Front matter (continued 6)

Thus the night passed. And when day again bordered the east, it was followed by a gentle breeze from the sea which could be used for sailing equally westward or eastward.

Hjor-Leif rose and heaved a heavy sigh in the cool morning air. His last hope: A stiff breeze from the west, which would oblige him to follow his brother, was gone. Helga and Ingolf both rose with Hjor-Leif. Helga went to him, put her arm round his neck, and pressed close to him. No prayer came from her lips, but her whole soul was a prayer.

Hjor-Leif examined his mind and found a fear there—some misty foreboding of impending disaster, which determined him to stand firm, to be hard both towards himself and towards her.

He responded to her caress, but not in the whole-hearted way which would allow him to forget his words and revoke his determination not to let her follow him. There was a distinct air of separation in his kiss and in the gentle passing of his hand over her luxuriant fair hair.

So Helga gave up her hope and submitted silently to his will, as she had always done.

Hjor-Leif silently gave Hallveig his hand in farewell. She looked firmly and inquiringly at him, and pressed his hand silently. There was something about Hjor-Leif, the man who was so unlike Ingolf, and whom she did not understand, that stirred something in her heart.

When he had left her, she suddenly called after him: "Good-bye, Hjor-Leif, till we meet again. We shall take good care of Helga."

Hjor-Leif turned towards her with a forced and wry smile on his irregular features—a smile which betrayed such a pathetic and involuntary gratitude that, immediately after he had turned and gone, Helga fell into Hallveig's arms, and both wept. They had suddenly divined, with the sure instinct of women, that it was out of tenderness and love that Hjor-Leif had let Helga remain behind. There was much in the whole sudden arrangement which they did not understand, but this they did.

Ingolf followed Hjor-Leif to the gunwale amidships. The men were engaged in drawing the ships close together with boat-hooks. The distance between them had gradually become so small that he could soon spring over into his own ship.

"I do not rightly understand why you let Helga remain behind," Ingolf said at last, when Hjor-Leif already had his foot on the gunwale.

Hjor-Leif paused, and stood still a little, without meeting Ingolf's searching look. "I cannot give you any reason," he answered at last, and the hardness and gruffness in his voice spoke of feelings of quite another sort in his heart, "except that in my judgment it is the best for her."

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

Hjor-Leif became irritated. "I have ten serfs and only ten freemen," he continued in a firm and rather annoyed tone, for he did not like, not only before Ingolf, but also before himself, to clothe his forebodings in such a distinct shape. "I cannot always be at hand, and the serfs are not reliable. I may fall sick and misfortune come upon us. Many things may happen. Are you satisfied?"

Hjor-Leif's tone was still equally hard and unyielding. But Ingolf had seen through him, and smilingly reached him his hand. Hjor-Leif squeezed it with his iron claw so that it hurt, and stood meanwhile with averted face; his features worked visibly, and he bit his lip till the blood came. Hastily he let go of Ingolf's hand, and at the same moment sprang into his own ship.

Immediately afterwards Ingolf heard his voice from it. It was cuttingly sharp, and rose higher and higher in a torrent of words. It soon appeared that Hjor-Leif had quickly succeeded in putting life into his men. Soon after, his ship, with sail hoisted, glided away before the light breeze.

Ingolf stood and thought that such a lonely year might do Hjor-Leif good. He would be a different man the next time they saw him. Ingolf only lent a momentary hearing to the voice of a strange wounded and groundless sense of loss in his soul. Quietly he turned round, roused his tired men mildly, and bade them hoist sail and make the vessel clear.

As early as the next night Hjor-Leif saw a fire shine from Ingolf's point. So Ingolf was already on land, and everything was right there. Hjor-Leif had not fared so well. The westerly breeze he had so strongly desired had come when he had no more use for it. It had come too late, and very inopportunely. After forty-eight hours he lay here pitching in the choppy seas, tacking as well as he could without getting much nearer his object. There was not a drop of fresh water on board. The Irish serfs had discovered how to knead meal and butter into a mess they called mintak, and declared that it was a food one did not get thirsty by eating. None the less, all were suffering with thirst, and the animals were in a miserable condition, unable to swallow a straw of the hay they had brought with them. The mintak quickly fermented, and the whole mass had to be thrown overboard.

It was only Hjor-Leif's wretched and indomitable obstinacy which prevented him from taking advantage of the wind and quickly running his ship to Ingolf's point. By doing so all his sufferings would have been got rid of at once. It needed only a little resolution, a slight change of mind. The wind was there, the light was there. The fire gleamed and beckoned. All was well so far. The only difficulty was that the deciding little possibility was wanting—the possibility of Hjor-Leif's bending his mind the little bit that was necessary—the possibility of giving way. In Hjor-Leif's volatile soul there towered a steep rock. He would see his animals perish of hunger and thirst, his crew perish one by one, and himself die by any death whatever rather than turn his vessel and use the favourable wind.

At last, on the evening of the third day, a little rain fell, and Hjor-Leif succeeded in collecting some water in the outspread sail. That refreshed both men and animals. Not till four days after Ingolf had kindled his fire did he see a fire burning in answer on Hjor-Leif's point. When he told Helga that, she went up on the point, sat by herself, and stared fixedly at the faint red light, sometimes hardly visible, far to the south-west. There she remained sitting for two days and nights, as long as Hjor-Leif kept up his fire in order to be sure that it should be seen.

Ingolf and Hallveig had at last begun to be anxious for Helga, for she ate nothing, did not sleep, and hardly answered when they spoke to her.

But when after these two days spent up there on the point she returned to the tents, she was herself again, and had recovered her old self-command. There was nothing to show either Ingolf or Hallveig that she carried about a burning sense of bereavement. Neither did they know that she lay whole and half nights sleepless, breathing in fancy the rich, delicious scent of pine trees.

VII

For the second time in his life Hjor-Leif lost his spirits completely. After closer reflection he found his lonely situation so meaningless and unjust, so devoid of all reconciling elements such as, for example, a prospect of adventures or opportunity for exploits—in brief, so utterly irrational, that he involuntarily began to show his teeth at existence by drowning himself in perpetual melancholy, only now and then interrupted by isolated attacks of ill-temper.

The days encountered him heavily and sulkily. It seemed as if all their endeavours were directed to show him in earnest how empty and tedious and intolerable they could be, if they seriously set about it. The bright, cloudless summer days sneered at him when they met him with ice-cold scornful light from sunrise to sunset. Grey and rainy days, on the other hand, showed him without disguise their dull side. Hjor-Leif could not come to an agreement with himself which of the two kinds of days was really the more intolerable. They were all alike impossible. The one point he was clear about with regard to the days was that he had without doubt still the worst remaining. He cursed them with oaths which were powerful both in length and strength, and derived from an inexhaustible supply. But they were no help—not even momentarily. In the battle with the days he suffered one defeat after another; they were far stronger than he. They were invincible. And they possessed, although he daily experienced that, in spite of all, they did pass, a peculiarity of appearing endless, which deprived him of all hope.

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

He set his freemen to build a winter dwelling, a house nineteen fathoms long. It was to contain them all, together with their wives. He had only taken young, newly married people with him from Norway, with the single exception of his old headman. Hjor-Leif did what he could to take a little interest in the work. But it was only self-deception. The days did not for a moment let go their wild-beast clutch on his neck.

He set the serfs to build a house eighteen fathoms long, and bullied them till they quailed and shivered and fell into helpless embarrassment merely at the sight of him. Yes, he instilled a wholesome terror into the Irish serfs. They slunk about, and hardly knew whether to walk upright or on all fours. And they had no eyes—at any rate, there seemed no more any sight in their eyes. Regarding them, he felt sure that he had made them harmless for ever. But it brought him no comfort either to treat them like dogs or to realize their harmlessness. That did not bring a spark of his spirits back. There was nothing to rouse them in that quarter.

One of the items in Hjor-Leif's despairing and hopeless struggle with the days was going along the shore and choosing driftwood for his buildings. When he found a stout, solid plank, he marked it with a stroke of his ax; then he bade the serfs find the planks so marked and bring them home.

Sometimes in these wanderings, Hjor-Leif found himself standing and hewing wildly and meaninglessly at a plank, as though his life depended on cutting it into a plaything for the winds. Whenever he awoke from such an attack of frenzy he looked round him with a shamefaced expression, and began eagerly, with a strong sense of humiliation, to efface the traces of it, watched by the evil eye of a hostile day.

Hjor-Leif had one hope, and only one. His longing, strongly reinforced by his despair, had treated with the rocky pride of his soul, and the result was a reasonable agreement.

Therefore he went everywhere and searched for Ingolf's high-seat pillars. Not in order to do away with them by means of fire, but to get an excuse for seeking Ingolf at once, and so obtaining an honourable and acceptable victory over all that pained and plagued him. Hjor-Leif wanted to see what the day would look like when by finding the pillars he was able to escape from his wretchedness with a bound.

This hope sustained him. But day after day passed without his finding the pillars. Not even the sea and tides were friendly disposed towards him. He talked in a loud voice with the sea, and reminded it of all the honourable bouts they had had with each other. But either the sea did not hear or would not recognize him. It had perhaps become hostile towards him, like everything else in heaven and earth. Hjor-Leif had been as far eastward along the coast as the impassible glacier streams would let him go. Now he turned westward. He took food with him, and remained away four days and nights. During his expedition he came to know a new part of the country which he liked, and where he could well imagine himself settling.

Below the green mountains, which first in a steep ascent and then with a more gradual incline rose towards the white glacier which with its two domes reminded one of a female giant's breasts, the low land stretched with fertile meadows and picturesque bush-covered valleys and luxuriant pastures towards the shining sea. In the south-west green precipitous isles rose from the sea. Hjor-Leif gave the mountains names after these islands, which simultaneously limited and enriched the view, and called them Island-mountains. The western dome of the glacier he named the Island-mountains' Glacier; the eastern he had already, after a more eastern district, baptized Myrdals-Glacier. Hjor-Leif did not turn round, for he saw the land open into a wide bay towards the west. He examined the shore outside the Island-mountains and Myrdal very closely. It was a great disappointment to him that the pillars had not drifted on shore here.

Hjor-Leif returned home from this excursion still more taciturn and depressed than he had started. Wearing unrest received him with open arms every morning and did not release him from its evil embrace till sleep at night had pity on him.

He set some of his men to get in hay, others he made go out fishing, the rest he kept occupied with the houses. It was an insignificant alleviation of his trouble to see his men busily occupied. For himself he had no patience for anything. On the walks which he now and then took along the coast to assure himself if the pillars had not drifted on shore in his immediate neighbourhood, he was no more accompanied by even the smallest hope.

During these walks Helga was always in his mind. But not openly and consciously—he scarcely had patience enough to think of her in that way. No, secretly and hidden away she lived in his mind. Through memories and reminiscences she was near to him, without his being obliged to face the fact that they were divided from each other by a long distance and a sea of days, and that this separation was due to a stupid and certainly quite groundless foreboding. He carried these memories about very tenderly and cautiously, without any intention of letting them slip quite out of the fog of unconsciousness. As a man dying of thirst sips dew, he cheated himself into a reminiscent happiness. It was a dangerous proceeding. For if he woke from the dream, his agony flung him on the ground in a passion of tears, unworthy of a man, and which, moreover, brought no relief.

Hjor-Leif became at last weary of the sea and shore. He turned his mind against them and made enemies again—evil emptiness and helpless melancholy—Nature's immovable answer to all discontent. So Hjor-Leif became hostile to all things round him. The echo of his own mind met him everywhere and tortured him as only self-inflicted pain can torture.

He extended his lonely wanderings to the wide-stretching pastures, overgrown with spreading coppice-wood, which reached from his point right up to the blue mountains. But also in this region he soon became homeless. His inner want of peace drove all peace around him away.

When winter came, Hjor-Leif sat like a bear in his lair, alone with the fire and his half-share of the nineteen-fathom-long house. It was uncomfortable near him. Therefore his men kept together in their end of the house, even though no fire burned there. They were newly married, and felt neither cold nor dull.

The serfs slunk in now and then, by twos, with fuel for the fire. They shivered, and came hurriedly away from their task, even though Hjor-Leif sat with his head in his hands and did not look at them at all.

Hjor-Leif was poor now. He was so poor that he caught himself longing for the break in the evening's brooding silence, which the serf's coming caused. So poor, that in order not to betray his poverty he showed himself perverse and ungracious towards his old headman, when the latter once overcame his embarrassment and, out of devotion and sympathy, sat with him one evening. Either he was silent with the old man in his own comfortlessness, or he pained him with scornful words and malicious laughter. The old man could not understand how Hjor-Leif had lost all his good temper and indomitable spirits, unless the evil spirits of this strange land had deprived him of them. He could not endure this land where Hjor-Leif, his favourite, had neither living nor dead foes to fight with. There were plenty of wizards and goblins here, as he had himself experienced. There was an unearthly life in the rocks and heights. But these were creatures without value for a man eager for battle. One could not attack them weapon in hand. The sacred iron could only protect one against them, and keep them out of the house.

Hjor-Leif's old headman fought bravely with his fear and discomfort for an obviously bewitched man. But there came an end, and he also gave up Hjor-Leif and let him sit alone by the fire.

For days and nights together the storm and hail beat on the house with howlings and threatening hootings. The winter days were often only an indistinct glimmer. And in the uncanny winter night all evil spirits were loose.

Hjor-Leif sat through the long evenings in his bitterness alone by the fire. And even the fire, his only friend in the wintry emptiness, now showed fits of enmity, and spat out evil smoke which struck his breast like a tearing cough.

Hjor-Leif sat most often with his face in his hands. By doing so he, as it were, shut himself into himself, and cheated in a measure the evil powers in him and round him. But there was a danger in thus sitting hugging his pain. Solitude used the opportunity to whisper words of madness in his ear. And often Hjor-Leif was near forgetting himself, and beginning to listen to its alluring, unbridled talk.

But then sleep came, and saved him, and gave him some hours' forgetfulness. A forgetfulness which, however short it was, armed him for the morrow's encounter with a hostile, desolate, and lonely day.

VIII

Now there is this to be told of Ingolf, that when he had found a practicable harbour, and unloaded his ship and drawn it on land, he set his men immediately to work at building winter dwellings for men and animals.

He himself rode about on horseback, followed by a young serf, Vifel, who had grown up in his father's house, and whom he valued greatly. He examined the district, and took long rides along the shore to look for the pillars of his high-seat. He made use of his opportunities, and was satisfied. The district suited him in many ways. From his point he commanded a wide view eastward and westward along the coast—the most extensive view he remembered to have seen.

Some distance inland, exactly opposite the point, divided from it by luxuriant pasture-land, there rose a steep, high mountain. On both sides of it the circle of mountains retired, on the south-west side in a wide curve. Behind this mountain rose the glacier, a gigantic pile of ice glittering white in the distance, which sent wrinkled feelers down all the ravines as if to taste the lowland. Remarkably enough, no cold emanated from this huge mass of ice; on the contrary, it seemed to warm the air, perhaps by attracting all the bad weather and cold to its far summit, which was only seldom visible. On both sides of the point there stretched barren sand along the coast intersected by countless glacier streams. These sands in some places spread themselves inland till they met the edge of the glacier. But the wide-stretching pasture-land along the mountains, which this barren sand surrounded, was of a peculiarly rich fertility. There was abundance of coppice-wood, which in places grew close up to the glacier and presented a singular appearance. The cattle throve well here. The air was full of warm moisture, and was suitable for grass and cattle and men. Ingolf had to admit that the summer was better and the soil more luxuriant here than in the Svanefjords. At the same time, he wished his pillars would drift ashore in the Svanefjords. And in this Hallveig was one with him.

Secretly he derived not a little hope from the circumstance that the pillars had apparently taken an eastward direction when he saw them drift away from the ship. Who could say?—perhaps it was to the Svanefjords! He did not dare to wish anything in that way; it was for Odin to decide it. And it would be presumptuous of him to wish to instruct or to influence the One-eyed with the ravens. But many things pass through one's thoughts which one cannot control. Odin must know that and would excuse it.

Ingolf endured the suspense for two months. Then he prepared for a long expedition with his serf, Vifel. Hallveig did not like this journey. Both Ingolf and his men had told her so much about the impassable glacier streams. Ingolf, however, quieted her by promising to show all possible caution. But he wished to go and look for himself in the Svanefjords.

Ingolf and his serf rode over the sand-dunes. On each sand-hill sat a gull. Full of an injured sense of proprietorship, the birds sat there and followed silently with an inscrutable look these strange animals who brought disturbance into the landscape. These sands were intersected by a countless number of powerful glacier streams. But fortunately the glacier proved passable in that part, so that Ingolf and his companion succeeded in circumventing the rivers in that way.

On the evening of the second day they were again stopped by a glacier stream as broad as a fjord, and with a treacherous bottom of fine sand. It traversed the district Ingolf and Leif had penetrated on their expedition southward from the Svanefjords the previous summer. Ingolf tried to circumvent it in the same way as he had the other river. But here the glacier was so full of deep crevasses along and across its course, that after many vain attempts he had to give it up. There was nothing for it but to turn round and put off the examination of the coast till the winter had bridged with ice the impassable rivers.

The remainder of the summer passed in winter preparations of all kinds. There were plenty of things to take in hand and look after.

Ingolf kept an eye on his sister, Helga, and showed her great friendliness in his words and behaviour. He could not exactly ascertain the real state of her feelings. She was quiet as ever, and all smiles and good-humour. She played with the boy, helped Hallveig, and there was apparently nothing in the least the matter with her spirits. But Ingolf had now and then, early in the morning, before any one else was up, surprised her standing staring with a long look towards the distant mountains that showed bluish in the south-west. In that direction lay Hjor-Leif's point, although so far away that it could not be discerned. It cut Ingolf to the heart to see his sister stand gazing so—her face was so unusually pale in the mornings, and her blue eyes darker than at other times, as though shadowed by a twilight below them.

He had been many times on the point of telling her about the last words he had exchanged with Leif. For he knew that she was not aware of Hjor-Leif's real reason for letting her remain behind with himself and Hallveig, and had no idea what she thought about it. But on further reflection he gave up the thought of telling her every time. Perhaps by doing so he would only cause her unnecessary anxiety and sorrow. She would certainly hardly be so quiet as now, if she were seriously anxious for Hjor-Leif. Best not to interfere with her thoughts. For his own part, Ingolf was not for an instant afraid of anything happening to Hjor-Leif, though he agreed with him that it was best not to expose Helga to the results of any conspiracy among the serfs, which he might well have reason to fear. But Ingolf knew Hjor-Leif. Even if his brother had been alone with the ten seditious serfs he would not have felt anxious for him. Hjor-Leif was on the watch, and he had successfully managed worse situations.

The winter began with slight frost and much snow. It was past Yuletide before the rivers were frozen.

As soon as possible, Ingolf equipped Vifel and another of his serfs, named Karle, and sent them eastward along the coast with orders to examine closely every creek and every promontory, and not to return till they had inspected both Svanefjord's, except in the event of their finding the pillars before.

The serfs experienced wretched weather, with snow-storms and intense frost. They remained away for two weeks, and returned hungry and weary. They had examined the coast-line as far as north of the Svanefjords, but seen nothing of the pillars anywhere. When they had informed Ingolf, he heaved a deep sigh and gave up the Svanefjords.

He allowed the serfs time to rest and recover after their severe experience. Then he ordered them to get ready again. This time he gave them horses and sent them westward along the coast. He enjoined them not to return till they had found Hjor-Leif. If they had not found the pillars before they met him they were to tell Hjor-Leif to come westward with his men and cattle as soon as summer was in the air and a sea-passage was safe.

But spring came this time earlier than it was expected. Already in the night before the serfs started, a warm and strong south-west wind began to melt the snows and melt the ice that covered the rivers. The serfs only succeeded in passing the nearest rivers on ice. By the second day they could neither get forward nor backward by reason of furious rivers which carried huge volumes of muddy water and great blocks of ice. But they had to push on, and did so with the horses' help, although they often wasted days in finding a ford, and sometimes had to let themselves be dragged through the water, hanging on to the horses' tails or manes. It was the worst journey that Vifel and Karle had ever been out on, and it was only due to Vifel's endurance and fidelity that they went forward and escaped with their lives. On the way they met men—Irish monks—who here far inland had built a temple with a brazen voice which shook the air. The monks questioned them, and seemed displeased with what they had to narrate.

They did not show them much friendliness. But Vifel and Karle were eternally thankful for merely escaping with life from these strange men who were in covenant with a god, the sound of whose voice alone cast them terror-struck to the earth.

At last the serfs reached Hjor-Leif's point. They had been fourteen days on the journey. They found the houses empty and the place forsaken. They went down to the shore and found the ship. The boats, on the other hand, were gone. Not the slightest sign of life was visible anywhere.

IX

Hjor-Leif saw the winter come to an end at last. He lay one night and heard the tone of the wind change. He knew the eager and implacable voice of the south-east wind. It did not surprise him then to hear a dripping indoors and out.

His heart began to beat a little as he lay there. But he lay still, did not jump from his bed, did not run to salute the spring and bid its warm wind take the bad weather from him, as in other circumstances he would have done. There was not much left of Hjor-Leif's strength now. He did not awake with the spring. Generally he was accustomed to avoid the house when spring had first come. But this time he remained within, sick in mind, and without power to shake off the burden of winter and his bereavement. He remained sitting indoors while the young year awoke the earth from winter's sleep, without paying attention to it. That was not like Hjor-Leif. Indeed, it was so unlike him, that his men avoided each other's looks and did not speak about him. He got out of his bed each morning with a sigh, clothed himself wearily, and went slowly and sluggishly out to see how far the spring was advanced, and if the weather held. If it was bright he went up on the point and looked eastward over the land and over the sea. Then he went home again, dragging his feet like an old man or an invalid, and wrapped himself in his solitude and waited. It was still too early in the year for Ingolf to be coming—Ingolf and Helga.

He hardly dared to think of her name. The very thought scorched and burnt his wounded soul that by this separation which he had insisted on he had caused Helga fresh grief. His own sufferings were indeed bitterly deserved—that he had to acknowledge—but that did not make them any easier. The thought made the wilderness of his soul even more desolate. Self-caused, self-deserved, every torturing day, every sleep-forsaken night, every suffering, every whip-lash of longing, altogether self-caused, without reason and to no use. That was bad enough to think about. But it was worse with Helga—Helga who might have reason to believe that he had left her behind in cold blood, and to think that perhaps he looked forward without longing to seeing her again. The thought was so intolerable that at times it seemed as if his head would split and his heart stop beating. These and similar thoughts tortured Hjor-Leif, but he sat and let the tedious hours pass.

Outside, the spring winds raged, while he sat within. The spring's gladness found no way to his soul. His exhausted heart could not welcome the days in its embrace and rejoice at the prospect of soon meeting Helga.

Hjor-Leif used every opportunity of bullying the serfs. He heaped on them kicks and blows whenever the fancy took him, and often without cause. He hated these serfs, who crept before him like vermin, so dog-like and abject that they did not dare to show the glances of their eyes. His fear of their combining and attacking him and his men had long ago died out of his mind to the last spark, and it seemed to him now both ridiculous and incredible that he had ever cherished such a thought. These abject animals, these crook-backed creatures! Their fault it was—all that he had had to suffer this year. And they should pay for it! To the end of their wretched days they should pay for it! Blows they should have—blows and kicks. He would fill their currish hearts with never-appeased fear. He would not kill them; they should live and suffer. In all that concerned the serfs, Hjor-Leif was implacable. He had succeeded in inspiring them with such terror that there was not a look in their eyes, nor speech in their tongue, save when they were alone and sure of not being seen or heard.

As soon as the earth was released from the frost to a spade's depth Hjor-Leif set his serfs to plough a piece of pasture-land west of the point. They had an ox to draw the plough.

And now the serfs' time had come. Duftak, who had many kicks and cuffs to avenge, had hatched a plan. The opportunity was ready to hand.

When Duftak and another serf went off in the morning with ox and plough, he gave the other serfs a signal. They had knives and clubs hidden here and there. Now these were produced and concealed in their rags. The serfs were ready.

As soon as Hjor-Leif's free men had gone into their morning meal, Duftak stabbed the ox with a knife in its neck and set out running home with the other serfs close on his heels. Breathlessly Duftak burst in to Hjor-Leif, and stammered, apparently in the greatest terror: "A bear! A bear!"

The serf's fear seemed quite genuine. Hjor-Leif seized him by the neck, shook him, and quickly learnt from him that a bear had come out of the wood and had killed the ox.

Everything happened as Duftak had foreseen. Hjor-Leif let him go, strangely enough without the usual kick, shouted to his men, and bade them follow him and look for the bear, and scatter themselves well in the thickets, so that the beast should not escape. Then he seized his ax and spear and ran.

Ah, this meant something for Hjor-Leif. His heart was again in its place, and beat gladly and quietly. The bear came as though sent by good fortune itself. His soul expanded with a great and happy sense of freedom. He sprang like a boy out of doors, and forgot in his haste to take his sword with him.

Duftak only hesitated a brief moment—then he seized the sword and ran after Hjor-Leif. He had undertaken to tackle him by himself alone, and the sword was better than his short knife.

Everything happened as Duftak had calculated—while his men dispersed in the thicket, Hjor-Leif ran to the ox. Duftak had counted on this curiosity in his master. He knew that he must see how the bear had treated the ox, before he began the pursuit. Hjor-Leif set off in long bounds, light at heart and untroubled. The old love of adventure had awakened in him. He was too much absorbed to notice that the serf was close at his heels.

Hjor-Leif reached the ox, stopped and started, bent down over it, then slowly raised himself. His thoughts stood still for a moment in surprise. What was this? The ox had been stabbed. Was the story about the bear only a lie? He turned quietly and as though stupefied, and looked round him.

Just opposite him stood Duftak, with Hjor-Leif's sword lifted—the point quivered straight in front of his breast.

The recollection of the monk's saying flashed through Hjor-Leif's mind, like a momentary weakness and irresolution. Then—before he knew it—the gold-inlaid blade of the sword flashed, and he collapsed with a chill sensation between his ribs—a strange, not uncomfortable sensation, which, however, was immediately followed by a pang and a loud crash, in which earth and sky disappeared.

As Hjor-Leif sank, a lightning thought reminded him that Helga was in safety. Ah, Helga was safe! A dim consciousness that he had not suffered in vain settled like a faint smile on his large mouth. The blood poured steaming and gushing out of his neck. And so the world passed from him....

Hjor-Leif had lived, and life had done with him. He had paid the price of life, as was meet and right.

Once more the mistletoe branch had struck down the invulnerable.

X

One night towards morning Ingolf was awakened by the tramping of horses' hoofs. He had begun to be anxious lest the serfs, who had been away the best part of a month, might have perished, and, springing out of bed, dressed quickly and threw a cloak over him.

Yes, it was Vifel and Karle home at last. When he came out, they were standing outside in the half-light night and talking softly together. They had not yet taken the saddles off the horses. Their manner showed clearly that they were the bearers of evil tidings. Both turned their heads when Ingolf opened the door, but remained standing irresolute, and forgot to salute.

Ingolf stood still for a moment. Then he went up to them, greeted them quietly, and bade Karle take the saddles off the horses and go and sleep. "You had better not talk to any one," Ingolf concluded, turning to Karle. Then he laid his hand on Vifel's shoulder and led him round behind the house. There they could best stand and talk undisturbed. Vifel was so silent that stillness seemed to envelop him like an invisible vapour in the air.

When they had come to the back of the house, Ingolf let go of Vifel's shoulder and leaned against the wall of the house. His first heavy foreboding had quickly turned into a dawning certainty—a certainty which all but overpowered him. For a few interminable moments he remained standing there, leaning against the wall, and staring to the eastward, where a faint flush on the steel-blue vault of the sky announced the coming of the sun. He avoided looking at Vifel, whose expression and behaviour so inexorably revealed what had happened. He shrank from having his last despairing hope annihilated. He must have an interval before he could endure to have his fears, his all but certain foreboding, confirmed by the pitiless word.

The sun rose and was free of the clouds on the horizon before his mind had slowly reached the point that uncertainty was intolerable to him.

He cast a glance at the serf. Vifel stood and wept, silent and motionless. The tears ran in streams over his cheeks, and left light streaks behind them.

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

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

There was a long pause. Ingolf had bowed his head, and stood with closed eyes and compressed lips. He wept.

At last, without raising his head or opening his eyes, he gave the serf a sign to continue.

Vifel finished weeping and began stammeringly: "When we came to the point we found the houses empty. We saw no one anywhere. We found the ship in its place down by the shore, but both boats had gone. We began to search the fields and the undergrowth round the point. First we found Hjor-Leif. He lay in a field near the house by the side of a piece of ploughed earth. He had been killed by a stab in the breast. We continued searching, and found gradually most of his men, scattered about in the undergrowth, all dead. Some of them had been obviously stabbed from behind, others had many wounds, which witnessed to a fight having taken place. The serfs and women we saw nowhere."

"Hjor-Leif had a foreboding of that," was the thought that passed through Ingolf's mind when the serf was silent.

Ingolf remained standing quite still. His heart hammered and beat, "Leif! Leif!" At last he lifted his head and looked round him with weary eyes. His look had become very desolate. Otherwise there was nothing to notice in him, now that there was no more doubt and the first strong burst of grief was over.

In a quiet voice he questioned the serf more closely, and learned that he and Karle had buried those of Hjor-Leif's men whom they had found. Hjor-Leif himself they had covered and left lying where they had found him.

A strange slackness had come over Ingolf. Now and then he roused himself and put a question to the serf. Each time the serf had answered, there was again a long pause.

Ingolf gradually got an account of their journey. Vifel told him of the difficult rivers, of the monks and their temple, and how he and Karle had caught and killed one of Hjor-Leif's sheep, which they had found in the thicket, as food for their home journey.

Helga was up this morning early as usual. She was generally out before any one else, especially when the weather was bright. It was in the early morning that she could best go out, unseen and undisturbed, to stand and gaze towards the distant mountains in the south-west which hid Hjor-Leif in their blue mist.

This morning, as soon as she stepped out of the door, she heard quiet voices behind the house. She could not distinguish words, but only heard the sound. This half-heard conversation filled her at once with a peculiar fear, and when she recognized Vifel's voice her heart beat violently. A vague alarm filled her breast and rose choking to her throat. For some time she remained standing and could not move from the spot—stood leaning heavily against the house-wall, and pressed her hand to her heart. Then the voices were suddenly silent. There was stillness behind the house. What could Ingolf and Vifel have to talk about in such a tone? Why had Ingolf not roused her at once? She knew how restlessly he was expecting the serf's arrival.

At last Helga dragged herself the few steps round the house. She both hoped and feared that she must have made a mistake—that it was not Vifel's voice she had heard. But she must have certainty. Her fear was crushing her.

Yes, there stood Vifel, and there stood Ingolf. Helga only needed to see them; the first glance told her everything. Ingolf immediately saw his sister, and by a powerful effort succeeded in collecting himself and going quietly towards her. As he went, he said quietly to the serf: "Go and sleep, Vifel. You are a free man." Vifel departed silently. He did not take the opportunity to thank Ingolf. His highest hope was at last and unexpectedly fulfilled, yet he wept as he went.

When Ingolf had reached his sister he stood still in perplexity. There was in her look a mingling of prayer and certainty which made it impossible for him to say anything. There was a restlessness about Helga which made it impossible for her to stand still.

"Let us go," she said appealingly. Side by side brother and sister went over the ground without speaking a word.

Where the coppice wood began, they turned and went back towards the houses. So they continued walking to and fro, silently, side by side. The sun had risen, and already stood high.

Ingolf's men, who had learnt of Hjor-Leif's death from Vifel, kept within doors. None wished to disturb Ingolf and Helga. Hallveig had been out and glanced towards the pair. Then she had slipped in again to her boy. Helga's grief made her very heavy at heart.

To and fro, keeping step, Ingolf and Helga went. Helga felt as if she could not stop. As long as she could walk so, keeping herself in movement, it seemed as if there was nothing which had ceased—ended. So long as she had heard nothing, perhaps nothing had happened. There were life and happiness at stake in continuing to walk—to walk, and not stand still.

There was no sobbing in Helga's breast. It was so empty within. A clammy pressure held her heart imprisoned in apathy. There were no tears in her eyes. She was far past the narrow limits of weeping. Only a great and threatening stillness and emptiness in her soul, and round her a waste wilderness that would swallow her as soon as she stood still.

At last she was so exhausted that she had to drag herself forward with the help of her brother's arm. Ingolf helped her, supported her, and held her up. He was in great distress. She walked there quivering on his arm, and he had no comfort to give her. Such heavy hours Ingolf had never experienced. He forgot his own sorrow: it was as nothing beside his sister's mute despair. His whole soul was engrossed in her. His powerlessness, his complete perplexity, his lack of any word to comfort her, drove all other feelings out of his mind.

At last Helga had to give up. Her strength was spent. Exhausted, she sank in his arms. He laid her carefully down, and she remained lying with half-closed eyes, breathing heavily and slowly; then she fell asleep. Ingolf remained sitting by her side and gazing intently on her pale, tired face. She continued sighing in her sleep. Ingolf could not take his eyes from her. "This was what Leif feared," was the thought that echoed within him. There were not very many thoughts in his brain, stunned as it was by his own and his sister's grief.

When he had been sitting thus for some time, Hallveig came out to him from the house with her boy on her arm. She could no longer endure the loneliness. She sat down silently by Ingolf's side. Her eyes were circled with red rims, and there was a peculiar wry smile on her face, called forth by the struggle to keep her tears down. When she had sat a little and looked at the sleeping Helga, she could do no more; she leant her head against her husband, hid her face, and wept.

Little Thorsten prattled cheerfully, and struggled to get down to Helga. Ingolf had to begin to play with him in order to make him sit still. The child's untroubled chatter cut him to the heart.

Helga slept but a short time. Suddenly she opened her eyes, rose abruptly, and looked about her in bewilderment.

"What is this? Why am I lying here?" she asked in an astonished voice. As soon as she spoke, she felt a choking in her throat, and remembered all of a sudden what had happened, and why she lay there. Then she collapsed with a groan, and remained sitting for a while with her face hidden in her hands. Then she straightened herself abruptly.

"How did it happen?" she asked in a hoarse, uncontrolled voice, and looked straight in front of her with a hard expression on her young face. And when Ingolf did not answer at once, she added in a still more unrestrained tone: "Tell me at once!"

Ingolf told her, hesitatingly and in disconnected words, that his serfs had found Hjor-Leif and his men dead. It looked as if Hjor-Leif's Irish serfs had killed them.

"But the women?" Helga asked in the same tone as before.

Ingolf gave it as his opinion that the serfs must have taken the women with them to whatever hiding they had sought. He added a few cautious words to the effect that he had grounds for supposing that Hjor-Leif already a year ago had been afraid of what had now happened, and that therefore he had let her remain with him and Hallveig.

Then Helga laughed, if the sound which issued from her throat could be called laughter.

"It is all the same now," she said in a hard voice.

Then she collected herself and stretched out her hand toward the child. For a while she sat stroking his hair and trying to smile at him. Then suddenly she gave Hallveig the boy and looked up at her brother with a look that revealed all her hopeless despair without disguise, and said: "I want to see him. Can we not go there?"

Her voice was hoarse and passionate as before. There was nothing to recall her former soft and gentle tone, but the hardness was gone.

"We will go as soon as we can," answered Ingolf quietly.

Helga rose impatiently. She was a little unsteady on her legs, but declined all support both from her brother and her sister-in-law.

"Let us not waste time," she said irritably, and stumbled towards the houses.

Ingolf and Hallveig followed her in silence. Hallveig took the boy on her arm again.

That same day the ship was launched. Day and night they worked with feverish haste to load it. The next day it lay ready for sea, and in the evening the weather was fair for sailing.

Ingolf wondered a little at Helga. She did not weep. She did not seek solitude. She went about among them much as usual—did her accustomed work, took charge of the boy, and helped Hallveig. Only the change in her voice and her strange, fixed look betrayed her grief—a grief which made Ingolf fear, and troubled him more than any weeping and open despair.

XI

The next day at sunrise they were there. Helga was supported by her brother to shore on the slender landing-plank. When she stood on the shore before Hjor-Leif's point and looked over towards the houses, her strength failed her for the second time. She could do no more. She leant against her brother to save herself from falling. He put his arm round her and led her to a stone where she could sit and recover her strength. There she sat down, and remained sitting, staring out over the sea, that lay resplendent in the glow of sunrise, but her eyes saw nothing. A light morning breeze played with her hair and gently caressed her pale face.

Ingolf stood by her side, waiting. Since she so much wished to see Hjor-Leif he would not oppose it, but he wished to follow her and be near her.

Helga had forgotten him, and why she sat there. For the moment she remembered nothing except that she was alone and had Hjor-Leif no more. There were times when this fact seemed incomprehensible. If Hjor-Leif was dead, why was she alive? She did not understand that. But so it was—she was alive. And die she could not. Death would not come to her, though she prayed for it to all imaginable Powers.

When Ingolf had stood for a while motionless by her side, he bent down over her and said quietly that he must go for a little to give his men orders. Helga started when he spoke to her, and looked hastily up at him with a terrified look in her eyes. Then she came to herself, remembered why she sat here, why Ingolf stood waiting for her, and she seized his hand. She sat for a while holding it convulsively in hers and moaning softly. Then she said in that strange, distant voice which quite seemed to have displaced her own: "Ingolf—I cannot, after all—let me just sit. I cannot rise. Ah, I can do nothing," she said, half-wailing, and hid her face in her hands.

Ingolf stood a little irresolute; then he bent over her and said softly: "I will come again and fetch you."

She nodded impatiently with her bowed head, as if begging him only to go—to go!

As soon as she no longer heard his steps she began a low, heart-rending wail. Ah, she had no hope now. Her heart was dead. But she lived, and could not die.

Ingolf went back to the ship, helped Hallveig and her boy on shore, and asked Hallveig to look to Helga while he went and buried Hjor-Leif. Then he told Vifel and several of his men to take spades and a bier and follow him. The others he set to work unloading the ship.

Ingolf was quite composed now. The stamp of the resolute firmness, which was the real expression of his character, was more distinct than ever before. He had reconciled himself to his brother's death as a healthy man reconciles himself to the inevitable. He had sought comfort in his faith, and had eradicated all despair from his mind, so that only a healthy, hardening, beneficial pain remained behind. He remembered the death-rune among the omens at the sacrificial feast; it had then pointed at Hjor-Leif. Yes, Fate shields a man till she strikes him—nothing can alter that. Against Fate even the bravest fight in vain. Not even Odin can shake the sentence of the Norns.

Such were Ingolf's thoughts as, with a composed mind, he went to carry out his last duty to his brother.

There had been an old agreement between him and Hjor-Leif that, if Ingolf died first, Hjor-Leif should inter him in a funeral barrow with exact observation of all the ritual of the Ase-religion. In return, Ingolf had pledged himself, if he were the survivor, to bury Hjor-Leif in the ground without any kind of solemnity. All that Hjor-Leif wished, when he no longer lived, was to be buried in a dry spot, at the depth of a man's stature, and to lie there with clean earth round him. It was no more than reasonable that he should have his will, though Ingolf in his inmost heart felt a strong impulse to inter him in a barrow and to do him all the honour which became a chieftain.

The birds were singing in the dewy morning when the sailcloth with which Vifel had covered Hjor-Leif was lifted. Their song sounded all at once piercingly in Ingolf's ears. He stood for a while and looked at his brother's decomposed remains. He had seen many dead men, without being specially moved thereby. But now his self-control deserted him a moment. He wept. When he had grown calm again he made the sign of the Hammer over the body, and said softly, as though to himself: "A mean fate here befell a good man, that a serf should cause his death, and so it will happen to each one who will not sacrifice to the gods."

Hjor-Leif's corpse was laid on the bier, and Ingolf covered it with his cloak. Then he went on ahead up to the point to seek for a burying-place. Step by step the men carried his brother's body after him.

Ingolf quickly found a place towards the south and the sun. The grave was dug, and Hjor-Leif was lowered into it, wrapped in his brother's cloak. Then they cast clean earth over him, and trampled it well down.

Ingolf remained standing by the grave till his men had gone. Then he spoke for the last time to his sworn brother. "Hjor-Leif," he said with emotion and in a natural tone, as though he were quite sure of being heard, "if no duty had bound me to life, I would have followed you in death. The days are poor without you, brother. But I comfort myself with the thought that we shall meet again in Valhalla, and that you by that time will have made your peace with the gods."

When Ingolf had spoken, he took a thunder-stone which hung on a chain round his neck, a gift from his mother, of whom he had an indistinct memory, pressed it deep down in the earth, and covered it up. Nothing in his eye was so sacred as this lucky stone. Therefore he gave it to his brother to take with him on the way.

Ingolf found his sister where he had left her. She sat in the same attitude; not once had she moved since he left her. Her wailing had died away. She sat silent. And when he laid his hand on her shoulder she did not start, only turned her head quietly, and looked up wearily at him. She tried to rise, but had become stiff from sitting in the same position. It was some time before she could stand and walk. Ingolf led her gently over the shore, up the point, to Hjor-Leif's grave. At the grave she remained standing motionless, clinging to his arm, and gazing down at the brown scar in the earth. For the first time since she had heard of Hjor-Leif's death her eyes filled with tears. She loosed her hold of Ingolf's arm and asked him impatiently to leave her.

When Ingolf had gone, she threw herself on the grave, pressed her face down in the loose earth, and lay there weeping, silently and ceaselessly. Now she could weep....

Long after Helga had wept all power of weeping out of her soul she remained lying there, with her arms thrown out as though clinging to the earth. Then at last she fell asleep, worn out with sorrow and fatigue.

When she woke again it was evening. She rose and looked around her in alarm, suddenly afraid lest any one should see her lying thus. As she stood there and looked around her, she perceived a black round patch on the greensward a little distance off. There had burnt the fire, which about a year ago she had sat gazing at from Ingolf's point.... Ah, that red fire....

And now it was quenched ... quenched for ever.

Helga sat down, looking alternately at the grave and the burnt patch. Now and then her eyes filled with tears. But she could weep no more.

Later in the evening Hallveig came silently and sat down by her side. They did not speak. Hallveig wept now and then. Helga sat motionless, gazing before her with eyes that scorched and burned, but seeing nothing.

The two women remained sitting there the whole night. When sunrise streaked the horizon next day they rose quietly and went silently homeward to the houses.

XII

Ingolf sent his men to search for the Irish serfs.

As the boats were gone, there was reason to suppose that they had sought flight by sea. And as they knew Ingolf was in the east, it was likely they had rowed farther westward along the coast.

Ingolf's men searched the coast westward for many days' journey. They saw nothing of the serfs anywhere—not even a sign that they had landed. And even if they had been drowned, their bodies must have been cast ashore. Neither did they find the pillars of Ingolf's high-seat, which they were also looking for.

When they returned home and told Ingolf that they had neither found the serfs nor the pillars, he said in his quiet way: "The pillars shall be found and the serfs too, if I have to search the whole country." Ingolf sent Vifel with fifteen men in a boat out to the islands, which from the mountains near the point were visible in the south-west.

There Vifel found the Irish serfs. They were living in caves scattered about on the largest of the islands. When they found that they were discovered, panic seized them, and they did not even try to offer resistance. When they saw Ingolf's men coming over the island they scattered in wild confusion. Some of them were cut down while flying; others, among whom was Duftak, flung themselves down from the cliffs and promontories and perished.

The women, whom the serfs had taken with them out to the islands, and the most obstinate of whom were still kept bound, were able to tell how Hjor-Leif and their husbands had been murdered. They spoke coolly and calmly of the matter. They had forgotten how to weep and how to rejoice.

Vifel buried the serfs on the edge of the shore, where the ground is dry at ebb and covered at full tide, as criminals should be buried.

Then he searched each creek and promontory in vain. The pillars had not drifted to shore there. Afterwards he distributed his men in three boats with the women and the valuables which the serfs had stolen and taken with them to the islands, among them Hjor-Leif's costly sword. Ever since then the islands have been called the Westman Islands after the Irish serfs.

Ingolf met the boats down on the shore. Vifel told him of the death of the serfs, recounted the women's narrative of Hjor-Leif's murder, and handed him the sword.

Ingolf took it cautiously. He remembered the story about Hjor-Leif's fight with the dead man, who was reported to have said that a charm attached to the sword whereby everyone who killed with it should himself die by it. Ingolf had comforted himself with the thought that so long as Hjor-Leif had not killed anyone with the sword there was no danger for him from it. Now, however, Hjor-Leif had been slain by it. Perhaps the saying meant that whoever possessed that sword should perish by it. At any rate he would not have it. Sorcery was not to be trifled with. Ingolf went straight to Hjor-Leif's grave with the sword and stuck it in the earth so that the golden handle projected from the black mould. It was the only thing left by his brother which he was unwilling to receive.

There was no danger of anyone taking it there. His men kept at a distance from Hjor-Leif's grave. They asserted that he walked again, and believed that Helga met the dead man when she went up there at night, as she often did.

Ingolf did not share their superstition in that respect. But, on the other hand, he well understood how Helga's appearance might give rise to such thoughts in his men. She looked more like a dead man's bride than a young living woman. Her fair hair had become white, and hung dishevelled about her head. The light of her glance was quenched, and the skin that stretched over her wan, emaciated face was grey and without brightness or colour. The only signs of life she gave were eating and breathing. She carefully took charge of Thorsten, with a peculiar absent tenderness, since Hallveig had now a little girl to watch over. She did nothing else.

That summer and the following winter Ingolf remained by Hjor-Leif's point. The next spring he departed and went farther westward. He stopped at a river whose mouth formed a comparatively safe harbour. Good landing-places were generally scarce on these shores. Thither he had his ships brought. Some way inland, west of the river, he built winter dwellings under a hill, which was named Ingolf's Hill. In the summer, as always, he had his men out to search for the pillars. When they came back they were able to inform him that they had reached a great promontory. North of the mountains there was a broad fjord.

In the winter, Ingolf sent Vifel and Karle to search the coast-line north of the hills. Out on a barren promontory in a creek, which because of some warm, densely smoking springs in the neighbourhood received the name "Rogvig" ("smoke-creek"), Vifel and Karle at last found the pillars. They had drifted ashore just below a little rounded height. On the height there sat an eagle. It did not move when Vifel and Karle approached. It sat there still when they went away, after having secured the pillars. Vifel and Karle were much afraid of the eagle. Only once before had they been equally afraid—that was when the brazen voice from the monks' house had cast them to the ground. Vifel and Karle went back and informed Ingolf of their find. Then Ingolf was glad. Now he knew where he should dwell. Now he caught a glimpse of meaning again in his life. He immediately arranged a great sacrificial feast, and made sacrifices to Odin and Thor and gave them thank-offerings.

When he heard about the eagle he became thoughtful. Neither he nor anyone else believed that the eagle's having sat there was accidental. There was in Ingolf's mind not the least doubt that the eagle had really been his old father, who, in a shape corresponding to his name, had been sent by Odin to guide and keep watch over the pillars.

Never again was an eagle seen on that height, which received the name "Orn's Height."

As soon as spring came, and the roads were passable, Ingolf left Ingolf's Hill and went over to Rogvig. The place where Ingolf's pillars had drifted ashore was a large, bare promontory. The district was stony, and there was not much pasture-land. By far the greatest number of the parts he had traversed had been better and more suitable for settling. But here it was his lot to dwell. And, besides, he could take possession of as large a territory as he chose, and build houses for his people and cattle-sheds where he found fertile soil.

Already that summer Ingolf began to mark out his lands. For himself and his posterity he took possession of the whole of the great promontory, from the river-mouth where his ships lay up along its curving course and across the hills to a fjord on the north side of the promontory, which was named Hvalfjord, between two rivers, which received the names of Brynjedal River and Okse River.

Many of Ingolf's men were dissatisfied at having to settle in this unfertile region. The serf Karle, in great vexation, ran away with a serf-woman. Ingolf found them long afterwards settled inland.

Ingolf gave land to his freed serf, Vifel. He settled on Vifestofte, and Vifel's Hill bears his name. He became a well-to-do man. The next summer Ingolf went to Norway to fetch timber for his houses. He built a residence at Rogvig, which was not at all inferior to the chief seat of the family at Dalsfjord in Norway. To the residence was attached a temple which in its size and splendid equipment did not fall far short of that at Gaulum. Ingolf was faithful to his gods and showed them great honour. Since they had given him a new place of abode he felt confidently assured that he had regained their favour.

Ingolf, who daily had his sister Helga before his eyes, was often reminded of his sworn brother, Hjor-Leif. Now he understood much which he had not understood before, and caught a sight of the connection between events, which taken separately seemed accidental. He remembered the beggar's words: "Point and blade!" Now he understood what the beggar had meant. It was owing to Hjor-Leif's prompting that they had journeyed to Iceland. Hjor-Leif was really the first occupant, even though he had not come to settle there permanently. Fate, the blind and immovable, had been out after him prematurely. Ingolf's heart was moved when he remembered how Hjor-Leif had grown fond of this land from the first. It was accordingly Hjor-Leif whom Iceland had first taken in its embrace. Hjor-Leif was the first who had consecrated the soil of the new land with flesh and blood. Had the gods, or perhaps the guardian spirits of the country, claimed him as a sacrifice? It was at any rate a great sacrifice. But Ingolf did not dare to find fault with the gods. Already the year after Ingolf had settled in Rogvig people began to flock to the country. They were for the most part Norwegian chieftains who could not come to terms with King Harald. Ingolf gave several of the settlers land in his territory.

Among the first settlers was Hallveig's brother, Lopt, who was called Lopt the Old, and many of his family, which was a good and noble one.

Haasten, Atle Jarl's son, was also among the first occupants. He had at last been obliged to leave his own lands and property and flee the country to save his life. He took some land, guided by his high-seat pillars, due east of the river which bordered Ingolf's territory. Haasten lost his ship when landing, but his property and men were saved.

The very next winter he visited Ingolf in Rogvig. On the evening of Haasten's coming, Ingolf sat as usual in the high-seat with his men at the table round him, a step lower. The fire burned cheerfully on the hearthstones and spread a genial and penetrating glow. The coarsely carved images of the gods on the strongly illumined age-browned pillars of the high-seat laughed broadly in the glaring light. The talk was lively around the tables, and the beer-jugs were diligently emptied and filled. Ingolf was not grudging of beer to his men. He sat with a contented look in his peaceful blue eyes and listened to their talk. He himself spoke but seldom, except when questioned.

Then suddenly there came three knocks at the door. All the talking round the tables ceased. Ingolf turned his head and gave a signal to the man at the door. The bolt was pushed to one side, and in stepped a tall, erect, fair-bearded man in a red silk cloak with a golden helmet on his head, followed by three other men.

Ingolf immediately recognized Haasten, in spite of his beard and the ageing and weary expression of his thin face. He sprang up and went to meet him. He was too much moved to speak. For a while the two former friends stood silent, pressing each other's hands and looking each other straight in the eyes. Then they fell into each other's arms. When, shortly after, they sat side by side in the high-seat and had drunk to each other, Ingolf said: "I did not know, Haasten, that you were on this road."

Haasten smiled his weary, steady smile, and answered: "Yes, King Harald has driven me from the country, as I in my time drove you two brothers. Have you forgiven me that, Ingolf?"

"I have never been angered with you for it," Ingolf answered.

They spoke together of many things, and their talk was light and untroubled. There was in Haasten's attitude towards Ingolf the same deference that all other chieftains who came there showed the quiet, confident, simple, taciturn man, who by his example had drawn all the others to this new land. Ingolf was indeed his friend, and as such he showed him confidence, but he was also the first settler in the land, and as such he evinced for him a great and undisguised deference.

They talked of Hjor-Leif. "It happened as I fore-told," said Haasten, and smiled sadly. "The mistletoe branch at last struck the invulnerable."

"We all owe Odin a death," said Ingolf quietly, and drew a deep sigh. "It is most often the survivors whose lot is the hardest."

His look involuntarily sought the women's dais. There sat Helga, gazing before her without expression in her eyes, with his son, Thorsten, in her lap.

Ingolf pointed out the boy to Haasten. "His name is built of Thor's name and yours," he said in a gentler voice. While Ingolf talked, he noticed how attentively his son's quiet blue eyes dwelt on the high-seat pillars. Thus he had himself sat as a boy, he remembered suddenly. And now he met his son's look. Were Thorsten's thoughts something like his had been when he was a child?

Haasten had been sitting in silence, watching the boy. Then he said suddenly: "He must have been born soon after that winter."

"The winter after," Ingolf answered, a little curtly.

"He bears Thor's name and mine," Haasten continued thoughtfully. "May that bring him good luck!"

He was silent a short time. Then he asked: "But who is the woman?"

"My sister, Helga," answered Ingolf quietly. The two friends sat silent a long time.

Then Haasten beckoned to the boy, and when he came he took him between his knees, and looked closely at him. "You have honest, intelligent eyes; you will be a brave man," he said at last, and stroked his fair hair. Then he took a heavy gold ring off his arm and gave it to Thorsten.

"That is because you are in some part my name-sake," he explained, smiling at the boy, who stood with the ring in his hand, staring alternately at gift and giver. Thorsten tried the ring on his slender arm. "It is too large," he declared, a little offended. Then he suddenly brightened up. "But it will fit me well enough by the time father is dead, and I sit in the high-seat."

Both Ingolf and Haasten laughed. Thorsten went to show Helga and his mother the ring. Then silence came over the two friends. Shortly after, Ingolf proposed that they should drink to their dead brother. The friends' glances met over the rim of the drinking-horns. There were tears in their eyes.

They sat late that night and drank and talked together. They were very happy to sit side by side again. The solitude which had threatened to imprison each severally was suddenly banished. Now they had each other again, and felt the joy of friendship.

The fire burned yellow and brightly on the hearthstones. In its genial warm light the images of the gods on the carved pillars looked down as if following all that passed with slow content, and waiting, calmly wise, for what should come.

THE END

THE BORZOI-GYLDENDAL BOOKS

The firm of Gyldendal [Gyldendalske Boghandel Nordisk Forlag] is the oldest and greatest publishing house in Scandinavia, and has been responsible, since its inception in 1770, for giving to the world some of the greatest Danish and Norwegian writers of three centuries. Among them are such names as Ibsen, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, Pontoppidan, Brandes, Gjellerup, Hans Christian Andersen, and Knut Hamsun, the Nobel Prize Winner for 1920, whose works I am publishing in America.

It is therefore with particular satisfaction that I announce the completion of arrangements whereby I shall bring out in this country certain of the publications of this famous house. The books listed below are the first of the Borzoi-Gyldendal books.

Jenny

A novel translated from the Norwegian of Sigrid Undset by W. Emmé.

Grim: the Story of a Pike

Translated from the Danish of Svend Fleuron by Jessie Muir and W. Emmé.

Illustrated in black and white by Dorothy P. Lathrop.

The Sworn Brothers

ALFRED A. KNOPF, Publisher, NEW YORK