellency lend them ten men more to scour

the country?

Such was the message of the guards, and at hearing it Jorgen's anger

and fear overmastered him.

"Fools! Blockheads! Asses!" he cried. "The man is making for

Reykjavik. He knows what he is doing if you do not. Is not this the

time of Althing, and must I not leave Reykjavik for Thingvellir? He

is making for Reykjavik now! Once let him set foot there, and these

damned Icelanders will rise at the sight of him. Then you may scour

the country till you fall dead and turn black, and he will only laugh

at the sight of you. Back, you blockheads, back! Back to Reykjavik,

every man of you! And I am going back with you."

Thus driven by his frantic terror, Jorgen Jorgensen returned to the

capital and searched every house and hovel, every hole and sty, for

the two fugitives; and when he had satisfied himself that they were

not anywhere within range of Reykjavik, his fears remembered

Thingvellir, and what mischief might be going forward in his absence.

So next day he left his body-guard with the guard from Krisuvik to

watch the capital, and set out alone for the Mount of Laws.

III.

The lonely valley of Thingvellir was alive that morning with a great

throng of people. They came from the west by the Chasm of All Men,

from the east by the Chasm of Ravens, and from the south by the lake.

Troop after troop flowed into the vast amphitheatre that lies between

dark hills and great jokulls tipped with snow. They pitched their

tents on the green patch, under the fells to the north, and tying

their ponies together, head to tail, they turned them loose to graze.

Hundreds of tents were there by early morning, gleaming white in the

sunlight, and tens of hundreds of ponies, shaggy and unkempt, grubbed

among the short grass that grew between.

Near the middle of the plain stood the Mount of Laws, a lava island

of oval shape, surrounded by a narrow stream, and bounded by

overhanging walls cut deep with fissures. Around this mount the

people gathered. There friend met friend, foe met foe, rival met

rival, northmen met southmen, the Westmann islander met the Grimsey

islander, and the man from Seydisfiord met the man from Patriksfiord.

And because Althing gathered only every other year, many musty kisses

went round, with snuffboxes after them, among those who had not met

before for two long years.

It was a vast assembly, chiefly of men, in their homespun and

sheepskins and woollen stockings, cross-gartered with hemp from ankle

to knee. Women, too, and young girls and children were there, all

wearing their Sunday best. And in those first minutes of their

meeting, before Althing began, the talk was of crops and stock, of

the weather, and of what sheep had been lost in the last two hard

winters. The day had opened brightly, with clear air and bright

sunshine, but the blue sky had soon become overcast with threatening

clouds, and this lead to stories of strange signs in the heavens, and

unaccustomed noises on the earth and under it.

A man from the south spoke of rain of black dust as having fallen

three nights before until the ground was covered deep with it.

Another man, from the foot of Hekla, told of a shock of earthquake

that had lately been felt there, travelling northeast to southwest. A

third man spoke of grazing his horse on the wild oats of a glen that

he had passed through, with a line of some twenty columns of smoke

burst suddenly upon his view. All this seemed to pass from lip to lip

in the twinkling of an eye, and when young men asked what the signs

might mean, old men lifted both hands and shook their heads, and

prayed that the visitations which their island had seen before might

never come to it again.

Such was the talk, and such the mood of the people when the hour

arrived for the business of Althing to begin, and then all eyes

turned to the little wooden Thing House by the side of the church,

wherein the Thing-men were wont to gather for their procession to the

Mount of Laws. And when the hour passed, and the procession had not

yet appeared, the whisper went around that the Governor had not

arrived, and that the delay was meant to humor him. At that the

people began to mutter among themselves, for the slumbering fire of

their national spirit had been stirred. By his tardy coming the

Governor meant to humiliate them! But, Governor or no Governor, let

Althing begin its sitting. Who was the Governor that Althing should

wait for him? What was Althing that it should submit to the whim or

the will of any Governor?

Within the Thing House, as well as outside of it, such hot protests

must have had sway, for presently the door of the little place was

thrown open and the six and thirty Thing-men came out.

Then followed the solemn ceremonies that had been observed on the

spot for nigh a thousand years. First walked the Chief Judge,

carrying the sword of justice, and behind him walked his magistrates

and Thing-men. They ascended to the Mount by a flight of steps cut

out of its overhanging walls. At the same moment another procession,

that of the old Bishop and his clergy, came out of the church and

ascended to the Mount by a similar flight of steps cut out of the

opposite side of it. The two companies parted, the Thing-men to the

north and the clergy to the south, leaving the line of this natural

causeway open and free, save for the Judge, who stood at the head of

it, with the Bishop to the right of him and the Governor's empty

place to the left.

And first the Bishop offered prayer for the sitting of Althing that

was then to begin.

"Thou Judge of Israel," he prayed, in the terrible words which had

descended to him through centuries, "Thou that sittest upon the

cherubims, come down and help Thy people. O, most mighty God, who

art more pleased with the sacrifice of thanksgiving than with the

burnt offerings of bullocks and goats, keep now our mouths from guile

and deceit, from slander and from obloquy. O Lord God most holy, O

Lord most mighty, endue Thy ministers with righteousness. Give them

wisdom that they may judge wisely. Give them mercy that they may

judge mercifully. Let them judge this nation as Thou wilt judge Thy

people. Let them remember that he who takes the name of justice for

his own profit or hatred or revenge is worse than the vulture that

watches for the carcase. Let them not forget that howsoever high they

stand or proudly they bear themselves, nothing shall they take from

hence but the oak for their coffin. Let them be sure that when Thou

shalt appear with a consuming fire before Thee and a tempest round

about Thee, calling the heaven and the earth together, no portion can

they have in that day like to the portion of thine inheritance."

The fierce prayer came to an end, and then the Judge, holding his

sword erect, read his charge and repeated his oath, to deal justly

between man and man, even as the sword stood upright before him. And

the vast assembly of rude men in sheepskins and in homespun looked on

and listened, all silent and solemn, all worshipful of law and

reverent of its forms.

The oath being taken, the Judge had laid the sword aside and begun to

promulgate the new laws, reading them clause by clause, first in

Icelandic and then in Danish, when there was an uneasy movement at

the outskirts of the crowd to the west of the Mount.

"The Governor," whispered one. "It's himself," muttered another.

"He's here at last," murmured a third, and dark were the faces turned

round to see. It was the Governor, indeed, and he pushed his way

through the closely-packed people, who saw him coming, but stood

together like a wall until riven apart by his pony's feet. At the

causeway he dismounted and stepped up to the top of the Mount. He

looked old and feeble and torn by evil passions; his straight gray

hair hung like a blasted sheaf on to his shoulders, his forehead was

blistered with blue veins, his cheeks were guttered with wrinkles,

his little eyes were cruel, his jaw was broad and heavy, and his

mouth was hard and square.

The Judge made him no obeisance, but went on with his reading. The

Bishop seemed not to see him, but gazed steadfastly forward. The

Thing-men gave no sign.

He stood a moment, and looked around, and the people below could see

his wrath rising like a white hand across his haggard face. Then he

interrupted and said, "Chief Justice, I have something to say."

All heard the words, and the Speaker stopped, and, amid the

breathless silence of the people, he answered quietly, "There will be

a time and a place for that, your Excellency."

"The time is now, and the place is here," cried Jorgen Jorgensen, in

a tense voice, and quivering with anger. "Listen to me. The rebel and

traitor who once usurped the government of this island has escaped."

"Escaped!" cried a hundred voices.

"Michael Sunlocks!" cried as many more.

And a wave of excitement passed over the vast assembly.

"Yes, Michael Sunlocks has escaped," cried Jorgen Jorgensen. "That

scoundrel is at liberty. He is free to do his wicked work again. Men

of Iceland, I call on you to help me. I call on you to help the Crown

of Denmark. The traitor must be taken. I call on you to take him."

A deep murmur ran through the closely-pressed people.

"You've got your guards," shouted a voice from below. "Why do you

come to us?"

"Because," cried Jorgen Jorgensen, "my guards are protecting

Reykjavik, and because they might scour your island a hundred years

and never find what they looked for."

"Thank God!" muttered another voice from below.

"But you know it, every fell and fiord," cried Jorgen Jorgensen, "and

never a toad could skulk under a stone but you would root him out of

it. Chief Justice," he added, sweeping about, "I have a request to

make of you."

"What is it, your Excellency?" said the Judge.

"That you should adjourn this Althing so that every man here present

may go out in search of the traitor."

Then a loud involuntary murmur of dissent rose from the people, and

at the same moment the Judge said in bewilderment, "What can your

Excellency mean?"

"I mean," cried Jorgen Jorgensen, "that if you adjourn this Althing

for three days, the traitor will be taken. If not, he will be at

liberty as many years. Will you do it?"

"Your Excellency," said the Judge, "Althing has lived nigh upon a

thousand years, and every other year for that thousand years it has

met on this ancient ground, but never once since it began has the

thing you ask been done."

"Let it be done now," cried Jorgen Jorgensen. "Will you do it?"

"We will do our duty by your Excellency," said the Judge, "and we

will expect your Excellency to do your duty by us."

"But this man is a traitor," cried Jorgen Jorgensen, "and it is your

duty to help me to capture him. Will you do it?"

"And this day is ours by ancient right and custom," said the Judge,

"and it is your duty to stand aside."

"I am here for the King of Denmark," cried Jorgen Jorgensen, "and I

ask you to adjourn this Althing. Will you do it?"

"And we are here for the people of Iceland," said the Judge, "and we

ask you to step back and let us go on."

Then Jorgen Jorgensen's anger knew no bounds.

"You are subjects of the King of Denmark," he cried.

"Before ever Denmark was, we were," answered the Judge, proudly.

"And in his name I demand that you adjourn. Will you do it now?"

cried Jorgen Jorgensen, with a grin of triumph.

"No," cried the Judge, lifting an undaunted face to the face of

Jorgen Jorgensen.

The people held their breath through this clash of words, but at the

Judge's brave answer a murmur of approval passed over them. Jorgen

Jorgensen heard it, and flinched, but turned back to the Judge and

said,

"Take care. If you do not help me, you hinder me; if you are not with

me, you are against me. Is that man a traitor? Answer me--yes or no."

But the Judge made no answer, and there was dead silence among the

people, for they knew well in what way the cruel question tended.

"Answer me--yes or no," Jorgen Jorgensen cried again.

Then the Bishop broke silence and said,

"Whatever our hearts may be, your Excellency, our tongues must be

silent."

At that, Jorgen Jorgensen faced about to the crowd.

"I put a price on his head," he cried. "Two thousand kroner to

anyone who takes him, alive or dead. Who will earn it?"

"No Icelander earns money with blood," said the Bishop. "If this

thing is our duty, we will do it without pay. If not, no bribe will

tempt us."

"Ay, ay," shouted a hundred voices.

Jorgen Jorgensen flinched again, and his face whitened as he grew

darker within.

"So, I see how it is," he said, looking steadfastly at the Bishop,

the Judge, and the Thing-men. "You are aiding this traitor's escape.

You are his allies, every man of you. And you are seducing and

deceiving the people."

Then he faced about towards the crowd more and more, and cried in a

loud voice:

"Men of Iceland, you know the man who has escaped. You know what he

is, and where he came from; you know he is not one of yourselves, but

a bastard Englishman. Then drive him back home. Listen to me. What

price did I put on his head? Two thousand kroner! I will give ten

thousand! Ten thousand kroner for the man who takes him alive, and

twenty thousand kroner--do you hear me?--twenty thousand for the man

who takes him dead."

"Silence!" cried the Bishop. "Who are you, sir, that you dare tempt

men to murder?"

"Murder!" cried Jorgen Jorgensen. "See how simple are the wise? Men

of Iceland, listen to me again. The traitor is an outlaw. You know

what that means. His blood is on his own head. Any man may shoot him

down. No man may be called to account for doing so. Do you hear me?

It is the law of Iceland, the law of Denmark, the law of the world.

He is an outlaw, and killing him is no murder. Follow him up! Twenty

thousand kroner to the man who lays him at my feet."

He would have said more, for he was heaving with passion, and

his white face had grown purple, but his tongue seemed suddenly

paralyzed, and his wide eyes fixed themselves on something at the

outskirts of the crowd. One thin and wrinkled hand he lifted up and

pointed tremblingly over the heads of the people. "There!" he said in

a smothered cry, and after that he was silent.

The crowd shifted and looked round, amid a deep murmur of surprise

and expectation. Then by one of the involuntary impulses that move

great assemblies, the solid wall of human beings seemed to part of

itself, and make a way for someone.

It was Red Jason, carrying Michael Sunlocks across his breast and

shoulder. His bronzed cheeks were worn, his sunken eyes burned with a

dull fire. He strode on, erect and strong, through the riven way of

men and women. A breathless silence seemed to follow him. When he

came to the foot of the Mount, he stopped, and let Sunlocks drop

gently to the ground. Sunlocks was insensible, and his piteous white

face looked up at the heavy dome of the sky. A sensation of awe held

the vast crowd spellbound. It was as if the Almighty God had heard

the blasphemy of that miserable old man, and given him on the instant

his impious wish.

IV.

Then, in that breathless silence, Jason stood erect and said, in a

firm, clear, sonorous voice, "You know who I am. Some of you hate me.

Some of you fear me. All of you think me a sort of wild beast among

men. That is why you caged me. But I have broken my bars, and brought

this man along with me."

The men on the Mount had not time to breathe under the light and fire

that flashed upon them when Jason lifted his clenched hand and said,

"O, you that dwell in peace; you that go to your beds at night; you

that eat when you are hungry and drink when you are athirst, and rest

when you are weary: would to God you could know by bitter proof what

this poor man has suffered. But _I_ know it, and I can tell you what

it has been. Where is your Michael Sunlocks, that I may tell it to

him? Which is he? Point him out to me."

Then the people drew a deep breath, for they saw in an instant what

had befallen these two men in the dread shaping of their fate.

"Where is he?" cried Jason, again.

And in a voice quivering with emotion, the Judge said:

"Don't you know the man you've brought here?"

"No--yes--yes," cried Jason. "My brother--my brother in suffering--my

brother in misery--that's all I know or care. But where is your

Michael Sunlocks? I have something to say to him. Where is he?"

Jorgen Jorgensen had recovered himself by this time, and pressing

forward, he said with a cruel smile,

"You fool; shall I tell you where he is?"

"Heaven forbid it!" said the Bishop, stepping out and lifting both

hands before the Governor's face. But in that instant Jason had

recognized Jorgen Jorgensen.

"I know this old man," he said. "What is he doing here? Ah, God pity

me, I had forgotten. I saw him at the mines. Then he is back. And,

now I remember, he is Governor again."

Saying this, an agony of bewilderment quivered in his face. He looked

around.

"Then where is Michael Sunlocks?" he cried in a loud voice. "Where is

he? Which is he? Who is he? Will no one tell me? Speak! For the

merciful Christ's sake let some one speak."

There was a moment of silence, in which the vast crowd trembled

as one man with wonder and dismay. The Bishop and Judge stood

motionless. Jorgen Jorgensen smiled bitterly and shook his head, and

Jason raised his right hand to cover his face from the face of the

insensible man at his feet, as if some dark foreshadowing of the

truth had swept over him in an instant.

What happened thereafter Jason never knew, only that there was a

shrill cry and a rustle like a swirl of wind, only that someone was

coming up behind him through the walls of human beings, that still

stood apart like riven rocks, only that in a moment a woman had flung

herself over the prostrate body of his comrade, embracing it, raising

it in her arms, kissing its pale cheeks, and sobbing over it, "My

husband! my husband."

It was Greeba. When the dark mist had cleared away from before his

eyes, Jason saw her and knew her. At the same instant he saw and knew

his destiny, that his yoke-fellow had been Michael Sunlocks, that his

lifelong enemy had been his life's sole friend.

It was a terrible discovery, and Jason reeled under the shock of it

like a beast that is smitten to its death. And while he stood there,

half-blind, half-deaf, swaying to and fro as if the earth rocked

beneath him, across his shoulders, over his cheeks and his mouth and

his eyes fell the lash of the tongue of Jorgen Jorgensen.

"Yes, fool that you are and have been," he cried in his husky voice,

"that's where your Michael Sunlocks is."

"Shame! Shame!" cried the people.

But Jorgen Jorgensen showed no pity or ruth.

"You have brought him here to your confusion," he cried again, "and

it's not the first time you've taken this part to your own loss."

More he would have said in the merciless cruelty of his heart, only

that a deep growl came up from the crowd and silenced him.

But Jason heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing, knew nothing,

save that Michael Sunlocks lay at his feet, that Greeba knelt beside

him, and that she was coaxing him, caressing him, and kissing him

back to life.

"Michael," she whispered, "Michael! My poor Michael!" she murmured,

while she moistened his lips and parched tongue with the brenni-vin

from the horn of some good man standing near.

Jason saw this and heard this, though he had eyes and ears for

nothing besides. And thinking, in the wild tumult of his distempered

brain, that such tenderness might have been his, should have been

his, must have been his, but for this man who had robbed him of this

woman, all the bitterness of his poisoned heart rose up to choke him.

He remembered his weary life with this man, his sufferings with him,

his love for him, and he hated himself for it all. What devil of hell

had made sport of him, to give him his enemy for his friend? How

Satan himself must shriek aloud to see it, that he who had been

thrice robbed by this man--robbed of a father, robbed of a mother,

robbed of a wife--should in his blindness tend him, and nurse him,

and carry him with sweat of blood over trackless wastes that he might

save him alive for her who waited to claim him!

Then he remembered what he had come for, and that all was not yet

done. Should he do it after all? Should he give this man back to this

woman? Should he renounce his love and his hate together--his love of

this woman, his hate of this man? Love? Hate? Which was love? Which

was hate? Ah, God! They were one; they were the same. Heaven pity

him, what was he to do?

Thus the powers of good and the powers of evil wrestled together in

Jason's heart for mastery. But the moment of their struggle was

short. One look at the piteous blind face lying on Greeba's bosom,

one glance at the more piteous wet face that hung over it, and love

had conquered hate in that big heart forever and forever.

Jason was recalled to himself by a dull hum of words that seemed to

be spoken from the Mount. Someone was asking why he had come there,

and brought Michael Sunlocks along with him. So he lifted his hand,

partly to call attention, partly to steady himself, and in a broken

voice he said these words:--

"Men and women, if you could only know what it means that you have

just witnessed, I think it would be enough to move any man. You know

what I am--a sort of bastard who has never been a man among men, but

has walked alone all the days of his life. My father killed my

mother, and so I vowed to kill my father. I did not do it, for I

saved him out of the sea, and he died in my arms, as you might

say, doating on the memory of another son. That son's mother had

supplanted my mother and that son himself had supplanted me, so I

vowed to kill him for his father's sake. I did not do that neither. I

had never once set eyes on my enemy, I had done nothing but say what

I meant to do, when you took me and tried me and condemned me.

Perhaps that was injustice, such as could have been met with nowhere

save here in Iceland, yet I thank God for it now. By what chance I do

not know, but in that hell to which you sent me, where all names are

lost and no man may know his yoke-fellow, except by his face if he

has seen it, I met with one who became my friend, my brother, my

second self. I loved him, as one might love a little child. And he

loved me--yes, me,--I could swear it. You had thought me a beast, and

shut me out from the light of day and the company of Christian men.

But he made me a man, and lit up the darkness of my night."

His deep strong voice faltered, and he stopped, and nothing was

audible save the excited breathing of the people. Greeba was looking

up into his haggard face with amazement written upon her own.

"Must I go on," he cried, in a voice rent with agony. "I have brought

him here, and he is Michael Sunlocks. My brother in suffering is my

brother in blood. The man I have vowed to slay is the man I have

tried to save."

Some of the people could not restrain their tears, and the white

faces of the others quivered visibly.

"Why have you brought him here?" asked the Judge.

At that moment Michael Sunlocks began to move and to moan, as if

consciousness were coming back to him. Jorgen Jorgensen saw this, and

the proud composure with which he had looked on and listened while

Sunlocks lay like a man dead left him in an instant.

"Why have you brought Michael Sunlocks here?" said the Judge again.

"Why has he brought him here?" said Jorgen Jorgensen bitterly. "To be

arrested. That's why he has brought him here. See, the man is coming

to. He will do more mischief yet, unless he is prevented. Take him,"

he shouted to two of the guards from Krisuvik, who had come with

Greeba, and now stood behind her.

"Wait!" cried the Judge, lifting his hand.

There was no gainsaying his voice, and the guards who had stepped

forward dropped back.

Then he turned to Jason again and repeated his question, "Why have

you brought Michael Sunlocks here?"

At that, Jorgen Jorgensen lost all self-control and shouted, "Take

him, I say!" And facing about to the Judge he said, "I will have you

know, sir, that I am here for Denmark and must be obeyed."

The guards stepped forward again, but the crowd closed around them

and pushed them back.

Seeing this, Jorgen Jorgensen grew purple with rage, and turning to

the people, he shouted at the full pitch of his voice, "Listen to me.

Some minutes past, I put a price on that man's head. I said I would

give you twenty thousand kroner. I was wrong. I will give you nothing

but your lives and liberty. You know what that means. You have bent

your necks under the yoke already, and you may have to do it again.

Arrest that man--arrest both men!"

"Stop!" cried the Judge.

"Those men are escaped prisoners," said Jorgen Jorgensen.

"And this is the Mount of Laws, and here is Althing," said the Judge;

"and prisoners or no prisoners, if they have anything to say, by the

ancient law of Iceland they may say it now."

"Pshaw! your law of Iceland is nothing to me," said Jorgen Jorgensen,

and turning to the crowd he cried, "In the name of the King of

Denmark I command you to arrest those men."

"And in the name of the King of Kings," said the Judge, turning after

him, "I command you to let them alone."

There was a dead hush for a moment, and then the Judge looked down at

Jason and said once more, "Why have you brought Michael Sunlocks

here! Speak!"

But before Jason could make answer, Jorgen Jorgensen had broken in

again:

"My guards are at Reykjavik," he cried, "and I am here alone. You are

traitors, all of you, and if there is no one else to arrest that

enemy of my country, I will do it myself. He shall go no further.

Step back from him."

So saying, he opened his cloak, drew a pistol from his belt and

cocked it. A shrill cry arouse from the crowd. The men on the Mount

stood quaking with fear, and Greeba flung herself over the restless

body of Michael Sunlocks.

But Jason did not move a feature.

"Old man," he said, looking up with eyes as steadfast as the sun into

Jorgensen's face, and pointing towards Sunlocks, "if you touch one

hair of this head, these hands will tear you to pieces."

Then one of the men who had stood near, a rough fellow with a big

tear-drop rolling down his tanned cheeks, stepped up to Jason's side,

and without speaking a word offered him his musket; but Jason calmly

pushed it back. There was dead silence once more. Jorgen Jorgensen's

uplifted hand fell to his side, and he was speechless.

"Speak now," said the Judge. "Why have you brought Michael Sunlocks

here?"

Jason stood silent for a moment as if to brace himself up, and then

he said, "I have laid my soul bare to your gaze already, and you know

what I am and where I come from."

A low moan seemed to echo him.

"But I, too, am an Icelander, and this is our ancient Mount of Laws,

the sacred ground of our fathers and our fathers' fathers for a

thousand years."

A deep murmur rose from the vast company.

"And I have heard that if any one is wronged and oppressed and

unjustly punished, let him but find his way to this place, and though

he be the meanest slave that wipes his forehead, yet he will be a man

among you all."

There were loud cries of assent.

"I have also heard that this Mount, on this day, is as the gate of

the city in old time, when the judges sat to judge the people; and

that he who is permitted to set foot on it, and cross it, though he

were as guilty as the outlaws that hide in the desert, is innocent

and free forever after. Answer me--is it true? Yes or no?"

"Yes! yes!" came from a thousand throats.

"Then, judges of Iceland, fellow-men and brothers, do you ask why I

have brought this man to this place? Look at this bleeding hand." He

lifted the right hand of Sunlocks. "It has been pierced with a nail."

A deep groan came from the people. He let the hand fall back. "Look

at these poor eyes. They are blind. Do you know what that means? It

means hellish barbarity and damned tyranny."

His voice swelled until it seemed to shake the very ground on which

he stood. "What this man's crime may be I do not know, and I do not

care. Let it be what it will, let the man be what he may--a felon

like myself, a malefactor, a miscreant, a monster--yet what crime and

what condition deserves punishment that is worse than death and

hell?"

"None, none," shouted a thousand voices.

"Then, judges of Iceland, fellow-men and brothers, I call on you to

save this man from that doom. Save him for his sake--save him for

your own, for He that dwells above is looking down on you."

He paused a moment and then cried, "Listen!"

There was a low rumble as of thunder. It came not from the clouds,

but from the bowels of the earth. The people turned pallid with

dismay, but Jason's face was lit up with a wild frenzy.

"Do you hear it? It is the voice that was heard when these old hills

were formed, and the valleys ran like fire. It is the voice of the

Almighty God calling on you."

The word was like a war cry. The people answered it with a shout. And

still Jason's voice pealed over their heads.

"Vengeance is God's but mercy belongs to man."

He stooped to Michael Sunlocks, where Greeba held him at her bosom,

picked him up in his arms as if he had been a child, turned his face

towards the Mount and cried, "Let me pass."

Then at one impulse, in one instant, the Judge and the Bishop parted

and made a way, and Jason, carrying Sunlocks, strode up the causeway

and swept through.

There was but one voice then in all that great assembly, and it was a

mighty shout that seemed to rend the dome of the heavy sky. "Free!

Free! Free!"

V.

But the end was not yet. More, and more terrible, is to follow,

though the spirit is not fain to tell of it, and the hand that sets

it down is trembling. Let him who thinks that this world of time is

founded in justice, wait long and watch patiently, for up to the

eleventh hour he may see the good man sit in misery, and the evil man

carried in honor. And let him who thinks that Nature is sweet and

benignant and that she leaps to the aid of the just, learn from what

is to come that she is all things to all men and nothing to any man.

Now when Jason had crossed the Mount of Laws with Sunlocks, thinking

that by virtue of old custom he had thereby set him free of tyranny,

Jorgen Jorgensen did what a man of shallow soul must always do when

he sees the outward signs of the holy things that move the deeper

souls of other men. He smiled with bitterness and laughed with

contempt.

"A pretty thing, truly," he sneered, "out of some forgotten age of

musty laws and old barbarians. But there is something else that is

forgotten. It is forgotten that between these two men, Jason and

Michael Sunlocks, there is this difference, that the one is a

prisoner of Iceland, and the other of Denmark. Jason is a prisoner of

Iceland, a felon of Iceland, therefore Iceland may pardon him, and if

this brave mummery has made him free, then so be it, and God pity

you! But Michael Sunlocks is a prisoner of Denmark, a traitor against

the crown of Denmark, therefore Denmark alone may pardon him--and he

is still unpardoned."

The clamorous crowd that had gathered about Michael Sunlocks looked

up in silence and bewilderment at this fresh blow. And Jorgen

Jorgensen saw his advantage and went on.

"Ask your Lagmann and let him answer you. Is it as I say or is it

not? Ask him."

The people looked from face to face of the men on the Mount, from

Jorgen Jorgensen to the Judge and from the Judge to the Bishop.

"Is this true?" shouted a voice from the crowd.

But the Judge made no answer, and the Bishop said, "Why all this

wrangling over the body of a dying man?"

"Dying indeed!" said Jorgen Jorgensen, and he laughed. "Look at him."

Michael Sunlocks, again lying in the arms of Greeba, was showing

signs of life. "He will recover fast enough when all is over."

"Is it true?" shouted the same voice from the crowd.

"Yes," said the Judge.

Then the look of bewilderment in the faces of the people deepened to

consternation. At that moment Michael Sunlocks was raised to his

feet. And Jorgen Jorgensen, standing like an old snuffy tiger on the

watch, laughed again, and turning to Jason he pointed at Sunlocks and

said, "What did I say? A pretty farce truly, this pretence at

unconsciousness. Small good it has done him. And he has little to

thank you for. You have brought him here to his death."

What answer Jason would have made him, no man may say, for at that

moment the same terrestrial thunder that had been heard before was

heard again, and the earth became violently agitated as with a deep

pulsation. The people looked into each other's faces with dismay, and

scarcely had they realized the horror that waited to pour itself out

on the world, when a man came galloping from the south and crying,

"The mountains are coming down at Skaptar. Fly! fly!"

They stopped the man and questioned him, and he answered, with terror

in his eyes, that the ice-mountain itself was sweeping down into the

plain. Then he put his heels to his horse and broke away.

Hardly had the people heard this dread word when another man came

galloping from the southwest, and crying, "The sea is throwing up new

islands at Reykianess, and all the rivers are dry."

They stopped this man also, and questioned him, and he answered that

the sky at the coast was raining red-hot stones, so that the sea

hissed with them, and all the land was afire. Then he, too, put his

heels to his horse and broke away.

Scarcely had he gone, when a third man came galloping from the

southeast, and crying, "The land around Hekla is washed away, and not

a green place is left on the face of the earth."

This man also they stopped and questioned, and he answered that a

torrent of boiling water was rolling down from the Kotlugia yakul,

hurling ice-blocks before it, and sweeping farms, churches, cattle,

horses, and men, women, and children into the sea. Then this man also

put his heels to his horse and broke away, like one pursued by death

itself.

For some moments thereafter the people stood where the men had left

them, silent, helpless, unable to think or feel. Then there rose

from them all, as from one man, such a shriek of mortal agony as

never before came from human breasts. In their terror they ran hither

and thither, without thought or intention. They took to their tents,

they took to their ponies, they galloped north, they galloped south,

they galloped east, they galloped west, and then came scurrying back

to the Mount from which they had started. A great danger was about to

burst upon them, but they could not tell from what direction it would

come. Some remembered their homes and the wives and children they had

left there. Others thought only of themselves and of the fire and

water that were dealing out death.

In two minutes the Mount was a barren waste, the fissures on its

sides were empty, and the seats on the crags were bare. The Thing-men

and the clergy were rushing to and fro in the throng, and the old

Bishop and the Judge were seeking their horses.

Greeba stood, with fear on her face, by the side of Michael Sunlocks,

who, blind and maimed, unable to see what was going on about him,

not knowing yet where he was and what new evil threatened him,

looked like a man who might have been dead and was awakening to

consciousness in a world of the damned.

Two men, and two only, of all that vast multitude, kept their heads

and were cool through this mad panic. One of these was Jorgen

Jorgensen; the other was Red Jason. They watched each other

constantly, the one with the eyes of the lynx, the other with the

eyes of a lion.

A troop of men came riding through the throng from the direction of

the Chasm of Ravens. Twenty of them were the bodyguard of the

Governor, and they pushed their way to the feet of Jorgen Jorgensen.

"Your Excellency," said one of them, "we had news of you that you

would want us; so we made bold to come."

"You have come in time," said Jorgen Jorgensen, and his cruel eyes

flashed with the light of triumph.

"There has been a great eruption of Skaptar," said the man, "and the

people of the south are flocking into Reykjavik."

"Leave old Skaptar to take care of itself," said Jorgen Jorgensen,

"and do you take charge of that man there, and the woman beside him."

So saying, he pointed towards Michael Sunlocks, who, amid the whirl

of the crowd around, had stood still in his helpless blindness.

Jason saw and heard all, and he shouted to the people to come to his

help, for he was one man against twenty. But the people paid no heed

to his calling, for every man was thinking of himself. Then Jason

fell on the guards with his bare hands only. And his mighty muscles

would have made havoc of many of them, but that Jorgen Jorgensen drew

his pistol again and fired at him, and wounded him. Jason knew

nothing of his injury until his right arm fell to his side, bleeding

and useless. After that, he was seized from behind and from before,

and held to the ground while Michael Sunlocks and Greeba were hurried

away.

Then the air began to be filled with smoke, a wind that was like a

solid wall of black sand swept up from the south, and sudden darkness

covered everything.

"It is the lava!" shouted one.

"It's the fiery flood!" shouted another.

"It's the end of the world!" shouted a third.

And at one impulse the people rushed hither, thither--north, south,

east, west--some weeping, some shrieking, some swearing, some

laughing like demons--all wild with frenzy and mad with terror.

Jorgen Jorgensen found his little piebald pony where he had left it,

for the docile beast, with the reins over its head, was munching the

grass at the foot of the causeway. He mounted, and rode past Jason as

the men were loosening their hold of him, and peering into his face

he said with a sneer, "If this is the end of the world, as they say,

make the best of what is left of it, and fly."

With that, he thrust spurs into his horse's sides, and went off at

utmost speed.

Then Jason was alone on the plain. Not another human soul was left.

The crowd was gone; the Mount of Laws was silent, and a flock of

young sheep ran past it bleating. Over the mountains to the south a

red glow burned along the black sky, and lurid flames shot through

it.

Such was the beginning of the eruption of Skaptar. And Jason

staggered along in the day-darkness, alone, abandoned, shouting like

a maniac, swearing like a man accursed, crying out to the desolate

waste and the black wind sweeping over it, that if this were the end

of the world, he had a question to ask of Him who made it: Why He had

broken His word, which said that the wages of sin was death--why the

avenger that was promised had not come to smite down the wicked and

save the just?

VI.

In this valley of the Loberg there is a long peninsula of rock

stretching between the western bank of the lake and the river called

the Oxara. It begins in a narrow neck where is a pass for one horse

only, and ends in a deep pool over a jagged precipice, with a mighty

gorge of water falling from the opposite ravine. It is said that this

awful place was used in ancient days for the execution of women who

had killed their children, and of men who had robbed the widow and

the orphan.

Near the narrowest part of the peninsula a man was plunging along in

the darkness, trusting solely to the sight of his pony, for his own

eyes could see nothing. Two long hours he had been groping his way

from the Mount of Laws, and he was still within one short mile of it.

But at last he saw help at hand in his extremity, for a man on foot

approached him out of the gloom. He took him for a farmer of those

parts, and hailed him with hearty cheer.

"Good man," he said, "put me on the right path for Reykjavik, and you

shall have five kroner, and welcome."

But scarcely had he spoken when he recognized the man he had met, and

the man recognized him. The one was Jason, and the other Jorgen

Jorgensen.

Jorgen Jorgensen thought his hour had come, for, putting his hand to

his weapon, he remembered that he had not reloaded it since he had

shot at Jason, and so he flung it away. But the old tiger was not to

be subdued. "Come," he said, out of the black depths of his heart,

"let us have done. What is it to be?"

Then Jason stepped back, and said, "That is the way to

Reykjavik--over the stream and through the first chasm on the left."

At this, Jorgen Jorgensen seemed to catch his breath. He tried to

speak and could not.

"No," said Jason. "It may be weakness, it may be folly, it may be

madness, but you were my mother's father, God pity her and forgive

you, and not even at the price of my brother's life will I have your

blood on my hands. Go!"

Jorgen Jorgensen touched his horse and rode on, with his gray,

dishonored head deep in his breast. And, evil man as he was, surely

his cold heart was smitten with shame.

CHAPTER VI.

THE GOSPEL OF LOVE.

No Althing was held in Iceland in that year of the great eruption of

Skaptar. The dread visitation lasted six long months, from the end of

June to the beginning of January of the year following. During that

time the people of the South and Southeast, who had been made

homeless and penniless, were constantly trooping into Reykjavik in

hundreds and tens of hundreds. The population of the capital rose

from less than two thousand to more than twenty thousand. Where so

many were housed no man ever knew, and how they lived none can say.

Every hut, every hovel, every hole was full of human beings. Men,

women, and children crawled like vermin in every quarter. For food,

they had what fish came out of the sea, and when the frost covered

the fiord a foot deep with ice, they starved on fish bones and and

moss and seaweed.

By this time a cry for help had gone up throughout Europe, and

Denmark and England had each sent a shipload of provisions, corn and

meal and potatoes. The relief came late, the ships were caught in the

ice, and held ice-bound a long month off Reykianess, and when at

length the food for which the people famished was brought into

Reykjavik harbor, the potatoes were like slabs of leather and the

corn and meal like blocks of stone.

But even in this land of fire and frost, the Universal Mother is good

to her children, and the people lived through their distresses. By

the end of February they were trooping back to the scenes of their

former homes, for, desolate as those places were, they loved them and

clung to them still.

In the days of this awful calamity there were few that remembered

Michael Sunlocks. Jorgen Jorgensen might have had his will of him

then, and scarce anybody the wiser. That he held his hand was due

first to fear and then to contempt; fear of Copenhagen, contempt of

the man who had lost his influence over the people of Iceland. He

was wrong on both counts. Copenhagen cared nothing for the life of

Michael Sunlocks, and laughed at the revolution whereof he had been

the head and centre. But when the people of Iceland recovered from

the deadly visitation, their hearts turned back to the man who had

suffered for their sakes.

Then it appeared that through these weary months Michael Sunlocks had

been lying in the little house of detention at Reykjavik, with no man

save one man, and that was old Adam Fairbrother, to raise a voice on

his behalf, and no woman save one woman, and that was Greeba, to

cling to him in his extremity. Neither of these had been allowed to

come near to him, but both had been with him always. Again and again

old Adam had forced his way to the Governor, and protested that

Michael Sunlocks was not being treated as a prisoner, but as a

condemned criminal and galley-slave; and again and again Greeba had

come and gone between her lodgings at the house of the Bishop and her

heart's home at the prison, with food and drink for him who lay in

darkness and solitude. Little he knew to whom he was thus beholden,

for she took pains to keep her secret, but all Reykjavik saw what she

was doing. And the heart of Reykjavik was touched when she brought

her child from Krisuvik, thinking no shame of her altered state,

content to exist in simple poverty where she had once lived in

wealth, if so be that she might but touch the walls that contained

her husband.

Seeing how the sympathy was going, Jorgen Jorgensen set himself to

consider what step to take, and finally concluded to remove Michael

Sunlocks as far as possible from the place where his power was still

great, and his temptation to use it was powerful. The remotest spot

under his rule was Grimsey, an island lying on the Arctic circle,

thirty-five miles from the mainland. It was small, it was sparsely

populated, its inhabitants were fishermen with no craft but open row

boats; it had no trade; no vessels touched at it, and the sea that

separated it from Iceland was frozen during many months of the year.

And to this island Jorgensen decided that Michael Sunlocks should go.

When the word was brought to Michael Sunlocks, he asked what he was

expected to do on that little rock at the end of the world, and said

that Grimsey would be his sentence of Jorgen death.

"I prefer to die, for I have no great reason to wish for life," he

said; "but if I must live, let me live here. I am blind, I do not

know the darkness of this place, and all I ask of you is air and

water."

Old Adam, too, protested loudly, whereupon Jorgen Jorgensen answered

with a smile that he had supposed that all he intended to do was for

the benefit of the prisoner himself, who would surely prefer a whole

island to live upon to being confined in a cell at Reykjavik.

"He will there have liberty to move about," said Jorgen, "and he will

live under the protection of the Danish laws."

"Then that will be more than he has done here," said Adam, boldly,

"where he has existed at the caprice of a Danish tyrant."

The people of Reykjavik heard of the banishment with surprise and

anger, but nothing availed to prevent it. When the appointed day

came, Michael Sunlocks was marched out of his prison and taken off

towards the Bursting-sand desert between a line of guards. There was

a great throng to bid adieu to him, and to groan at the power that

sent him. His face was pale, but his bodily strength was good. His

step was firm and steady, and gave hardly a hint of his blindness.

His farewell of those who crowded upon him was simple and manly.

"Good-bye," he said, "and though with my eyes I cannot see you, I can

see you with my heart, and that is the better sight whereof death

alone can rob me. No doubt you have much to forgive to me; so forgive

it to me now, for we shall meet no more."

There was many a sob at that word, but the two who would have been

most touched by it were not there to hear it, for Greeba and old Adam

were busy with their own enterprise, as we shall learn hereafter.

When Michael Sunlocks was landed at Grimsey, he was offered first as

bondman for life, or prisoner-slave to the largest bonder there, a

grasping old miser named Jonsson, who, like Jorgen himself, had never

allowed his bad conscience to get the better of him. But Jonsson

looked at Sunlocks with a curl of the lip and said, "What's the use

of a blind man?" So the end of all was that Sunlocks was put in

charge of the priest of the island. The priest was to take him into

his house, to feed, clothe and attend to him, and report his

condition twice a year to the Governor at Reykjavik. For such

service to the State, the good man was to receive an annual stipend

of one hundred kroner. And all arrangements being made, the escort

that had brought Michael Sunlocks the ten days' journey over the

desert, set their faces back towards the capital.

Michael Sunlocks was then on the edge of the habitable world. There

was no attempt to confine him, for his home was an island bound by a

rocky coast; he was blind and, therefore, helpless; and he could not

step out a thousand yards alone without the danger of walking over a

precipice into the sea. So that with all his brave show of liberty,

he was as much in fetters as if his feet had been enchained to the

earth beneath them.

The priest, who was in truth his jailer, was one who has already been

heard of in this history, being no other than the Sigfus Thomsson

(titled Sir from his cure of souls) who was banished from his

chaplaincy at Reykjavik six and twenty years before for marrying

Stephen Orry to Rachael, the daughter of the Governor-General

Jorgensen. He had been young then, and since his life had been cut in

twain he had fallen into some excesses. Thus it had often happened

that when his people came to church over miles of their trackless

country he had been too drunk to go through with it, and sometimes

when they wished to make sure of him for a wedding or a christening,

they had been compelled to decoy him into his house over night and

lock him up until morning. Now he was elderly and lived alone, save

for a fractious old man-servant, in a straggling old moss-covered

house, or group of houses. He was weak of will, timid as a deer, and

infirm of purpose, yet he was beloved by all men and pitied by all

women for his sweet simplicity, whereof anyone might take advantage,

and for the tenderness that could never resist a story of distress.

The coming of Michael Sunlocks startled him out of his tipsy sleep of

a quarter of a century, and his whole household was put into a wild

turmoil. In the midst of it, when he was at his wit's end to know

what to do for his prisoner-guest, a woman, a stranger to Grimsey,

carrying a child in her arms, presented herself at his door. She was

young and comely, poorly but not meanly clad, and she offered herself

to the priest as his servant. Her story was simple, touching, and

plausible. She had lately lost her husband, an Icelander, though she

herself was a foreigner, as her speech might tell. And hearing at

Husavik that the priest of Grimsey was a lone old gentleman without

kith or kin or belongings, she had bethought herself to come and say

that she would be glad to take service from him for the sake of the

home he might offer her.

It was Greeba, and simple old Sir Sigfus fell an easy prey to her

woman's wit. He wiped his rheumy eyes while she told her story, and

straightway sent her into the kitchen. Only one condition he made

with her, and that was that she was to bear herself in his house as

Iceland women bear themselves in the houses of Iceland masters. No

more than that and no less. She was to keep to her own apartments

and never allow herself to be seen or heard by a guest that was

henceforth to live with him. That good man was blind, and would

trouble her but little, for he had seen sorrow, poor soul, and was

very silent.

Greeba consented to this with all earnestness, for it fell straight

in the way of her own designs. But with a true woman's innocent

duplicity she showed modesty and said "He shall never know that I'm

in your house, sir, unless you tell him so yourself."

Thus did Greeba place herself under the same roof with Michael

Sunlocks, and baffle discovery by the cunning of love. Two purposes

were to be served by her artifice. First she was to be constantly by

the side of her husband, to nurse him and tend him, to succor him,

and to watch over him. Next, she was to be near him for her own sake,

and for love's sake, to win him back to her some day by means more

dear than those that had won him for her at the first. She had

decided not to reveal herself to him in the meantime, for he had lost

faith in her affection. He had charged her with marrying him for

pride's sake, but he should see that she had married him for himself

alone. The heart of his love was dead, but day by day, unknown,

unseen, unheard, she would breathe upon it, until the fire in its

ashes lived again. Such was the design with which Greeba took the

place of a menial in the house where her husband lived as a prisoner,

and little did she count the cost of it.

Six months passed, and she kept her promise to the priest to live as

an Iceland servant in the house of an Iceland master. She was never

seen, and never heard, and what personal service was called for was

done by the snappish old man-servant. But she filled the old house,

once so muggy and dark, with all the cheer and comfort of life. She

knew that Michael Sunlocks felt the change, for one day she heard him

say to the priest, as he lifted his blind face and seemed to look

around, "One would think that this place must be full of sunshine."

"Why, and so it is," said the priest, "and that's my good

housekeeper's doing."

"I have heard her step," said Michael Sunlocks. "Who is she?"

"A poor young woman that has lately lost her husband," said the

priest.

"Young, you say?" said Sunlocks.

"Why, yes, young as I go," said the priest.

"Poor soul!" said Sunlocks.

It cost Greeba many a pang not to fling herself at her husband's feet

at hearing that word so sadly spoken. But she remembered her promise

and was silent. Not long afterwards she heard Michael Sunlocks ask

the priest if he had never thought of marriage. And the priest

answered yes, that he was to have married at Reykjavik about the time

he was sent to Grimsey, but the lady had looked shy at his banishment

and declined to share it.

"So I have never looked at a woman again," said the priest.

"And I daresay you have your tender thoughts of her, though so badly

treated," said Sunlocks.

"Well, yes," said the priest, "yes."

"You were chaplain at Reykjavik, but looking to be priest or dean,

and perhaps bishop some day?" said Sunlocks.

"Well, maybe so; such dreams come in one's youth," said the priest.

"And when you were sent to Grimsey there was nothing before you but a

cure of less than a hundred souls?" said Sunlocks.

"That is so," said the priest.

"The old story," said Sunlocks, and he drew a deep breath.

But deeper far was the breath that Greeba drew, for it seemed to be

the last gasp of her heart.

A year passed, and never once had Greeba spoken that her husband

might hear her. But if she did not speak, she listened always, and

the silence of her tongue seemed to make her ears the more keen. Thus

she found a way to meet all his wishes, and before he had asked he

was answered. If the day was cold he found gloves to his hand; if he

thought to wash there was water beside him; if he wished to write the

pen lay near his fingers. Meantime he never heard more than a light

footfall and the rustle of a dress about him, but as these sounds

awoke painful memories he listened and said nothing.

The summer had come and gone in which he could walk out by the

priest's arm, or lie by the hour within sound of a stream, and the

winter had fallen in with its short days and long nights. And once,

when the snow lay thick on the ground, Greeba heard him say how

cheerfully he might cheat time of many a weary hour of days like that

if only he had a fiddle to beguile them. At that she remembered that

it was not want of money that had placed her where she was, and

before the spring of that year a little church organ came from

Reykjavik, addressed to the priest, as a present from someone whose

name was unknown to him.

"Some guardian angel seems to hover around us," said Michael

Sunlocks, "to give us everything that we can wish for."

The joy in his blind face brought smiles into the face of Greeba, but

her heart was heavy for all that. To live within hourly sight of

love, yet never to share it, was to sit at a feast and eat nothing.

To hear his voice, yet never to answer it, to see his face, yet never

to touch it with the lips that hungered to kiss it, was an ordeal

more terrible than any woman's heart could bear. Should she not

speak? Might she not reveal herself? Not yet, not yet! But how long,

oh, how long?

In the heat of her impatience she could not quite restrain herself,

and though she dare not speak, she sang. It was on the Sunday after

the organ came, when all the people at Grimsey were at church, in

their strong odor of fish and sea fowl, to hear the strange new

music. Michael Sunlocks played it, and when the people sang Greeba

also joined them. Her voice was low at first, but she soon lost

herself and then it rose above the other voices. Suddenly the organ

stopped, and she was startled to see the blind face of her husband

turning in her direction.

Later the same day she heard Sunlocks say to the priest, "Who was the

lady who sang?"

"Why, that was my good housekeeper," said the priest.

"And did you say that she had lost her husband?" said Sunlocks.

"Yes, poor thing, and she is a foreigner, too," said the priest.

"Did you say a foreigner?" said Sunlocks.

"Yes, and she has a child left with her also," said the priest.

"A child?" said Sunlocks. And then after a pause he added, with more

indifference, "Poor girl! poor girl!"