









 THE SWORN
 BROTHERS




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




 THE
 SWORN BROTHERS

 A TALE OF THE EARLY DAYS OF ICELAND

 TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH OF
 GUNNAR GUNNARSSON

 By C. FIELD AND W. EMMÉ


 [Illustration]


 NEW YORK
 ALFRED · A · KNOPF
 1921




 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
 GUNNAR GUNNARSSON

 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
 ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc.


 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




CONTENTS


                   PAGE

 BOOK I              1

 BOOK II           109

 BOOK III          221




BOOK I




I


In the red light of the fire in the midst of the hall, the age-browned
pillars of the high-seat stood forth strongly lit in the middle of
the main wall, against the background of smoky darkness which spread
behind. The bright glow threw into relief the carved images of the
gods, weird and grotesque shapes which kept changing as the fire blazed
up or sank in its embers.

Upon the broad seat between the pillars of the high-seat, with the
dragon-ornaments and gaping beast-heads of its back towering above and
behind, sat Orn, a broad, grey-haired warrior, leaning forward over the
table, his strong, coarse fingers buried in his thick, white beard.
Upon the table at his side stood a great carved drinking horn. Orn sat
in silence. It was seldom that he drank much in the evening.

One step below, and opposite him, on the other side of the fire,
was the table round which his men-servants sat. Only now and then a
low-voiced exchange of words between man and man broke the silence
of the hall. Otherwise there reigned an oppressive stillness. Often
they glanced towards him, but each time looked uneasily at one another
afterwards. For he sat very still, with a fixed, absent look in his
eyes. A shiver passed through them as they thought that perhaps he saw
something which they could not see. It was not comfortable in the hall
that evening. All the more swift was the circulation of the beer-mugs.
But they were not set down on the tables with a bang, as was the rule
when they were empty, but cautiously placed on one side.

On a dais at the end of the hall, farthest removed from the entrance
door, sat women at work, spinning and carding wool in silence. For once
silence prevailed on the women's dais. Only a faint rustle was heard
now and then when one of them rose to help another or to fetch more
wool.

The only one who did not feel depressed by the silence in the hall
was a fourteen-year-old boy, seated at the table right opposite the
high-seat on the other side of the fire. He was content to make holiday
by sitting quietly with his thoughts, and felt easy and unoccupied in
mind. He sat quite still, letting his gaze linger alternately on his
father and the pillars of the seat. He had little resemblance to the
stalwart figures round him. His skin was as clear as a young girl's,
and his long, bright yellow hair fell in heavy locks over his neck.
On his face, with its regular features, there lay an expression of
peculiar calm. The mouth under his straight nose appeared firm and
composed. The look of his blue eyes was tranquil and fixed.

It was Ingolf, Orn's son. He often sat thus, especially of an
evening. His attention was particularly taken up by the pillars of
the high-seat. They seemed so strangely alive in the red light of the
evening fire.

By day they were quite dead. It seemed as if the breath of the gods had
crept into the hard, dry wood. Perhaps the gods slept by day, or had
they possibly flown on adventures to other countries and lands? The
gods had tiresome habits, for all that they were gods; one never knew
exactly where to find them. Anyhow, the pillars stood by day as though
they were empty.

But in the evening they came to life again. Either the gods returned,
or breath issued at any rate from the inner part of the wood and seemed
to wander over the surface.

Already in the gloaming, when shadows were gathering in the deep
carving, they began to live.

But it was a strange, deceitful, and threatening life, as though the
gods were ill-humoured on first awakening, as men are sometimes in the
early morning hours. Ingolf did not like to stay alone in the hall in
the evening before the fire was lit. He had a certain consciousness
of the gods' discontent in the twilight, and felt by no means sure
that they might not cherish some evil purpose. And when the gods were
wroth or morose it was best to keep at a respectful distance. But as
soon as the fire was kindled on the hearthstones, it became bright and
comfortable in the hall. The fire sputtered with a cheerful crackling
which seemed as though it were chatting pleasantly with the gods; it
blazed up and cast its bright light over them, and diffused a kindly
penetrating warmth. Then the gods recovered their good-humour; they
smiled openly, and their eyes grew somewhat more friendly.

Then one ventured to look at them calmly and to sit near them. Ingolf
liked to sit quietly and look at the images carved on the pillars.
Certainly those in the temple were far more splendid, decked as they
were with costly clothes and heavy rings of gold and other valuable
metals. But the gods in the temple were those to whom they prayed at
solemn festivals and offered sacrifices. It required enormous daring to
approach them, for one hardly ever saw them, and knew them but little.
Although they were the same gods, they seemed strangely distant in the
sanctity of the temple. The gods on the pillars of the high-seat, on
the other hand, were house-gods. He had grown up in their company, he
had seen them in daily intercourse, as far back as he could remember.
He had long been confidential with them; they were his and the family's
friends. They were quiet and peaceful and made no demands. Maybe they
had fits of ill-temper in the evenings. But for the most part they were
almost like men, saving, of course, that as gods they were naturally
higher than men.

But one ventured--it was indeed a duty--to count them as friends, as
belonging in some degree to the family. One could safely rely upon
them, and that led to everyday familiar intercourse with them.

They constituted, besides, so to speak, the axis of the home. They were
the immovable real centre round which all things revolved. They were
the persisting element. They were the visible sign of the family and of
the family's continuance.

They had become dark brown in the course of time, nay, almost black,
and hard as stones from age. Ingolf knew well how they felt. He had
once, after a long inward struggle, ventured to touch them.

And it was not strange that old age could be both felt and seen in
them. For no one knew how old they were, or whether indeed they had any
age at all. Whether they were of the race of gods or men was therefore
doubtful. From time immemorial they had belonged to the family. They
had passed by inheritance from father to eldest son since as far back
as there was any tradition, probably from the earliest dawn of time.
The pillar on the right of the throne represented Odin, the All-Father,
the old, one-eyed, and wise. His ravens, Hugin and Mugin, sat on his
shoulders and whispered wisdom and knowledge to him. The ravens told
him everything, past and future. So wise was Odin that nothing found
him unprepared.

Odin was the Head of the Gods, consequently the most important to have
as a friend. The place on the right side of the high-seat belonged
justly to him. The pillar on the left side represented Thor, the
Wielder of the Hammer, the slayer of giants, the one whose goats amid
thunder-claps kicked fire from heaven when he drove to battle with the
giants. Proudly stood Age-Thor, with his legs planted wide apart, his
arm lifted up to smite, and in the bent fingers of his mighty hand he
gripped the hammer, Mjolner.

And there in the chief seat, on whose brown, worn plank only the
cushions and the sitters changed, sat his father. Ay, there he sat,
cheerful and comfortable between his gods.

Every evening he sat there, when he was not out journeying or visiting,
with his men sitting at tables round him, a step lower down. He sat
calmly, stroking with weather-tanned fingers his thick, white beard,
talked wisely, or was silent. There he sat at the feast with the chief
guest by his side. And when it chanced that he raised his voice, his
ringing tones filled the hall, and an attentive silence prevailed as
far as the outer-most seats. Though his father, Orn, did not often talk
in a loud voice, yet when he did, what he said was weighty. He seemed
then to Ingolf to have a certain resemblance to Thor, especially when
he raised his powerful clenched fists over his shaggy head. Otherwise,
when he sat silent and meditated, he reminded him most of Odin, except
that he had two eyes.

In the chief seat his father was at home. There he sat, friendly
and comfortable in the place of his ancestors. There had sat his
grandfather, Bjornulf, who together with his brother, Roald, had been
obliged to quit the old family estate in Telemarken on account of
having slain a man. And there had sat also before him, _his_ father,
Romund Greippson. All high-spirited, strong men, whose names were
remembered with reverence.

And some day he himself would sit there. And after him again his son,
and his son's son. Generation after generation, family after family,
till the earth vanished.

Whenever he thought of the time when his father would be no more, and
he himself should assume the place between the throne-pillars, his
cheeks flamed, and a strange, anxious shudder robbed him of strength
and will-power.

It was this knowledge that he would have to assume a responsibility,
and one which he had long ago sworn to sustain with honour, and which
he waited to assume with a mixture of joy and suspense, that had
impressed on his countenance a composure and on his whole nature and
bearing an air of assurance far beyond his years. Even before his bones
had fairly hardened, he had had impressed on him by his mother, whom he
now only indistinctly remembered, who he was and what he should become.
With his mother's milk he had imbibed the unbroken traditions of the
family. Before he understood what was really involved, he had learnt to
understand that his life was only partly his own. Already, for a long
time past, it had become clear to him, that not only his own, but the
honour of the dead and the unborn was committed to his hand. For a man
without honour cast shadows on two sides. Both his ancestors and his
descendants had a peremptory claim on him--the claim of honour.

And he had no intention of disappointing either himself, the dead, or
the unborn. Just then it was very quiet in the hall. The confidential
crackling of the fire was the only sound audible.

Then suddenly came the sound of tramping steps without. Orn raised his
head and was again wide awake. All sat still and listened. There was a
knock at the door. Orn made a sign to the porter, who pushed back the
bolt, and in came Rodmar, Orn's kinsman, followed by his son, Leif, and
some servants.

The peace and quiet of the hall was suddenly interrupted. Orn rose with
a dignified air. Stately of mien, he left the high-seat and went to
meet his relative. His ceremonious "Welcome, cousin," sounded cheerful
and hearty. Ingolf sprang up and ran round behind the seats to meet
Leif. He greeted his relative, who was his junior by two years, with a
kiss and very sincere friendliness.

Orn laid both his hands heavily on Rodmar's shoulders. "I was sure you
would come, cousin."

"Such important news should be looked into," answered Rodmar seriously.
"We have had prosperous though chequered years. What will happen now?"

"The good times are passed," answered Orn gloomily. "I guess what will
happen. Follow me to the high-seat, cousin."

Orn seated Rodmar at his side, and called for fresh beer. They drank to
each other with deep draughts. When Rodmar had sucked his beard dry, he
turned to his kinsman, who was a little older than himself, and asked:
"Do you think there will be trouble in the country?"

"Trouble there will be," answered Orn, speaking slowly and solemnly.
"After peace and prosperous years follow hard times. We have had the
good times; now we shall have to face the bad. Only it may be that the
struggle will not reach these parts. We are getting old, Rodmar. Our
swords are rusty, our arms stiff. And our sons are at the worst age
possible--old enough to entangle themselves in difficulties, not old
enough to manage them."

"I see that you cherish fears for the future, cousin. What do you
advise?"

"I advise that you stay here with Leif and as many of your servants as
can be safely spared from home. We should be prepared for everything.
In times like these most unexpected things can happen."

"I will follow your advice, as I always did. Do you think of seeking
light on the future from the gods?"

"One should not trouble the gods before necessity demands it. But we
should offer them sacrifices diligently and without stint."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was only a week since Rodmar and Leif had driven home from the
winter festival at Orn's. But for Ingolf and Leif it had been a long
week. They had found it difficult to be apart. They had had a cushion
drawn up to the fire and lay there on their stomachs right opposite
each other, each with a host of things to ask about and report.

Leif was a tall, loose-knit fellow with a long, bony face, browned with
freckles and discoloured by wind and weather. He had a large nose, and
a broad mouth with thick lips. The expression of his sparkling grey
eyes changed suddenly, and constantly shifted from close attention to
distant dreaminess, from icy coldness to beaming warmth. Red curly hair
hung in long locks down both sides of his smiling face.

When the most important news had been told, he could keep quiet no
longer. With a teasing look in his eyes, he stretched his head forward
and asked in a whisper: "Say, Ingolf--did your gods dine on the Yule
meat?"

Ingolf gave a start of annoyance. His smile disappeared, and over his
face spread an expression of vexed seriousness. He looked anxiously
round, but discovered to his relief that no one was listening.

He made no answer, but looked angrily and warningly at Leif. Leif
laughed softly and in a contented fashion. Then he made a funnel of his
hands and whispered again: "They are fat, overfed animals, your gods!"
He laughed deep down in his stomach, enjoying Ingolf's wrath.

"And such gods! A decrepit, one-eyed old creature, who has to get his
wisdom from ravens! And a stupid braggart who is so poor that he has to
drive with goats because he has no horse."

Ingolf clenched his fists and pressed his chin down hard on his
whitening knuckles.

"Hold your tongue, Leif!" he said threateningly, in reply.

Leif laughed as before. Then he sprang up suddenly. By their side stood
Helga, Ingolf's sister, a slim young girl with long, light-yellow
hair, shining blue eyes, a small bright face, and a happy smile on
her childish mouth. Leif, whose gladness at meeting again this girl
friend of his own age beamed from his face and was visibly impressed
on his whole bearing, embraced her, and saluted her with a kiss. Then
he suddenly let her go, grew red and embarrassed, and began in his
confusion to kick the burning logs.

Helga watched his action with quiet, smiling eyes. "You are scorching
your boots, Leif," she said, and laughed softly.

He stood straight up, turned towards her, and looked at her. And the
smile in her eyes put his embarrassment to flight. Immediately he was
himself again. Beaming over his whole face, he seized her two hands and
swung her arms apart.

"I should give you greetings from the cat and from old Jorun. I have
nearly forgotten to do so. The cat caught a huge quantity of mice at
Yuletide, and then became fat and lazy--just like old Jorun, but she
can't bear to be told so."

"Surely you haven't said so to her."

"Yes. I couldn't help seeing it. And when I saw it, I couldn't help
saying it."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Leif. Have you forgotten how kind
old Jorun has been to you since you lost your mother, and how many
stories she has told us?"

"I can make up better stories myself. Old wives' tales are wearisomely
long," answered Leif in a quick tone, which concealed the slight wound
in his conscience.

"Do you believe she makes them up?" asked Helga, with an air of
curiosity.

"She talks about gods, trolls, and giants as though they really
existed. The other tales are lies too, I suppose."

"You are a stupid boy. How do you know that there are not trolls and
giants?"

"Well, you never see them, anyhow."

Helga was already thinking of something else. "Are you not going back
at once?" she asked in an expectant tone.

"I hope to stay here the rest of the winter and all summer too!"

Suddenly both were silent, and found no more to say. For a while they
stood and looked at each other and were very happy. All at once Helga
became aware that Ingolf lay there, and had not once lifted up his
head. She cast herself on her knees beside him and peered into his
face. Ingolf avoided her glance, but she could see he was depressed.
Suddenly she knelt up and looked penetratingly at Leif. The smiles
and brightness had vanished from her face. "Now, you have been vexing
Ingolf again, Leif," she said in a tone of deep reproach. Leif avoided
her look, and took his place, a little embarrassed, at the end of the
cushion. He felt ashamed, but wished to laugh it off. When he did not
succeed he bent his head, and whispered so low that only they two could
hear: "He ought not to get angry because I say what I think. You know
quite well that I do not believe in your gods."

"But you ought not to laugh at them, when you know that you hurt Ingolf
by doing so," whispered Helga angrily in reply.

Ingolf lifted his head and looked at them. He spoke calmly, and his
voice was quiet and sad.

"It is not that alone," he whispered. "I do not mind so much that Leif
mocks at the gods. But I grieve to think that the gods will some day
take vengeance on you, Leif, for your mockery."

"When I do not believe in the gods, you cannot expect me to be afraid
of their vengeance," answered Leif, with quiet defiance.

He sat with downcast eyes, and a discontented and vexed look in his
face.

"You can say what _you_ like in return," he continued. "Why may I not
say what _I_ like? I cannot bear the gods. And I cannot endure that you
should believe in them either. But since you make so much of them, I
will say nothing."

"Yes, you promise that now," said Helga. "You will have forgotten it
tomorrow."

"Can I help being forgetful? Then I will promise again tomorrow."

For some minutes they sat silent and out of humour. Then Helga took
Leif's hand. "Don't be cross, Leif. We have wished so much to see you
again."

Leif raised his head suddenly. He raised himself on the cushion, made a
place by his side, and looked up at Helga with a smile. All ill-humour
had passed away from his face.

Soon after, all three were lying together confidentially discussing
their own affairs. The hall was full of the hum of many voices and a
stronger odour of beer. The fire burned yellow and bright. And the
images of the gods on the carved pillars looked down as if following
all that passed with a slow content, and waiting, calmly wise, for what
should come.




II


A couple of months after, the two boys were riding over the heath.
It was towards evening. The day was calm with biting frost; grey
storm-clouds lined the whole horizon. The blue patch of sky above the
heath grew ever smaller; it seemed as though a storm was brewing.
Banks of clouds were already threatening to swallow the pale moon. The
sun seemed stranded on golden mountains of cloud in the west. The two
cousins were returning from a visit to their friends and comrades,
Haasten, Haersten, and Holmsten, sons of Atle Jarl at Gaulum. Holmsten,
the youngest of the brothers, was the same age as Ingolf; the others
were a little older.

The two cousins had come to know Atle's sons at the great sacrificial
feast of the preceding year at Gaulum, and had become friends with
them. On Leif's side the friendship was not very warm.

During the last year they had visited each other regularly. And since
there was still no sign of disturbance in that part of the country,
they had obtained leave to journey to Gaulum again this winter. But
they had been obliged to promise to exercise caution, to follow the
main roads, to return home quickly on the least sign of trouble, and,
finally, to conduct themselves circumspectly, and to remember whose
offspring they were if anything happened. They had naturally promised
all that had been demanded, Ingolf with the firm resolve to keep his
word.

They had not had any occasion to break their promises until today, when
Leif had induced Ingolf to make a short cut across the heath. He had
twitted him with want of courage till Ingolf, in a mixture of anger
and love of adventure, consented. Leif, who was always the most eager
for an expedition, was, on the other hand, most quickly and completely
seized by homesickness. In the morning he had felt that he must see
Helga before evening.

And now they were riding here at a furious gallop. The long, wide, red
cloaks, fastened by silver buckles on their breasts, fluttered behind
them. So did as much of Leif's red and Ingolf's bright yellow locks as
were not confined by their helmet-shaped caps.

Leif rode at haphazard and carelessly, satisfied with things in
general, without thought for anything but the exciting present. He rode
with arms, legs, and his whole body.

Ingolf, who sat as though of a piece with his horse, and moving neither
arm nor foot, glanced at him sideways, and a faint smile passed over
his firm mouth.

"You ride like a fluttering chicken, Leif!" he shouted to him as they
rode on. Leif looked quickly at him and was not at a loss for an
answer. "And you sit your horse like an old idol, cousin!"

The horses' frost-powdered heads stretched forward as they ran. Yellow
flakes of foam flew now and then from their mouths; their warm breath
rose like clouds of vapour from the quivering nostrils. The snow and
the splinters of ice which they kicked up flew about the ears of the
riders. Leif enjoyed travelling without restraint, and his delight
found vent now and then in a ringing shout. Ingolf, on the other hand,
rode in a mood of deep displeasure; but it seemed as if he could not
give vent to it at once, for he, also, had become partly intoxicated
with the wild ride. The rapid beat of the rough-shod hoofs against the
hard, frozen snow sounded pleasantly in their ears. And the strength of
the mighty muscles which were supporting them thrilled the young riders
with a glorious sensation of invincibility, capacity for anything, and
divine exultation which made their hearts light and filled their heads
with blissful excitement.

The sun, preparing to glide down the golden slopes of cloud, cast long
and fantastic shadows of the horses and riders over the glittering
plain of snow. Leif suddenly became aware of the rushing shadows, and
burst into laughter. He shouted to Ingolf, and pointed to the shadows,
suddenly anxious to make Ingolf also amused at them. Ingolf must
laugh also. But Leif's mirth was too violent, too overpowering. He
laughed out all the laughter that there was at once, and left nothing
for Ingolf. Leif's uncontrolled glee blocked up all the feeling of
amusement in Ingolf, and directly evoked his dawning displeasure. He
no longer gave himself up to the mere pleasure of riding. His fits of
forgetfulness never lasted very long; thought and reason resumed their
power over him.

There rode Leif, and was happy! Did he not see that a storm was
brewing? Did he not know that it was impossible for them to get home
that night? Did he not reflect that if a regular snowstorm came on
they might easily go astray on the heath? No, he saw nothing, knew
nothing, thought nothing! He simply rode and was happy. And yet it was
all his own fault.

As they rode on side by side, a sullen, smouldering anger penetrated
deeper and deeper into Ingolf's mind. He had great mental stability,
which is always something to hold fast to. He tried to struggle against
his feelings; he would _not_ ride here and become gradually furious
with Leif. But the process in his mind had already gone so far that
he was powerless to control it. What happened afterwards was in spite
of his will and better conscience. Leif's ecstasy also blew up the
smouldering embers of wrath in his mind like a pair of bellows. Leif's
joyful shout caused flames to flare up within him. Why should Leif just
now become so senseless, so idiotically happy? Why? Why? There were
innumerable "whys?" to answer when Leif was in question. Why should
Leif be always occasioning difficulties and vexations for him? Why
should he be allowed to transfer all responsibility from himself to
him? What was the sense of his alone having to bear inconveniences for
them both just because Leif did not choose to be inconvenienced? His
only fault, after all, had been that he had always been, and still was,
too yielding towards Leif.

Leif, who rode there so merrily, without thinking of his broken promise
or the gathering storm--did he not remember the gash from Holmsten's
knife which he carried in his coat as he rode? Did he not remember
that it was solely due to Ingolf's presence of mind and powerful grip
that the knife had not been buried in him up to the handle?

Ingolf was angry now. His perception was distorted by evil powers. He
only saw Leif's weaknesses and failings, and they were many. Ingolf
held a reckoning, and was angry.

Such was Leif! A child, a stupid boy! A forgetful and ungrateful beast!
Not once in friendly games with Atle's sons had he behaved properly.
Although Holmsten was two years older than he, he could not endure
to give place to him in any matter. Times without number they had
attacked each other like fiery wolf cubs. Times without number he and
Haasten had reconciled them. Each time Leif had promised it should be
the last time; next time he would be careful not to let his temper run
away with him. But Leif's promises were like flying snow in a storm.
Such was Leif, the great humbug, unreliable and unintelligible. Why
should he, because Holmsten at parting had given him the knife he had
nearly killed him with--why should he for that reason unclasp his most
valuable money-belt, and with his own hands clasp it round Holmsten?
Weaker characters could do that! Next time they met they would, all
the same, attack each other like fiery wolf-cubs. That would certainly
end some day with serious enmity between the two; and that would mean
a feud with Atle's sons. It might well happen that Leif would yet
entangle him in murder and bloodshed. Some day they would certainly
have to quit Dalsfjord, as their grand-fathers in their time had been
obliged to quit Telemarken.

Thus Ingolf's thoughts were forced to run on possible division of the
family, murder, and exile.

Why could not Leif be content with the difficulties he had stirred up
for him at Gaulum? Why further entice him into breaking the promise he
had given his father to follow the main roads and to be cautious?

At first Ingolf had only been angry with himself for having let Leif
seduce him into disobedience and breaking his word. But in his present
condition he had no power to apportion his anger. He had to heap it all
together with the blame on Leif.

The riders had slackened their pace, and rode quietly side by side,
close together. But they avoided looking at each other, and did not
say a word. Leif perceived that Ingolf, for some reason or other, had
become very angry.

That did not surprise him. Ingolf, who was accustomed to preserve his
calm on occasions when others became angry, was also wont to become
angry at the strangest times. Leif searched his conscience. It was
fairly uneasy, as usual, but nothing more. It was impossible to see how
he had deserved Ingolf's wrath at that moment more than at others. He
had not mocked at the gods, and he had till just now been so cheerful.
He felt a little irritated, and was also curious to see what had
happened in Ingolf's mind, but he had resolved that it was not worth
while to irritate him by speaking. He would see if he could not, by
keeping silence, charm the anger out of him. Ingolf could not well
remain angry indefinitely. Still, it was a nuisance; all the pleasure
of the ride was gone.

They rode on at a rapid trot, and Leif remained silent. But he was not
accustomed to ride in that way. A great feeling of heaviness came over
him, and quenched in its darkness all the lively sparks of his humour.
But they would soon be home. He yawned till his jaws seemed to crack.
Would there be a storm? He felt reckless. But what an endless way back
it seemed when they approached the forest which they must go round.
What sense was there in the forest lying there and barring their way to
the valley? But for that, they might easily be home by bedtime. If the
horses only had such long legs as their shadows on the snow possessed,
they could stride over the forest. What wretched short-legged jades
they were!

Yes, everything had gone wrong that evening. Nothing was as it should
be. There rode Ingolf with a bee in his bonnet. One dared not even
speak to him. And why had they no food with them? He felt suddenly so
ravenously hungry that he actually seemed to sniff the scent of roast
meat. Meat and bread and beer--hm hm! And now that he had once begun to
think of food, he continued to do so. He could at last almost taste it
upon his tongue. Could they not ride through the wood?

He suddenly forgot all caution and addressed Ingolf in the simplicity
of his heart. "I know a path through the forest."

It sounded quite naturally, as though he had suddenly thought of it.
But for those who knew Leif, his voice was too sincere to be able to
conceal a lie. Ingolf saw through him at once. So Leif was not yet
content with the harm done! He looked angrily and scornfully at him.
"Do you?" he answered, with an excessively quiet and indifferent air.
"Then you'd better make a short cut through."

Leif looked uncertainly at him. He knew no path through the wood; on
the contrary, he had lost his way in it one summer's day, and only with
great difficulty got out of it again. It had just occurred to him that
if he induced Ingolf to try the wood, they would be able to manage it.

It was only a matter of keeping the right direction, and that can
always be done when there are two going together. The wood could
certainly not be impassible. And to try it would at least be a change.
To stay here would be tedious in the long run.

"Shall we see if we can find it?" he braced himself up to ask in a
conciliatory and almost submissive tone. He dared not express his
request more plainly; he was afraid that Ingolf had already seen too
much.

"I'll share in no more foolishness today," said Ingolf coldly and
decidedly.

Leif started as though struck by the lash of a whip. Ingolf's tone
kindled a flame in him like fire in dry straw. The consciousness of
having lied, and the fear of its being perceived, made him sensitive
and irritable beyond measure. He was seized with rage, and felt a
shiver run through his whole body. Senseless evil words and terrible
execrations rose in his mind, but in such rapid succession that his
tongue could not utter them. With a jerk he turned his horse and rode
toward the wood. He wanted to get away from Ingolf: he would show him--

Ingolf looked after him. And as he sat there and saw him ride away, his
arms and legs waving all ways at once, a revulsion took place in his
mind. His wrath had come to a head, and now began to subside. "There
was no sense in that," he thought, and could not recover himself after
Leif's disappearance. "I did not think to drive him so far. But surely
he will have the sense to turn back!"

No, Leif did not turn back. And Ingolf, who had let slip the
opportunity of calling him to return, could not yet bring himself to
ride after him.

"Now we shall be separated for life," he thought again. "That is too
ridiculous. That must not happen." He would _not_ be separated from
Leif like that. But the consciousness of his own right and Leif's
obvious wrong had still too strong a hold on him. It seemed to him
impossible to turn his horse round. Yet once more he repeated to
himself: "It must not happen." But all the same he rode on. He let it
happen.




III


Ingolf rode on. The sun went down. A wind blew from the north, bringing
thick clouds of ice-cold snow as fine as sand. He could not see the
wood any more. And Leif had long disappeared in the sea of snow.

Night began to come on. A faint glow high above him on the left
betrayed the whereabouts of the full moon. With the help of that and
the wind he tried to guide himself. He was so alone, so completely
forsaken, as he had hitherto never guessed that anyone could be. And he
felt his loneliness and desolation as accusation and guilt. He had, as
it were, grown smaller since Leif had left him.

The uneasiness of dissatisfaction gnawed his mind like hunger. He was
displeased with himself and also with Leif, but more with himself. He
was, after all, the elder, and was responsible for them both. Also he
felt seriously anxious for Leif. Leif did not know any path through the
wood. He had once ventured into it, and lost himself. And if he lost
himself in the wood in this cold he would be frozen to death, unless,
indeed, the wolves attacked him.

Ingolf was in despair. He asked himself whether it were yet any use
to ride after Leif? But now it was too late. He felt a lump rise in
his throat. Remorse came over him like an avalanche. He had to defend
himself in order not to be utterly overwhelmed. As far as Leif was
concerned, it was his own fault. It was he who actually _would_ ride
over the heath. It was he who, in spite of reason, made for the wood.
If he were frozen to death, or eaten by wolves, he only had himself to
thank. But Ingolf soon discovered that these thoughts did not yield him
any comfort. In the first place, he was not sure that the fault was
really Leif's. He ought not to have allowed himself to be persuaded to
ride across the heath, and, by doing so, break his word. Neither ought
he to have become angry with Leif because he had allowed himself to be
persuaded. Least of all should he have let Leif observe his anger.
For that was what had driven him to the wood. He knew Leif, and how
susceptible he was. Treated in the right way, he was not unreasonable.
By means of good-humour and friendly talk one could turn Leif's mind
from or in any desired direction. But if he saw that any one was
angry or embittered against him, immediately he became twice as angry
himself. And all sound sense forsook him as soon as he became irritated.

And another thing: even if the fault was Leif's, that did not make the
matter really better. There was, in fact, no satisfaction in being in
the right as against Leif. Leif's whole character was so made up of
hastiness and want of sense that nothing was easier than to be in the
right against him. But that was not the least relief to his mind. Leif
was not one of those to be settled with in that way. Even if there was
not the least doubt that one was in the right, there always remained
something unsettled when Leif was in question. Ingolf rode on. He
forgot to pay any attention to the direction of the wind or the light
of the moon. An absorbing consciousness of having done wrong, and of
remorse, which continually increased, gnawed his mind and destroyed
his peace. He could not shake off the thought of Leif. How was he now?
How would he fare? He tried to persuade himself that Leif must really
know a path through the wood, and might be home before him. Ah, how he
wished that he might find Leif's horse in the stable when he himself at
last reached home!

But he knew well that this was only something he _wished_ to believe.
Leif's voice was so sincere that it betrayed him when he lied. Leif was
a stupid boy. Ah, Leif! Leif!

Ingolf struggled hard to keep his tears back. He had not the least idea
what to do. What should he do? He was riding here, and had lost his
best friend. And it was his own fault. Even if he found Leif at home
they would not be friends any more. And Leif, like himself, as far back
as he could remember, could not do without him. He did not understand
it all. He did not comprehend how it could happen. Yesterday, nay,
only a little while since, they had been friends. Now he was riding
alone in the night and the snowstorm, and Leif was lost in the wood.
Leif had left him because he could not overcome himself sufficiently
to keep with him longer--Leif, who this morning would have sacrificed
everything for him, and given his life for him, yes, ten lives if he
had possessed so many. He did not know any one else of whom he could
safely say the same. Half his strength had lain in the consciousness
that Leif was his friend for life and death; that he had, so to speak,
two lives. He was himself also prepared to die for his friend. All the
same, a sudden misunderstanding and a few words had parted them. For
the first time Ingolf realized the dangerous power of anger and evil
words. And he made a vow never again to be angry, and never again to
speak evil words to a friend. It had a certain soothing effect upon
him, thus to take himself to task, to acknowledge his failing, and
resolve to overcome it.

But this was of no help with regard to Leif. There could not be the
least doubt now that Leif was roaming about lost in the wood. It was
hopeless to expect that he should have given up his purpose. It could
never occur to him to be so reasonable as to follow the edge of the
wood. For Leif knew nothing of fear or even caution, bold to the point
of madness, daring to folly as he was. Yes, Leif was by no means merely
a mocker of the gods or a practical joker. He was as fearless and brave
as any one whom Ingolf knew. That was what forced one to love him, and
feel that he was indispensable in spite of all his failings and the
difficulties he caused. That was also the reason why Helga liked him
so much, and became restless and lost her balance as soon as she did
not see him, but immediately became quiet and peaceful when she knew he
was near. How should Ingolf look his sister, Helga, in the eyes when he
came home without Leif?

Ingolf rode on. He no longer knew where he was going, and felt
indifferent. Without Leif he could, at any rate, not go home. He could
not get Leif out of his mind.

Leif was in every way difficult and unaccountable. There was no use
denying it. As far back as Ingolf could remember at all, he had had
incredible difficulties with Leif. All the troubles he remembered to
have had, had been caused by him. Numberless times, Helga had been
obliged to appease greater or smaller quarrels between them. For Leif
was really impossible as a comrade. One never knew what to expect of
him, or what he might devise. There was no feeling secure in Leif's
society; he always brought, as it were, changes and adventures with
him. But such as he was, one could not do without him. In spite of his
difficult character he was such that one missed him as soon as he was
out of sight.

Ingolf noticed that his horse suddenly changed the direction in which
he was going. He did not take the trouble to check him. It was all the
same to him where he went, now that he no longer had Leif.

He had wound his cape twice round him, yet the cold penetrated it.
He felt frozen and shivered, but did not mind. It even had a certain
soothing effect on him to be so cold that his teeth chattered.
Immediately afterwards he had forgotten himself, and began thinking
again of Leif.

Hitherto he had always felt vexed that Leif was not like others. Now he
realized suddenly that, in spite of all, he did not want to have Leif
otherwise. Such as he was, he was just Leif, and his friend. On his
side the friendship was certainly not past. If he met Leif again, they
would become friends afresh. He knew that Leif was always ready for
reconciliation so soon as he had worked off his rage.

No, Leif was not like others. There was no doubt that he was a good and
skilful ski-runner. He was always inventing new tricks and difficult
feats. Wherever he found a rock or a hill he must attempt it. Not even
the steepest descents made him pause. The fact that he had one fall
after another, each worse than the preceding one, had no effect upon
him at all. Leif did not like learning by experience. And, strangely
enough, he had never had any serious accident. When Ingolf had once
reproached him for his mad foolhardiness, he had merely replied that he
trusted his luck blindly for so long as Fate had allotted it to him,
and not a step further! He was obviously not in the least interested as
to where the limit was set. One might be vexed at it, but it was not
of the slightest use. He had an incredible faculty for getting into
desperate situations, and after all saving his skin.

The cause probably was that he was not merely a little unreasonable. In
that case he would hardly have completed his twelve winters. He was, on
the contrary, so boundlessly unreasonable that it seemed as though the
reasonable penalties which always pursued Ingolf and all others never
exactly knew where to find Leif, and therefore could not strike him.

Ingolf could not explain it to himself in any other way. There was,
for example, the adventure with the bear. It was a year ago now, but
he was likely to remember it as long as he lived. They had heard
from the people in the farm that there was a bear's lair up on the
heath, a place about which they only knew that it would be found in
the neighbourhood of two hills which had been described to them. They
were continually thinking and talking about the bear's lair, and
could not get away from the subject. Both of them had a great desire
to see the place. But Ingolf's desire was of the quiet kind which is
compatible with patience. In his opinion there was no need to go and
scent out a bear's lair when one was grown big and could receive him
when he presented himself. Leif's desire, on the other hand, was
measureless and insatiable. "If you don't come, I will go alone," he
said. So Ingolf went with him. They set out from the place one morning
in late summer; they trudged far, found no hill nor bear's lair, but,
on the other hand, came across a slope covered with bilberries, the
like of which they had never seen. Immediately Ingolf was aware of a
high-pitched voice within, which shouted, "Bilberries! Bilberries!" And
that Leif must have heard a similar voice was easy to see. Crouching
to the earth they went and gathered bilberries with both hands, eating
the little bitter leaves along with them without hesitation, when they
found opposite them a bear who was also eating bilberries. For a moment
Ingolf remained standing, staring at a bear with a blue snout; then he
came to his senses and fled for all he was worth. Not till he had run
a long way did it occur to him that Leif was not with him, and that he
was not pursued. He stood still and looked round, prepared to see the
bear coming after him with Leif in his stomach and hungering for more
provender of a similar kind. What he did see was almost more terrible.
There on the bilberry-slope stood Leif and the bear confronting each
other. Ingolf stood thunderstruck. Why did not the bear eat Leif?
He did not understand it, did not see that there could be anything
else to wait for. As though rooted to the spot, he remained standing
and staring, and could not stir. It seemed to him as if several days
had passed when at last something happened--the bear sneaked off. He
could not trust his own eyes! Yes, the bear trudged away from the
bilberry-slope and left Leif alone with the berries. And Leif quite
quietly resumed his gathering of bilberries. Ingolf did not understand
it. He found the occurrence so unintelligible that he believed the
whole must be a dream. He was soon made aware of his mistake. In dreams
one is accustomed to glide comfortably through the air, but he had
just to climb back on his weary legs to Leif. When Ingolf got near
him, he stood and looked at him, and was astonished to see nothing
remarkable about him. And so he remained standing for a time. There
was something which needed explaining before he could go on with the
bilberry-picking. At last he asked: "Why didn't you run?"

"Do you think one can run from a bear?" Leif answered quite quietly and
as a matter of course. "What would be the use of that? No, I made him
think that I was not afraid of him. And at last I really was not any
more. So he got tired of standing and staring, and went his way." Such
was Leif, and such was his method with bears. Was it easy to understand
him? How could one get the mind with which to understand him? Ingolf
answered himself with a meditative, negative shake of the head. And the
adventure with the bear was by no means unique. He remembered another
incident of the same summer. He lived through it again in his need to
occupy himself with Leif, and yet at the same time forget that Leif at
that very moment might be hunted by wolves.

They had agreed together that it was time they learnt to swim.
Naturally it was just when no one had time to teach them. But that kind
of trifle had no decisive weight for Leif when he had got a fixed idea
in his head. One of Orn's servants, so he informed Ingolf, who was a
good swimmer, had shown him that he had only to move his arms and legs
in such and such a way and keep afloat. Leif straightway laid himself
across a piece of timber in the courtyard and showed Ingolf how to move
his arms and legs. Thus; and thus!--that was all! It did not seem very
difficult to Ingolf. But suppose one sank in spite of all? But Leif
was unwearied in his persuasions--oh, it was ever so easy. You simply
scooped up the water with your arms and kicked with your legs--that was
all. At last Leif made him lie on the piece of timber and taught him
the strokes. So! and so! Kick out strongly! Stretch your arms properly!
Now, I bet we swim like a pair of seals as soon as we get in the water.
Now let us go!

They went down to the Fjord. On the way he made Leif promise that
first they should not go farther than where they could touch the
bottom. Otherwise he said he would not go. Leif promised, and swore in
addition. As soon as they got near the shore, Leif had his clothes off
and stood naked and careless and stretched himself in the sun. Ingolf
stood and looked at the water, and was a good while unclasping his
belt. Leif jumped about and hurried him on, but at last would not wait
any more. As a matter of course, he had either forgotten his promise or
did not choose to keep it. Instead of wading out where he could reach
the bottom he ran out on a rock, flung his arms over his head, launched
away, and was off.

Ingolf, still with most of his clothes on, ran out on the rock with his
heart in his mouth. Down there lay Leif; the water had swallowed him.
He lay and worked his arms and legs. Now he approached the surface;
now his head bobbed up. But only for a moment. His arms and legs
moved very much as when he rode. But either he could not manage the
swimming-strokes or they were no use. In any case, the water would not
support him. He went to the bottom again.

Never had Ingolf been so frightened as when he stood there and saw Leif
in the water--never so helplessly anxious and despairing. He stood, and
could neither move hand nor foot. He felt paralysing terror like a dead
weight in his whole body. Then he suddenly began to shiver. At the same
moment all power of cool reflection deserted him and he forgot that he
was no better a swimmer than Leif. He must get out and help him. And he
was on the point of plunging from the rock with his clothes on when he
saw Leif come crawling up through the water.

Leif crawled up and got his head above the surface. He spat and snorted
and made grimaces. It did Ingolf good to see him. And he did not go
to the bottom again. Leif, the incredible, swam! Not with arms and
legs working on both sides as he had practised the motions. No, he
simply crawled through the water with a long stroke and did not sink.
It looked so ridiculous that Ingolf had to laugh aloud. No, Leif of
course could not be so easily drowned as others die naturally. Now he
felt the ground under his feet. He stood still, coughed, and spat up
water and shook himself so that the red locks flew about his head. He
laughed suddenly when he set eyes on Ingolf. "What, not yet out of your
clothes?" Quite calmly he waded to shore. And when he stood opposite
Ingolf, he said simply and unaffectedly, although he shivered over his
whole body: "I was nearly drowned that time! Who could guess that it
was so difficult? If I hadn't just happened to think, while I was down
there, how dogs swim, I should be lying there still!"

When at last he had finished spitting and shaking the water out of his
ears, he took the same header again as a matter of course.

Such was Leif. He could not break his neck, he could not drown, and
bears sneaked off when they met him. Could he, then, be lost in a wood
and frozen to death? Or would he extricate himself again as he alone
could? Ingolf thought it not quite impossible, and that was his only
hope and comfort.

It would be just like Leif to crash his way through a wood in which
anyone else would be lost, and to be first home. If only he were
already there, in bed and asleep!

Ingolf was aroused from his reveries by his horse suddenly coming to a
dead stop. He looked round him, and was not long in discovering that
he had reached home. The horse had stopped exactly opposite the door
of the stable. Stiff in all his limbs from the cold, he crawled down
and opened the door. His only thought was whether Leif's horse might
already be inside. He went from horse to horse, felt them, and noted
their distinguishing marks. He knocked against his own horse, which
had followed after him into the warmth with its saddle and bridle on.
He freed it from the bridle, but forgot the saddle, and went on. No,
Leif's horse was not in the stable.

That was only what he had expected. Nevertheless, he felt suddenly
paralysed with disappointment. Leif, then, had not reached home. Leif
was still somewhere without. At that very moment he was roaming about
lost either on the heath or in the wood. Leif's horse was not one of
those which could find its way home by itself.

Ah, Leif! Leif! He hoped that it was not already all over with him.
Ingolf seemed to see him in front of him lying on his back in a
snowdrift with arms and legs stretched out. The snow was drifting over
him and already nearly covering him. By the side of him stood his
horse, with its head hanging down. Ah, Leif! Leif!

Ingolf collected himself. He did not feel the cold any more, nor did he
notice how hunger was gnawing him. He shut the stable and went to the
courtyard. There was something feverish and yet resolute about all his
proceedings. He entered the outhouse where the ski were kept, and found
his own and Leif's. He opened the house-door a little and whistled
softly to his dog. The dog was wild with delight at seeing him again,
jumped about him, and licked his cold hands with his warm tongue, while
Ingolf, his fingers stiff with the frost, was buckling on his ski.
He had no time to take notice of it. As soon as he had buckled his
snow-shoes firmly on, he sped away from the house, the same way he had
come. Now he again paid attention to the direction of the wind and the
light of the moon.

Leif must be found--there was no question about that. He could not
return home alive without him.




IV


Leif had gone riding on till he reached the wood, his mind full of
wrath and defiance. There was not one reasonable thought in his brain;
he had only the instinct to ride on. The motion cooled his irritation.
It did him good to be out in this wild, chaotic expanse. There was
a sense of freedom in casting away the yoke of reason, a relief in
knowing that one was committed to something which had two sides and
might mean life or death.

He would show Ingolf that though he himself did not know any path
through the wood he was not afraid of riding there all the same. He
would show him that if he wished to go the straight road home he would
do so in spite of woods and other hindrances! He would show him that
there was a difference between a man and an old woman in breeches!

The snowstorm beat against him from the side, and he had to turn his
head so as not to have it directly in his ear, yet all the same he had
to ride with his eyes half shut. But he gave no heed to the weather.
A man who was intent on performing an exploit could not worry about
a trifle! Thus, filled with exulting presumption, he approached the
border of the wood and rode in among the whistling, crackling trees.
Here he had to slacken his pace, and, as he did, it struck him all at
once that there was a fair chance of his losing himself in the wood and
never getting out again. But nothing could stop Leif when he had got
up the speed for a piece of folly. Besides, it was part of his reason
for not giving up his project that he was convinced that the worst turn
he could do Ingolf was to ride through the wood. If he won through it,
Ingolf would be mortified; if he got lost, Ingolf would be grieved.
And Ingolf, sulky beast, deserved no mercy. How thoroughly he would
look down on him if he happened to get home first! And if not, he knew
well that Ingolf would not have a quiet hour till he saw him again. And
serve him right.

Here in the outskirts of the wood Leif made such good progress that he
already felt sure of getting home first. At the same time, he found
room in his heart and mind for a certain anxiety regarding Ingolf. He
hoped he would not be lost upon the heath where he had nothing to guide
him.

Now that his fantastic assurance for himself had left room for anxiety
for Ingolf, his wrath suddenly vanished. Should he not ride after
Ingolf, try to overtake him, and convince him how much better it was to
ride through the wood? But then Ingolf would only believe that he had
turned round because he did not dare to ride through the wood alone,
which was just what he was going to show him he could do.

His arms and legs came again into action. But the deeper Leif
penetrated into the wood, the harder it became to make progress. The
going was not so good here. The horse went on at an irregular pace.
Leif had continually to turn because of low branches and fallen trunks.
He had to go slowly and gradually, step by step.

Besides, it was not very comfortable here in the dense parts of the
wood. Leif did not venture to startle his horse by shouting, though he
was not really afraid. But all the sounds which he could not account
for made him silent and alert. On all sides there was an uninterrupted
whistling, creaking, and groaning. Snow fell from the branches with
a thump. Hasty flappings of wings, which sent a chill through him,
penetrated through all other sounds, producing a foreboding sense of
vacuity and gloom. Besides, it was darker here than was pleasant. He
could hardly discern the nearest tree-trunks. He wished he were out on
the heath again and in Ingolf's company. What had he wanted to go to
the wood for?

Leif was not long in losing himself so completely that he thought it
just as well to give up altogether aiming at any particular direction,
and go on at haphazard. He felt it really a relief to be free from the
trouble. The chief thing now was to sit on his horse and keep warm,
which was beginning to be a difficulty.

But now Leif was in high spirits and proof against blows. He had
prepared his mind for troubles and schooled himself to confront Fate.
He had cast all responsibility from him far into space! Let any one who
chose undertake it! He was riding here--that was all. Could his horse
get on? Let happen what would!

He did not doubt for a moment that the matter would finally turn out
well for him. He would get clear. _How_, he did not guess, neither did
he trouble himself about it. He had reasonably or unreasonably come
to the conclusion that he might just as well stop interfering. Yes,
he would not venture to interfere. Suppose he turned off to the left
now, and by doing so lost the right direction? No, he would not touch
the bridle, but simply trust to luck. If he must pay the price for his
rashness, he might just as well do it with the same coin. And if he got
home in that way, the account would be settled.

Thus he rode for a long time, but not so long as he thought. He was
checked in his progress, and therefore the time seemed more than
doubled. He thought he got on faster than he actually did. At last he
sat half asleep upon his horse, which he kept going by half-mechanical
movements of his arms and legs. The horse went slower and slower. It
had lost heart, and would rather have stood still, hung its head,
turned its back to the storm, and let time and destiny roll over it.
Leif did not agree with the horse in the matter. He himself sat there
and let come what would. But something must be kept going, or there
would be a complete full-stop. So the horse must continue.

But that was so contrary to the horse's will that Leif at last had to
shake off his drowsiness in order to keep the animal going. And, in
spite of all, it only went step by step.

Leif was working again with his whole body. Nevertheless, he felt how
the cold was tightening its clutch on his limbs and already threatening
his stomach and chest. Leif was no fool. He clearly perceived that
his life was in danger. In full consciousness he took up the struggle
against weariness, which by its temptation to drowsiness sought to
surprise him with sleep, that would be fatal in the frost.

Leif rallied himself with a firm resolve. That was not at all to his
mind. He did not in the least intend to give up. Twelve years could not
satisfy a hunger for life like his. He had much to do in the world. He
was, for one thing, a good way yet from becoming a Viking and marrying
Helga. Would the forest never come to an end?

At last it did. Leif went on riding and riding. And what did he see?
Tracks of a horse which had been going through the snow. So he had then
been riding in a circle. And where was he? That the wood only knew.

But now he would follow the tracks in the direction he had come from to
see if he could break the circle and, if possible, find his way out of
the wood.

Now it seemed to him the chief thing to find his way out, no matter
where. That was for the present object enough. He resolutely avoided
looking further in his thoughts. Unconsciously he armed himself against
the tendency of thought to weaken the mind. He would not have his
strength paralysed by too much reasoning. His business was simply to
ride on and fight against the cold.

He had lost the track again. The horse became more and more unwilling
to proceed. It only went on because it must.

Suddenly and unexpectedly he noticed that he was out of the wood. He
saw no more tree-trunks. Here there were only whirling clouds of snow
around him. His only resource was to go on. He kept riding to see
whether he would not come across trees farther on. No, there were no
more trees. And what was he to do now?

On which side of the wood was he? He rallied his reasoning power and
reflected. Yes, he must be on the same side by which he had entered.
The wind was due north--the direction he came from--there then was
the north. So he had been very sagacious as far as _looking_ went. He
should only have been sharp enough to see when the wood ended, then
he would have had the edge of the wood to guide himself by. Should he
turn round and try to find the wood again? No, no, he might get among
the trees. And he had lost all desire to ride to the wood. The horse
had availed itself of Leif's reflections to come to a stop. Without
Leif having noticed it, it had turned its back to the storm, and simply
stood still with its head drooping.

Leif sought to rouse it up and set it in motion again. Here there was
no use in remaining at a standstill. But the horse had formed its own
opinion of the whole expedition. It stood immovable, and intended to
remain so. Leif expended much energy on its back, tugged at the reins,
struck it with his whip-handle, since lashing seemed of no avail, but
it was useless. The horse had had enough and more than enough. It
stood, and intended to remain standing for an indefinite time. Leif
jumped down and looked with astonishment in its eyes. What was the
matter with the beast? Had it suddenly got fancies in its head? He
pulled at the bridle, tried to tug the horse to one side, and made his
whip whistle over it. The horse sighed a little at such a cruel and
senseless proceeding. But it had once for all made up its mind to stay
where it was. At that moment there was nothing that would make it budge
an inch from the spot.

Leif looked helplessly around him. He could not understand the horse's
sudden predilection for precisely _that_ spot of ground. Was there
perhaps something to guide them? Completely exhausted it could not be,
as there was still so much refractoriness in it.

So he tried to treat it kindly. He talked gently to it, patted it, and
scratched it behind the ears. He overwhelmed it with flattery, and sang
to it in a high-pitched voice. Then he clambered with some trouble on
its back again, and hoped that it had now changed its mind. But it
had not done so by any means. Leif began to get angry, but he patted
its neck and kept a friendly tone. Since this still proved useless he
uttered a wild howl with all his might, and threw his arms, legs, and
whole body into motion. At last he was nearly crying with vexation.
Then he tried it again with friendliness and kind words, but it was all
of no avail.

So he gave it up. The horse evidently _would_ not go farther. And since
he could neither compel nor persuade it, there was nothing to be done
with the creature.

He slipped from its back and tried to review the situation. On nearer
inspection it seemed to be just as threatening and impenetrable as
the snow-clouds round him. As he stood there the wind lashed his face
and pierced icily cold through his clothes. He perceived clearly the
danger of the situation. If the cold and his weariness made him yield a
little, it was all over with him.

It was no use to let the horse stand and go on with his own strength.
The energies he had still in reserve were in no reasonable proportion
to the storm and the length of the way. It was only a _little_ strength
and endurance which he had remaining. But it was that little which was
to rescue him. He kept his hands tightly clenched together as if it
were a matter of extracting some device by purely physical pressure
from his oozing energies. He intensified his thoughts till he seemed to
hear them beating in his skull. But it was as though all possibilities
had conspired against him and forsaken him.

He stood and set his back against the wind, and sought to combat a
creeping foreboding that there was no way of escape. He knew that once
he gave up it was all over with him. So long as he could keep erect and
resolute there was still hope.

His thoughts forsook the beaten paths and travelled in the labyrinths
of imagination, seeking a last possibility. A picture came up in his
memory. He remembered a Yuletide sacrificial feast at home ... the
penetrating odour of blood and entrails ... the warm, gaping hollow of
an ox's body emptied of its viscera. Before he had yet time to connect
thought with action, his knife was out. He took the bridle off the
horse, with feverish fingers sought a certain spot in its neck, waited
a moment while he overcame his repugnance, and then made a thrust. With
a groan the horse collapsed on its knees. Leif rolled it over on one
side, and so it remained, lying with stiff, struggling legs, now and
then shaken by a faint shudder. Leif made a cut in its neck, so that he
could, when possible, extract the windpipe and gullet. A warm stream
of blood spouted straight into his eyes and blinded him till he had
again rubbed them clean. And now the intoxication of blood overcame
him. He had the scent of it in his nostrils and the taste of it on his
tongue. With a single long cut from the fore to the hinder-part he
slit open its stomach. The warm, smoking entrails bulged out of the
streaming gash. Leif snatched them out with his hands, but had to stop,
because the heat nearly scalded him--shook his hands like a cat its
paws--and set to work again. In a very short time he had cleared the
animal's stomach of all the entrails, with a round cut of his knife
he loosened the diaphragm, extracted the lungs with the grey windpipe
adhering to them from the breast, and threw them away. Then at last,
with trembling fingers, he sheathed his knife, heaved a long sigh, and
crawled head-first into the horse's empty stomach. He coiled himself
together like an animal, audibly growling with the sense of comfort and
the prospect of secure rest. But however he turned and twisted himself,
he could not find room for his legs. So he crawled rather crossly out
again, stripped off his cloak, wound it several times round his feet
and legs above his knees, to preserve them from being frostbitten,
and crept in again. He enjoyed the delightful warmth inside. Now it
would do him real good to have his rest out and sleep. With a light and
untroubled heart he lay down comfortably. Sleep--sleep. When he awoke
again, the snowstorm would doubtless be over. He chuckled inwardly;
he would simply stay here till it was quite finished! If it still
lasted long he could easily live on frozen horse-flesh. He had still
a conviction that he would not die that day. Nonsense! Here he lay,
and liked it. The future seemed bright and cheerful to his inner eye.
He wondered whether Ingolf would be home by now? In his fulness of
satisfaction and quiet he allowed himself to hope so. A little after he
was sleeping a sound, untroubled sleep.




V


Ingolf bore towards the west. He had the wind on his right side, a
little against him. He had to climb rising ground, although not very
steep. He only made slow progress. But he felt his strength and how
his body was, as it were, braced together in one strain. And it was
as though this consciousness of his own strength continually produced
new strength again. He was so absolutely determined to hold out till
he found Leif or fell dead that there was not the slightest breach
in his will, where doubt and fatigue might insinuate their poisonous
disintegrating vapours.

For the present, his object was only to go round the wood to the other
side and see whether he could not find Leif's tracks and the place
where he had entered the wood. If he could find Leif's, or rather the
horse's, tracks, his dog would be a considerable help in following
them. And if _he_ could not find them, it was not impossible that the
dog might. Such was Ingolf's plan.

Now and then he looked at the dog faithfully plodding after him. When
it ran along unnoticed, it dropped its tail discontentedly. It did not
see any object in such an expedition in this weather, and could not
possibly approve of it at first. But as soon as Ingolf spoke kindly
to it, or it only noticed that it was observed, it cocked its tail
and sprang forward at his side, gladly barking, and talked to him in
dog-language.

They went steadily forward, although their progress was slow. To his
joy, Ingolf noticed that the wind was abating. The snow-clouds were
gradually dividing, and the moon's pale disc shone against a background
of blue. Around him spread a white expanse, abruptly broken by the
dark line of the edge of the wood a little to the right. There was
no longer an upward incline; he sped along easily and softly on his
ski, and looked about him. The snow-clouds as they departed opened an
ever-widening horizon to his view. He must clearly ascertain where he
was. Now he knew the place and could do that correctly for himself.
Yes, he was up on the heath, and had only to turn to the right and
follow the line of the wood. His snow-shoes glided easily upon the
smooth, even surface of the snow. With each step he increased his
speed. For now a mental tension took hold of him, and filled him with
restlessness. He called to his dog, roused it up, and urged it on with
short, explanatory shouts. He made it understand that he was seeking
something, and counted on its help. Suddenly the dog was awake in every
nerve. Now he could understand his master and feel with him. Eagerly he
ran on ahead, nosing at the snow. Hither and thither he ran, in larger
and smaller curves. Now and then Ingolf seemed to perceive in it an
impulse to stand still. But it never came completely to a stop, only
making a half pause. The dog was so engrossed in its mission of finding
something, though it knew not what, that it completely forgot its tail,
and let it hang obliquely down behind, completing the impression of
self-forgetting absorption.

It was as though Ingolf's mental tension had transferred itself to the
animal, which continually increased its speed. Ingolf had difficulty in
keeping up, although he sped as though for his life, so that the sweat
poured in streams down over his face and dropped from his eyebrows and
chin.

Thus they sped on for a long time. Ingolf knew well that he must
husband his strength. But it seemed as though the part of his
excitement which had communicated itself to the dog had returned to him
with double strength. He completely forgot to economize his forces. He
put them all forth, well knowing that by doing so he imperilled the
success of his quest. He simply could not do otherwise. The one thing
was to hold out and follow the dog. He dared not keep it back. "On!" he
said to himself. "As long as you can keep your head up."

Suddenly the dog stopped and began running round and round. Ingolf was
a good way behind him. He hurried on as quickly as possible, and gave
close attention to the animal, which now stood and sniffed for a time.
Then it ran a little way in the direction of the wood. Oho! Here it
was, then! But what now? The dog stood still, sniffed, and ran some way
back. Then it paused again. What was the matter?

And see! Now it lifted its head, stood and sniffed now towards the
wood, now in the opposite direction, with a slight, hasty jerk of its
body. Its tail was lifted too, and stood straight out.

Now Ingolf felt certain. This was where he should enter the wood. Now
there remained nothing necessary but to take off his ski and to walk.

But before he had quite got up to the dog, the latter had already
started again--away from the wood. Ingolf shouted to it. It must be
mistaken. It stood still as it was ordered, but did not come back.
It remained standing, waiting for further directions. Ingolf called
it again, but it remained standing as before. And now Ingolf heard
it utter a low whine. What did it want? Ingolf shouted encouragingly
to it and immediately it started off again. Ingolf followed, without
yet leaving the edge of the wood. He thought the dog was still on the
track, and only following it in the wrong direction. It would soon
perceive its mistake and turn round.

But it was far from turning round. On the contrary, it came to a stop
and remained standing by a slight elevation in the snow. There it
paused and ran about, nosing here and there eagerly. It was easy to see
that it had found something of great importance.

Ingolf came to a stop. He had to rally all his will power in order not
to collapse.

He could not stir from the spot. Was Leif lying there? Had a tragedy
happened after all? The gods he had braved had at last taken vengeance
on Leif for his insolence and mockery. Ingolf felt himself struck in a
vital nerve. For how could he live after that?

As he stood there it occurred to him suddenly that here his race came
to an end. Leif was dear. Only he and Helga were left. He with a stain
upon his honour--in a fit of temper he had let Leif ride unhindered
away from him to meet obvious death--a stain he could only wash away
in one way--by giving himself a sacrifice to Odin. And Helga ... yes,
Helga would not survive that. So here the race would cease. All his
dreams, all his purposes blown away like chaff before the wind.

Suddenly Ingolf heard the dog close by him. It stood in front of him,
with its snout lifted and its ears laid back, whining up at him.
At first he looked down without seeing it and without giving heed
to its supplicating look; then suddenly he woke to attention. The
dog certainly did not look sorrowful. It looked rather as if it had
something special, and to a certain degree joyful, to announce. And its
whining also seemed to signify the same.

In Ingolf's mind there dawned a spark of hope. He set his ski in motion
and followed the dog.

But the nearer he came to the white mound, by which his dog already
stood, looking back beseechingly and whining softly--the slower he
moved. Suddenly he stood still as though struck. What was it? What
sort of a sound was that? He stood still awhile and collected himself
to listen. But his own blood's throbbing made it hard for him to
interpret the sound he heard. Suddenly the sound grew louder, till here
was no mistaking it. It was the heavy snoring of one dead tired.

Here was Leif, then, calmly asleep. He was not too dead to lie there
snoring, so that it could be heard a long way off.

In an instant Ingolf was there; he threw off his ski and began to
excavate the snow with his bare hands. Leif in the horse's stomach was
so covered with snow that no one could guess what this mound in the
landscape really contained.

Ingolf took hold of a corner of the cloak and pulled. Leif did not
follow it, as he had expected. The cloak came up empty, and only
exposed Leif's legs to view. Leif was not interested in what was going
on--he continued to lie there and snore. So Ingolf began to pull Leif's
leg with all his might, and at last dragged him out. A hasty look in
the hole showed him the ripped-up stomach of a horse. Leif opened a
pair of sleep-drunken and astonished eyes, rose with a bound, looked
closely at Ingolf and at the dog, gave a glance into the hole he had
been hauled out from, shook off his stiffness, yawned, and began to
rub his eyes, as though he wished to look more closely into the matter
before he believed it.

Ingolf stood and stared at him without uttering a word. Leif looked
dirty and bloody, but it was certainly not his own blood. He did not
seem to have lost anything, and was at any rate alive. And how like
Leif that was. He had at last rubbed his eyes well and was awake. For
a moment he sat with his eyes wide open and looked at Ingolf.

"Well, you have been home," he blurted out in a voice that was hoarse
and still a little sleepy. "Brought anything to eat?"

Then Ingolf sat down and laughed--laughed so that he had to hold
his stomach with both hands--laughed so that at last he had to fall
backwards, and rolled on one side. Leif looked at him, but his mental
faculties were still a little benumbed by sleep. Then he, too, began
to chuckle inwardly. When, a little while after, they had put on their
ski, and were on the point of starting homeward, Leif stopped suddenly,
and reflected. Then he looked Ingolf in the eyes and reached out his
hand. He did not utter a word, but pressed his hand and looked straight
in his eyes again. There was a slight quiver about his large mouth.

Then quickly they loosed each other's hands. And they started off
home at full speed. They were as though born again, and did not feel
weariness, cold, or hunger. By their side raced Ingolf's dog, his warm,
bright red tongue hanging far out and his tail cheerfully erect.

So they sped along the way by the wood. Down the slopes above the house
they went at a pelting pace. When at last they were at home in the
courtyard, and had stowed away their ski in the outhouse, the dawn was
beginning to break. No one was up yet. Noiselessly they crept to their
beds. They did not feel bold enough to meet any one this morning. The
best thing was to take refuge in sleep from all explanations.




VI


Helga, though she had only lived for twelve winters, knew already a
good deal of life. She knew what it was to be anxious for one whom she
loved. Long before she was conscious of her love for Leif, she suffered
all a lover's anxiety. Leif took her thoughts with him wherever he went
and travelled. And she could never feel secure about him. She could, on
the other hand, be sure that if she had not seen him for the space of a
day, not to speak of the occasions when he was absent many days, that
during that interval he had been once, or probably many times, near the
border of the next world, and that it was at any rate only due to the
incredible luck which always followed him that he came home with whole
limbs.

She knew, in fact, the long days and still longer nights of waiting and
anxiety. She knew what it was to lie awake most of the night and see
terrible sights. She turned restlessly on her bed, and neither dared to
close her eyes nor to stare into the darkness, because everywhere she
encountered the figure of him she loved, either dead or dying. She had
learnt to prize two things which a woman, who must generally miss and
be anxious for him she loves, cannot live without--dreaming and work.
She knew how small occupations shorten the day, and the relief won by
showing love to animals, being kind to them, and lavishing kind words
upon them, and she experienced the joy it gives to be loved by dumb
creatures. It was known to her, also, how the way is made easy to the
land of dreams, where the hours fly quickly, by busying one's hands
with needle and thread. When she sat making something ornamental for
herself or small gifts for him, there were moments when she seemed to
triumph over distance, and felt her friend so near that she suddenly
let her hands sink, looked up, and was quite surprised that he was
not standing behind her. Was it because she did not look up quickly
enough? Just before, he _had_ been standing there! Helga, with her
twelve short winters, knew also happiness. There was the happiness of
seeing Leif come home radiant, and hearing his dear, glad voice tell
of great adventures. Leif always came across great adventures, so that
his tongue nearly ran away with him. There was the joy of noticing that
his eye always sought her first, and really only her. It was a joy that
he never found rest when near her, except at her side, and that he
could only be quiet and lose himself in dreams when she held his hand.
It was a joy finally to see him forget everything, even herself, when
he had some purpose in his head, or was bent upon going to some other
place. Even the pain at seeing herself thus forgotten was mingled with
the deepest feelings of joy. For that was just Leif's way. He came so
near her by leaving her. She loved him exactly as he was, regardless of
limits and without consideration. Because he was one of those whom no
bond holds, it was such a happy thing to know that he was hers, when he
only remembered it--hers and no one else's.

And, besides, she knew that she could not cease to love him. She was
so completely convinced that though in knightly bravery and unbounded
courage he might, perhaps, have an equal, he could not have a
superior. It was impossible for her to cease loving him.

Yes, Helga knew happiness. She knew what it was to love, and to feel
herself beloved. She knew by experience how absence deepens and
intensifies affection. She felt how her latent longing slowly grew,
and was prepared to burst all bonds. She possessed in full measure
woman's pure and unbounded devotion. Matured early as she was, Helga
often reflected on the relation between Leif and her brother, Ingolf,
which caused her distress. She was fond of her brother. Ingolf, though
fundamentally different from Leif, was such that if she once had to
leave him in order to follow Leif, she would not make Leif so complete
and happy as she ungrudgingly wished him to be. Therefore the great
difference in their characters caused her perpetual anxiety--an anxiety
which flamed up anew whenever Leif and Ingolf became angry with each
other, or even a little at variance. In her heart she accused them
alternately--Ingolf, when his phlegmatic character irritated Leif; and
Leif, when, by his hastiness and teasing, he provoked Ingolf. Neither
Leif nor Ingolf had any suspicion of Helga's deep distress each time
a trivial misunderstanding divided them for a short time. For Helga
concealed her anxiety, and fought her battle in silence.

She was always on the watch for the fluctuations in their temperaments.
She could always perceive when they had been at variance, even when
they had been reconciled and had forgotten what had occurred, before
they met her. When anything concerned them, she was as sensitive as a
feather in the wind. And she did not cease till she had examined the
cause of their disagreement to the minutest detail, and cleared away
the remnants of ill-humour which might still remain in one or both of
their minds. They felt sometimes that it was a little tiresome, being
called to account in this way. But they reconciled themselves to it,
because both were so fond of her, and because she was wise, quiet, and
impartial. They did not guess at all that she fought for her future
happiness with a heart torn by anxiety, that her calm had been won by a
severe struggle, that her seeming cool, wise impartiality was a screen
behind which she concealed herself.

Helga was the only one who, to a certain extent, discovered the real
circumstances connected with their journey over the heath. She was also
the only one who discovered that they had separated, and separated in
anger. Finally, she was the only one who obtained a truthful account of
the slaughter of the horse.

Originally it was by no means their intention that she should find out
anything of the matter. When Ingolf and Leif had slept uninterruptedly
for twenty-four hours after their return from Gaulum, they woke the
second night, towards morning, hungry and depressed, and began to
examine the situation. They hastily agreed only to say that they had
ridden over the heath, and up there had been obliged to kill their only
horse, and for the rest to maintain an obstinate silence. If Orn and
Rodmar were in the mood to punish them, they must submit; and, for the
rest, ride out the storm as well as they could.

They had soon discovered that Orn and Rodmar had more important things
to think about. It was enough for them that the boys had returned home
safe and sound. They told them, seriously, that it was not the custom
of a man of honour to break a promise once given, and that, since they
had done that, they could not yet be accounted men. That hurt their
feelings rather, but had to be borne. Ingolf and Leif discovered once
more that one escapes most cheaply when one has been most anxious. So
lightly did their fathers deal with them.

With Helga it was another matter. She held on, and held on. For
many days they fought manfully; they did not want to make her their
confidante in the matter. But she was not to be shaken off. And at last
there came the moment when their tongues were altogether loosed, and
she got a full account, down to the minutest details.

It happened in the following way. Their plan of defence had been to
take care that neither should be alone with her. For many days it had
been impossible for her to find them in a remote spot; not once had she
succeeded in getting one of them alone. When she saw that it was not
a fair fight, she had recourse to stratagem. She kept silence for a
few days, and they immediately became less vigilant. Then she brought
out some wild apples which she had kept since the preceding summer.
She made them believe that she had seen her chance to snatch them. The
apples smelt delicious. Leif and Ingolf were immediately willing to
share the supposed stolen goods with her. So she succeeded in luring
them into her ambush--an outhouse where they could eat them quietly.
She let them bolt the door carefully, so that they should not run the
risk of being surprised. She took her seat on the edge of a sledge, and
let the boys sit, one on each side of her. And then she spoke in a way
to cut off all evasions, and made it impossible for them to be silent
any longer. Too late they discovered that they had been caught in a
trap.

Embarrassed and unhappy, they began their confession. With red faces
and downcast eyes, they related brokenly and alternately what had
happened between them on the heath in the evening and the night. Each
of them accused himself and excused the other. But Helga, who listened
with more than her ears only, became quite clear in her mind regarding
what had happened.

Quite still she sat with bowed head, and let them tell their narrative.
When they had finished and were silent, she still remained still,
without moving or speaking a word. At last her silence seemed so
strange to Leif that he lifted his head and looked at her in alarm.
And what he saw increased his fear. She sat there by his side with
her face white and, as it were, sunk in. Her eyes stared straight
before her, her mouth was firmly closed, and tears trickled from her
despairing eyes and ran down over her pale face. Leif felt an icy chill
run through his whole body which made him shudder. This drew Ingolf's
attention, and he also looked up. He had never seen his sister look
like that; immediately he seized one of her hands. It was ice-cold, and
remained passive in his.

Tears came to Leif's eyes, and he sat there inwardly helpless. It was
not possible for him to bring out a word. He found nothing to say, and
simply dared not open his mouth, for he was on the point of weeping.

Ingolf was the first to speak. He pressed his sister's limp hand, shook
her arm cheerfully, and said: "You must not be so sad about that,
Helga. We have forgotten it now. And each of us has certainly vowed in
his heart that it shall never happen again."

Helga opened her mouth to answer him, but her tongue would not obey
her. She had to struggle hard to control her emotion. When she had
waited a little, she at last began to speak. "That is just it," she
said, with a broken voice. "It always gets worse and worse with
you--always more dangerous. When you are grown, you will not so easily
get over it, nor so easily be reconciled afterwards. Perhaps you will
even fight each other. Perhaps some day one of you will kill the other.
If things go on like this, there will at last be hatred between you.
And what shall I do?"

Ingolf and Leif sat and felt very uncomfortable. Both saw for once the
relation between them with her eyes. She was right. Things were growing
continually worse. It was no use to shut their eyes to the danger. The
next time they fell out, it might be under such circumstances as would
not admit of their being reconciled again. They had not been far from
that this last time.

Ingolf was the first who found firm ground in his thoughts. A secret
purpose was suddenly quickened in him. Hurriedly he rose and reached
out his hand to Leif. "Leif, will you be my sworn brother?" he asked
quietly, and there was in his voice and bearing that adult composure
which made him at times seem older than he was.

Leif sprang up and took his hand. He could not bring out a word, but
gripped hard. Helga remained sitting and looked from one to the other.
Then she rose slowly, laid her hands over theirs, and gave each of them
a kiss. "Now you are both my brothers," she said, and looked at the
same time at Leif. Her look made Leif understand that he was more than
a brother. He turned red, and smiled in an embarrassed way. He had the
habit of blushing easily. His embarrassed smile was very charming.

They had forgotten the apples. Now they were produced, and helped
them over the slight embarrassment which followed on their extreme
seriousness. Gradually Leif and Helga talked fluently. Ingolf, on
the other hand, did not say much. He sat and took a secret oath that
henceforth he would be a man, and no overhastiness of temper should
master him. Nothing should by any means divide him from Leif or Helga.
Now he and Leif were actually brothers, and Leif and Helga would hold
by each other, he knew. Seldom had he felt so happy as at this moment.
Quite unconsciously he sat and enjoyed his sense of strength and quiet.
He continued so to sit till Helga roused him with a question. Thus they
talked easily and enjoyed being together. When they separated, they had
agreed that the solemn ceremony of initiation into blood-brotherhood
should take place in the spring at the great festival which was to be
held at the chief temple at Gaulum.




VII


Orn and Rodmar were able to make the winter pass. They sat most days
and every evening on the high-seat, drank beer, and enjoyed each
other's society.

From the north came rumours of disturbance. There was still peace and
no danger in Dalsfjord and its neighbourhood. But it was best to be
prepared for everything.

Now that Halvdan the Black was dead, and his son, Harald, made King,
though but ten years old, there were several kings and chiefs who
suddenly conceived a desire for the kingdom which Halvdan the Black had
established. It was rumoured that Harald and his uncle, Guttorm, who
was to be regent during the two years remaining of Harald's minority,
had already gone out to meet the disturbers of peace.

When Orn and Rodmar heard of it, they remembered the exploits of their
youth. The latter had not lost anything by being related through many
years. Listeners obtained the impression that Orn and Rodmar had been
present at the most important events of the world, and decided their
issue. And it was not only men whom they had encountered. They had met
evil and hidden powers in manifold forms. And here they sat after all.

Orn and Rodmar were reasonable men, who spoke in moderation. When one
had spoken, he gladly let the other have his turn. And while the one
who was silent played the part of an attentive hearer, his look became
absent, he thought of fresh exploits, brought them forth, and arranged
them in his mind. Then when the other at last was silent he was fully
prepared. But first he nodded courteously and said, "Yes! Yes!" very
thoughtfully, and still kept silence for a moment to show that he had
been following. Then all at once he became an active narrator. "But now
here!"

The servants in the hall were amused, but not in any unbecoming way.
They winked at each other when the old men did not see it. They did not
grudge the old men their reminiscences, and partly believed them. But
they were amused.

And Orn and Rodmar showed a startling faculty at their age in
discovering how to outdo each other's tales.

When they had bragged their best, they went to the temple and offered
their fattest animals to the gods, feasted in their honour, and gave
them gifts. They did not feel quite sure whether the gods allowed so
much pride. And one should not offend the gods, but keep on good terms
with them.

Thus the days passed for Orn and Rodmar. They grew old, sitting in the
high-seat and drinking beer. They drank much beer.




VIII


One morning, shortly after Ingolf had offered Leif blood-brotherhood,
they went to their fathers to tell them, and ask their permission for
the ceremony to take place at the feast at Gaulum the first day of
summer.

Leif found his father in bed. When he had spoken, Rodmar praised his
luck in strong language, added that he had always had better fortune
than he deserved, further remarked that on the rare occasions that he
caused his father joy it was always without any merit of his own, and
bade him go his way and leave him, Rodmar, to his beer.

Orn was sitting in the high-seat, slaking his morning thirst, when
Ingolf came before him and asked permission to speak. Orn granted it
with a nod of his white-haired head. The slightly absent look did not
disappear from his face; he listened without moving to what his son had
to say. When Ingolf had spoken, Orn remained sitting silent. Ingolf
was not sure whether he had heard what he had said or not. It was easy
to see that he sat in deep reflection. Ingolf remained standing for a
time, waiting for an answer. When he saw that it was in vain, and that
his father had probably forgotten that he stood there, he silently
departed.

Orn did not touch his drinking-horn again that day. He busied himself
with his thoughts, and was taciturn. Long before his usual time he
sought his couch. Early next morning he summoned Ingolf curtly and bade
him follow him. He led him to an outhouse where the tools of the house
were kept, and bolted the door carefully. Then he took his seat on a
chopping-block in the middle of the floor and sat silent. Ingolf stood
before him, awaiting what he had to say, and carefully restraining his
impatience.

"Sit down," said Orn at last thoughtfully.

Ingolf sat down on some lumber which had been piled up against the
main wall. So they remained sitting a considerable time. Orn was long
in commencing. "You have told me," he began at last, speaking very
slowly and, with constant pauses, "that you intend to enter into
blood-brotherhood with your cousin, Leif. I must presume that you
are acquainted with duties of blood-brotherhood, and have carefully
considered the matter, and also that you have not let yourself be
surprised into talking rash vows, or have followed your feelings alone
without consulting your understanding. I will not disguise from you
that I could have wished a better brother for you in this. And I leave
it to your discretion whether the circle of your brotherhood should not
be extended so as also to include Atle Jarl's sons. On many grounds I
have been led to understand that these young men, especially Haasten,
would not be unwilling to exchange the bond of friendship for that of
brotherhood. It needs but a word on your part, perhaps only a hint. My
opinion is that you would stand stronger alone than with Leif as your
sworn brother. You ought to be intelligent enough yourself to perceive
that. But the three would balance Leif, and more than that. You would
stand stronger afterwards, especially if another tie subsequently
should unite us to Atle's sons, which I do not regard as impossible.
For the rest, Leif is certainly our kinsman. We should therefore look
after him, and perhaps he is best bound in that way. I do not wish to
say more about the matter."

Orn was silent for a long time. Presently he resumed. "I feel I am
growing old. The days depart and do not return to me. They seem, as it
were, to go a very little way, and there is nothing to hold fast to in
them; they slip through my hands."

He coughed, reflected, and began again. "Therefore I have considered
that perhaps it would be best if I were to make over to you our
property to manage. It will be good for you to be early accustomed to
command people and to bear responsibility. And you are certainly a
child no longer. I will therefore gladly see, before I die, how you
prosper when you manage by yourself. For the rest, I leave matters
without anxiety to you, and I shall be at hand, and can be useful.
I will also advise Rodmar to do the same for Leif. Your task will
certainly be increased by that, for you will have to look after your
kinsman, at any rate at first. But since you wish to enter into
brotherhood with him, you must bear the consequences. There is no
more to be said about it at present. We must have time to prepare the
matter, and can return to it later. There was also another thing I
wished to speak to you about today."

Orn was silent and reflected. Then he commenced again hesitatingly,
not without a certain embarrassment. "I often heard in her time your
mother speaking with you. It is now long since, and you were little at
the time. Probably you have forgotten some of what she said. But I have
noticed that you have remembered part of it--perhaps you remember every
word. I have never spoken to you of your mother. You have never given
occasion for it, and one should not talk too much. When one talks too
much, words easily become mere wind. Therefore I have never hitherto
spoken with you about something, of which, however, I wish to speak
with you--not because I believe it necessary--perhaps you are already
as clear on the matter as myself--but because I want you to remember
that I have spoken to you. The fact that I cannot well postpone it has
also determined me to speak now.

"You know that Odin and Thor are especially my gods. They have been the
gods of our family as far back as tradition goes, and I want you, like
your forefathers, to hold them especially in honour. If you do that, it
will go well with you. For wisdom and strength are the two things a man
must have. If he has them, he has honour too, in Valhalla as well as
here upon earth. Goods and gold, power over men, and great possessions
are good things, which you should strive to acquire, and hold fast when
you have them. But all those things can, in case of need, be dispensed
with. Honour is the one indispensable thing, because, after all, it is
the only thing that uplifts a man, and the only thing that survives
him on earth, when he is dead and done with. And because honour can
be lost during a man's lifetime, a dead man with honour preserved is
happier than the man who is still alive, and whose honour is exposed
to peril. It is not necessary to impress upon you anything else than
that; when your honour is concerned, you must be prepared to stake
your life. The memory of a man outlives him. And honour casts a glory
over a man's memory, just as dishonour casts a shadow. No man in our
family has a shadow on his memory. This is the most important thing
which I wish to say to you. But if you have the patience to hear me, I
have something more to say. And that is this. You shall respect your
land's law and justice, for as long as you have not renounced its law,
you are bound by it, and dishonour yourself by breaking it. You shall
not stir up unnecessary quarrels, but avoid disunion and strife, as
long as your honour is not injured. Peace in the land produces fruitful
fields. But if you have a lawful vengeance to inflict, do so with a
heavy hand, as behoves one born to such a place as yours. But be always
ready for reconciliation when it is offered sincerely. An honourable
reconciliation is preferable to a victory which may carry in it the
seed of future defeat.

"And never break a treaty, for only a wretch ignores his vows, only a
traitor breaks his word. A brave man is prepared to support his least
word with his life, thereby the high-born are recognized. The churl, on
the other hand, regards his word as nothing more than the breath of his
mouth. His tongue shall be eaten of snakes, and his evil memory will
ride his soul like a nightmare for ever."

Orn had become excited. Then he was silent, composed himself again,
meditated, and was still.

When he had finished meditating, he rose solemnly and drew from his arm
a heavy gold bracelet graven with runes and signs. Ingolf sprang up
when his father rose, and remained standing before him with bowed head,
and his bright face slightly flushed.

Orn spoke: "This bracelet has for a long time belonged to our race,
and has always been an heirloom in the head branch of the family.
Some of those who bore it have worn it till their death. Others have
transferred it to the future wearer when they found that their time
was near. My son, I am growing old, and it is no use to deny it or to
hide it. Forgetfulness is getting more and more the mastery over me.
Reach me your hand."

Ingolf stretched out his right hand, and raised his head. There was a
moist glimmer in his eyes. Deeply moved, Orn drew the bracelet on his
arm. "Now you wear the ring."

Ingolf fell on his knees before the old man, and Orn made the sign of
the Hammer over his head, and said quietly: "Odin give you wisdom,
and Thor strength. Frey make your land fruitful, and Njord guide your
seafaring! All the bright Ases help thee! Rise, my son."

Ingolf rose silently. Orn laid his hands on his shoulders, looked for a
moment closely at him, and let him go. They went out into the courtyard
of the house. For a while they stood there silent, side by side, and
looked out over the landscape where the snow-covered mountains rose and
the valleys sank. Ingolf saw everything, as it were, with new eyes. The
fjord was such a crystal blue, and seemed to have something to say to
him. The dark edge of the wood, which he caught a glimpse of here and
there, held today a secret and certain promise of the spring and the
snow-free earth. The sky was high and clear, and the day had a solemn
stillness about it. The frost in the air seemed to be relaxing. In
Ingolf's eyes the whole scene wore a solemn aspect, and seemed in a way
newborn. Even the low houses with snow-covered roofs seemed to have
altered their appearance, and looked twice as home-like. When Orn went
in, Ingolf remained standing there, and enjoyed the freshness of the
day.

Orn went straight in to the high-seat and his drinking-horn. His throat
had become dry from much talk. He emptied the horn in a moment and had
it filled afresh. He emptied the horn many times that day.




IX


Ingolf informed Leif in carefully-chosen words that his father would
be glad if they extended the proposed brotherhood so as to include the
sons of Atle. Leif stood looking down while Ingolf talked. As soon as
Ingolf had spoken the first word, he felt sorry that he had brought the
question up at all. Leif's attitude had an effect on him. He stood and
fumbled with words which would not arrange themselves properly.

When he finished, Leif looked up askance at him. He did not say much at
first.

Ingolf felt a profound and unusual depression. He felt as if he had in
some degree deceived Leif. "I only wished to tell you that," he tried
to add, but was quite sure that his voice did not sound convincing.

"What do you think yourself?" asked Leif at last quietly, and looked up
again, still with a rather unsteady glance.

"I have never thought about brotherhood with Atle's sons," answered
Ingolf quietly, suddenly recovering his equilibrium. "I have offered
you brotherhood with myself alone, and am therefore prevented from
forming brotherhood with another. But I understand from what my father
said that there perhaps was a possibility that Atle's sons would like
to enter into brotherhood with us. And in such a case I would like to
know your opinion beforehand."

"I have never contemplated forming brotherhood with Holmsten," answered
Leif in a quiet, firm voice, quite different from his usual one. "In
fact, I do not choose to be everybody's brother."

"Well, let us say no more about it." Ingolf tried to speak lightly.

But Leif continued. There was a tremor of swelling wrath and distress
in his quiet voice. "I understand well that for you a brotherhood with
Atle's sons is quite a different thing from brotherhood with me. By
entering into the blood-tie with them you gain power and consideration.
Do you enter _alone_ into brotherhood with Atle Jarl's sons; I will
not stand in the way. I release you from your word. I am able to stand
alone."

Ingolf paused a little and then said: "You misunderstand me, Leif. I
only want to bring the matter before you. It is possible that I should
not have done that. But I took for granted that we might already talk
together like brothers. I will gladly confess that, for my part, I
might think it good to enter into brotherhood with Atle's sons--yes, I
should even like to have Haasten for a brother. But I could not think
of entering into any brotherhood without you. There is no one else whom
I would rather be brother to, and that you know well, or ought to know.
No power could induce me to release _you_ from your word, Leif."

Leif stood thoughtful awhile. Then he raised his head and looked in
Ingolf's eyes with a firm and trustful look. "I know well," he said in
the same quiet tone, "that I am not the best brother you could have.
But you shall never have reason to find fault with my faithfulness. I
imagine, Ingolf, that you are afraid that I shall some day be the cause
of enmity between you and Atle's sons. With my good will that shall
not happen. My temper shall never again get the mastery of me before
Holmsten. That I swear to you. I know that you like Holmsten, and that
you wish to preserve that friendship. You shall see that you can trust
me."

The two cousins pressed each other's hands in silence. They referred no
more to the matter.




X


There came a beggar to the house: an old bent man, clothed in dirty
rags and torn leather, entered the hall one evening and took a place by
the fire on the outer-most bench. There he sat and warmed his crooked
fingers, that were blue with cold, and meanwhile squinted about him
with pale, cunning eyes. As he sat there, his yellow beard, in which
a quantity of nondescript rubbish had been caught, hung down between
his legs. His grey hair lay in tatters over his back. But his powerful
eyebrows were the most marked feature in his face. Grey and bushy,
they almost concealed his eyes when they were lowered, and he had a
habit sometimes of drawing them both up together and slightly lifting
one at a time, which gave his face a strangely mobile, almost animal,
expression.

He was questioned regarding news from the north, but had little
information to give. As soon as it was evident that he had nothing
important to communicate, he was allowed to sit in peace and warm
himself. It seemed as if he valued being left to himself. When he had
sat for a while and warmed his hands, he loosed the rags from off his
legs and stretched his feet to the fire. They were a marvel of knotted
bones and dirt. He looked exhausted. Some remains of the evening meal
were brought him. He received the food with a grunt, set it upon his
knee, and began eating. With eager hands he first sought the best bits,
and, groping about in the food, turned the contents of the dish round,
chewing with his whole head. He certainly could eat.

Ingolf and Leif had sought a place near him, and sat looking
attentively at him.

"I think he can hold as much in his maw as a cow," whispered Leif,
absorbed in looking at him. "And he mumbles just like a cow chewing the
cud. Ha! Ha! What an old swine he is!"

The beggar emptied the dish so that only bare bones remained. Then
he gulped comfortably and relieved himself of air. Subsequently he
fell into a cosy nap while he digested. Thus he sat for some time,
apparently sound asleep. But suddenly he raised his eyebrows both
together and peered round him with wide-open pale eyes.

Ingolf and Leif had come near to him, and were contemplating him
closely--one his legs, and the other his face. They had seldom seen
anything like him. He was certainly a remarkable object both above and
below. He sat for a time and looked at them without saying anything,
looked from one to the other, contemplated them closely, and gave
himself plenty of time.

"Point and sword," he said at last in a deep bass tone. "When the
point breaks, exploits are over.... But you sit where you should." He
turned suddenly to Ingolf and thrust his face with his wide-opened eyes
close to his. Then he drew his head back, murmuring in a deep tone, as
though at his own thoughts. The boys believed at first that he talked
in delirium. They sat still and only stared at him--Leif with his mouth
half open. "A curious creature!" he thought, and felt internally much
amused.

The old man remained still for some time, looking closely and a little
cunningly from one to the other. Their staring did not seem to affect
him. "Shall I tell you something?" he asked at last, growling, and
winking meaningly with his pale eyes. "Shall I tell you about the new
land?"

He turned his face with his eyebrows elevated, questioning, and turning
abruptly from one to the other.

In the face of such a direct application from this queer figure, the
boys became at first a little embarrassed. They looked at each other,
and remained sitting with bowed heads and fumbling fingers.

"Well, if you don't choose to hear it, I don't choose to tell you,"
growled the old grumbler, shook himself, let his eyebrows sink, and
withdrew into himself. The boys lifted their heads, looked at him and
at each other, and suddenly became curious. Ingolf nodded to Leif to
commence, and Leif blurted out: "Let us hear, old man!"

The beggar slowly lifted his eyebrows, but not in order to look at
them. It seemed as if he had forgotten them, and did not hear what Leif
said. He sat staring in front of him into the fire with an absent look
in his old, strangely bleached eyes.

"Yes, yes," he said at last, as if half unwillingly. "Anyhow, it is
all the same to me. Why should I tell you about it? No one escapes his
destiny."

With a loud and luxurious yawn he showed them an enormous throat behind
his yellow teeth. Then he closed his chaps and remained sitting silent
for a time. It seemed as though he were considering whether he wanted
to open his mouth at all again that evening.

Leif found this tedious, and summoned up his courage. "It was about
the new land you were going to tell us," he said persuasively. And
when the old man did not hear him he added inquiringly, in order, if
possible, to rouse him out of his silent reverie: "Has a new land been
discovered?"

"Don't you know that?" asked the old man hastily. "Don't you even
know that?" he repeated incredulously. The boys shook their heads
negatively. "Then it is not too early you come to know that, if one
told you. So you do not even know that. Ah, old Norns! How you can
spin. You look after the loom without wavering even when the motley
yarn is blood-coloured. Perhaps the one who sees should be silent. No,
some time you will _have_ to know it. Have you never heard of the new
land?"

After a repeated shake of the head on the part of the two boys, he
continued: "One late summer, some years back, Naddod the Viking
intended to sail from Norway to the Faroe Islands. But the gods granted
him no good wind, either because he had neglected to sacrifice, or in
some other way incurred the displeasure of Odin and Njord. They sent
him a storm, and drove him so far westward that at last he believed
he was near Ginnungagab, where the seas pour down into Helheim, but
instead of this he came to a great land. He ascended a high mountain
to see if he could find a sign that the land was inhabited. But no
smoke was to be seen anywhere, nor any other sign of folk did he find.
When he sailed from the country again, much snow had fallen on the
mountains. Therefore he called the country Snowland. He and his people
said that it was a good land. So some years passed without anything
more being heard of the new country. There was a Swede, named Gardar
Svavarsson, who had possessions in Denmark, who sailed from Sealand
to fetch his wife's inheritance in the south. When he had sailed
through Pettlandsfjord, he encountered a storm and went adrift. So he
drifted to the west and came to the new land. He sailed farther along
its coasts, and discovered that it was an island. He built a house
by a bay which he called Husevig, and wintered there. When he sailed
from the land the next spring the wind tore a boat, which he had in
tow, loose. In the boat was a serf named Natfare and a serf-woman.
Perhaps they managed to effect a landing and settled in the place.
Gardar praised the country much. He reported that it was wooded from
the heath to the sea, and had luxuriant pastures. He gave it the
name Gardarsholme. It retained the name between man and man until
Floke Vilgerdsson had been there. Floke, who was a powerful Viking,
equipped a ship in Rogaland to seek Gardarsholme. He loaded his ship in
Smorsund. Before he sailed, he arranged a sacrificial feast, at which
he sacrificed and conjured magic powers into three ravens. Therefore
he has since been called 'Raven-Floke.' A sea-mark was raised where
the feast had taken place, and was called 'Floke's Sea-mark.' It stood
on the border between Hordaland and Rogaland. First Raven-Floke sailed
to Hjaltland and cast anchor in a bay which was named Floke's Bay. At
Hjaltland his daughter, Geirhild, was drowned in a lake, since called
Geirhild's Lake. From Hjaltland he sailed to the Faroe Islands, where
he gave one of his daughters in marriage. Thence he put out to sea,
taking the three ravens with him. When he had sailed for a day and a
night, he let the first raven loose. It flew astern and disappeared
in the direction from which they had come. Then he sailed for a day
and a night more, and let the second raven loose. It flew aloft and
returned to the ship. Again he sailed a day and a night, and let the
third raven go. It flew forward and did not return. When they sailed
farther in the direction in which it had disappeared, they found the
land they sought. Floke had on board a man named Faxe. When they came
to a broad fjord, Faxe spoke and said: 'This is certainly a great land
we have found--here are mighty rivers.' Therefore the fjord was named
'Faxe-mouth.' Raven-Floke did not sail into the fjord. He sailed past
a headland with a mighty snow-covered mountain on it, and across a
broad bay with many islands and skerries. He landed at a fjord on the
north side of the bay, which he called Vandfjord, and the coast-line he
called Bardestrand. The fjord was full of fish. They were so absorbed
in catching the quantities of fish that they forgot to procure hay;
therefore the sheep and cattle they had brought with them died in the
winter from want of fodder. The spring was fairly cold. Floke ascended
a high mountain one day in spring and saw north of it a fjord packed
full with sea-ice. Therefore he christened the land and named it
Iceland. He meant to have sailed away that summer, but before they were
ready to sail it was autumn, and the weather became stormy. Floke had
on his ship two peasants, Thorolf and Haerjolf. When they were at the
last ready to sail, the storm tore away a boat from them, and in the
boat sat Haerjolf. Haerjolf landed at a place, to which he gave his
name and called it Haerjolf's Haven. Raven-Floke, who did not wish to
sail without Haerjolf, put back to land and brought his ship uninjured
into a fjord which he called Havnefjord. At a river's mouth in the
fjord they found a whale driven on shore. Haerjolf had also scented
the whale, and there they met. They called the river's mouth Hvalore.
They sailed thence and wintered in a fjord, on which Raven-Floke, who
had had enough of the land, did not choose to lavish a name. When, on
their arrival home, they were asked about the new land, Floke had only
evil to report. Haerjolf, on the other hand, praised it moderately,
mentioned its advantages, and did not conceal its defects. But Thorolf
declared that butter dripped from every straw in the land, therefore he
was afterwards called 'Butter-Thorolf.'

"And I have no more to tell you about the new land," concluded the
beggar rather suddenly, and shook himself uncomfortably--"you can
yourselves go and see it."

When he stopped speaking, Ingolf and Leif sat for a time and stared at
him. "Why should we do that?" asked Ingolf at last. "We have no mind to
change our abode."

The old man returned no answer. Leif sat thoughtful. When he spoke at
last his voice was muffled and seemed far away. "It would be amusing to
see that land for once."

"You _will_ see it," growled the old man, and there was a peculiar
malicious exultation in his harsh voice--"you will have time enough to
see it, I think." Suddenly life came into him afresh, and his voice
became sharp and obtrusive. "Get me a jug of beer, and I will tell you
much more; I will show you a piece of the Norns' web, hoho! A charming
piece. They have twisted threads that you can never guess. Bring me
beer, and you shall hear something."

Ingolf felt overcome by a strange and unusual bodily depression, and
rose hastily. His spirits were suddenly upset, and he felt almost ill.
"Beer you shall have," he answered curtly and coldly. "But now I think
we have heard enough for the evening. Come, Leif."

Leif rose a little unwillingly. It was possible that the old man had
more information to give about the new land. Why not hear him to the
end, even if he did talk some nonsense between whiles? But as Ingolf
did not wish it, it was all the same to him. He could himself speculate
further about the island out there in the garden, and go into the whole
matter more closely with Ingolf.

The beggar had a jug of beer brought, which he emptied in small
draughts in order to relish it better. Then he lay down by the fire,
curled himself into a bundle, and slept. He remained lying there for
the night; the next morning he wandered farther. When Leif sought him,
in order to question him more closely, he had gone. Leif tried to talk
with Ingolf about the new land. But Ingolf was always occupied with
something else when Leif began to talk about Iceland. Leif did not
observe that Ingolf with deliberate intention avoided the subject.

Ingolf could not free himself from a certain anxiety that Leif might
become too interested in the new discovery which the beggar had
reported to them. It would be like Leif suddenly to begin to make
plans to go there, perhaps migrate and settle there. That must not
happen, for Leif became unstable when he had conceived an idea,
especially if it were rather an unusual one. No, Ingolf wished to
remain in Dalsfjord, in his father's house. He was strongly averse from
everything which smacked of wandering and adventure. By his prudent
methods he soon brought Leif to forget the new land.




XI


The winter was nearing its end. After Goi came Enemaaned, and then, in
the midst of spring, a fine Thursday ushered in Harpe, the first month
of summer.

On the first summer day there was held in this part of the land a great
sacrificial feast at Gaulum, which lasted three days and nights. On
that occasion there assembled, at the residence of the Jarl, chiefs and
yeomen from distant parts, each bringing for himself some food and a
large quantity of beer. Especially was it obligatory on those who were
preparing Viking expeditions for the summer not to remain away, if they
wished for honour and victory in their undertaking.

From the early morning the place began to be alive. Great crowds were
seen gathering from all sides. The sun was reflected from new-polished
weapons, and shone on parti-coloured shields. The house-servants were
for the most part dressed in suits of grey home-spun frieze, but the
peasants and their sons appeared in splendid foreign-made clothes. Red,
blue, green, and parti-coloured chequered cloaks were seen in each
company.

All day people continued to assemble at the house. The days passed
in putting up tents, preparing for the festival, seeking out friends
and acquaintances, making appointments for the summer, and settling
various accounts. Atle Jarl was invisible that day. Only his closest
friends, and people who sought him on important business, were taken
to the room where he had hid himself, busily absorbed as he was in
arranging or preparing arrangements for his own and others' affairs.

Among those who sought him that day and had audience of him was Orn
Bjornulfsson. Their conversation was quite short, and resulted in
Atle Jarl sending for his eldest son, Haasten. Haasten was only for
a moment in the room with his father. His brothers, Haersten and
Holmsten, waited meanwhile outside. Haasten told them nothing about
his conversation with his father. And when Haasten did not speak of
his own accord, his brothers did not question him. Haasten, Haersten,
and Holmsten went about and bade every newly arrived chief welcome.
They wore splendid clothes, and carried valuable weapons and ornaments.
Over his shoulders each of the brothers wore a long cloak of heavy
silk--Haasten a red one, Haersten a blue one, and Holmsten a green one.

They were all three fine-looking youths, tall and well-built,
fair-haired, with noble features and quiet demeanour. As they went
about bidding the guests welcome, side by side, Haasten on the right
and Holmsten on the left, few remembered having seen three such
fine-looking fellows together. They were very popular; very many sought
their friendship, but few won their confidence.

Among these few were Ingolf and Leif. Haasten made no attempt to
conceal his gladness when he greeted the two cousins. Ingolf was the
special object of his warm friendship. He included Leif because he was
once for all inseparable from his cousin, and because in spite of
everything he liked him, and silently admired him for his courage.

Walking slowly, the three brothers turned back to the place where
Ingolf and Leif were superintending the erection of tents, but their
fathers had already disappeared. They had found a place of honour in
the hall, where individual guests were received. There they sat, tasted
the brewing of the house, and compared notes on the latest news with
like-minded friends.

Ingolf observed at last that Haasten especially wanted something with
him that day, and accordingly arranged that they should be alone for a
while. Haasten went straight to the point. "I hear, Ingolf, that you
and Leif will tomorrow enter brotherhood. I have expected that some
time it would come to that, but it is happening somewhat sooner than I
had expected."

Ingolf interrupted him, though he well understood that he had not
finished what he had to say. He told Haasten briefly, but without
concealing anything, about their journey home after their last visit to
Gaulum. He hinted that Leif and he certainly were both anxious to enter
into an unbreakable bond.

"You know Leif," he concluded. "You know how imprudent he is, and how
he needs protection. The shield that shall protect him will receive
dints. But a shield he must have, and that shield I will be."

"Do you think that it would be of use if Leif at the same time obtained
other shields?" Haasten asked quietly. Ingolf grew a little pale, a
fact which did not escape Haasten. For awhile they stood and looked
into each other's eyes. There was a strange silence between them.
Both felt that now their destinies were being settled. At last Ingolf
reached Haasten his hand. "Haasten, my friend," he said in a low
voice, "I hope that we will always stand side by side where the word
of friendship sounds as well as where weapons speak. But I think Leif
would feel a defence of shields as a prison."

Haasten remained standing quite still with his friend's hand in his,
and looked into his eyes. Both had a troubled look. Then Haasten said
quietly: "You have spoken, and it cannot well be otherwise. Let us each
for himself keep a good watch on our brothers. I have a sure foreboding
that it will be needed." He gave Ingolf's hand a final pressure and
released it. Silently they returned to the tents where Leif stood
engaged in friendly and cheerful conversation with Haasten's brothers.
Leif had produced the knife which Holmsten gave him, and was showing
with gestures and much hilarity how he had succeeded in killing the
horse.

"The belt is paid for, Holmsten," he concluded cheerfully. "Your knife,
which once should have taken my life, has saved it. If you have an ax,
hew at me and make me a present of it afterwards. I need an ax; my
father will not give me one. He fears I might test its usefulness a
little too much. I have tried to steal one from him. But he has locked
the weapons up in a chest which I cannot open."

Leif stopped when Ingolf and Haasten came up. A hasty glance convinced
him that something had taken place between the two. They were very
quiet. He thrust the knife noisily into its sheath, and involuntarily
straightened his body from its careless attitude. Soon after, Haasten
and his brothers withdrew. Haasten went straight to his father. "Is the
matter arranged?" asked Atle Jarl. "No, I have been considering it,"
answered Haasten, who did not wish to give his father full information.
"I fear that brotherhood with Leif Rodmarsson will cause us too many
difficulties."

"Very possibly," answered Atle. "But Ingolf is a good fellow, and will
inherit much property. His family has many friends, and will be a good
support in disturbed times."

"My friendship with the cousins is independent of their entering
brotherhood."

"Perhaps," answered the Jarl dryly. "You are in any case master over
your proceedings. My advice was only advice. May you never regret not
having followed it."

Haasten, who saw that his father was angry, did not answer, but saluted
him respectfully and retired. He was depressed and filled with heavy
forebodings, but tried to conceal it as much as possible.

The day began to decline. Atle Jarl had taken measures, and all the
arrangements for the feast were ready. The animals destined for
sacrifice were not allowed out at all that day. The fine, powerful
horses which were to be offered to Odin stood stamping their hoofs
impatiently in the stables. A flock of sheep, likewise meant to appease
the All-Father, pressed against one another, patiently resigned to
their fate, in a pen, rested their heads on each other's backs,
and chewed the cud over the last remains of the contents of their
stomachs, now and then shaking their ears a little discontentedly.
Plump oxen and bulls which, with one exception, should soon bleed in
honour of Odin, bellowed in all kinds of tones and butted against the
beams of the stalls. In an outhouse lay nine serfs and criminals with
their hands tied behind them. They were to be hung in order to join
the storm-god's wild hunt. That day it was chiefly Odin who received
offerings. But there was also a little diversion destined for Thor.
Away in a corner of the outhouse, where the serfs waited for the rope,
lay a ragged bundle. It was the serf-woman, Trude, who had been guilty
of stealing, and who, as she must somehow say good-bye to life, might
as well be utilized as an offering to Thor the Thunderer. When the pale
twilight of the evening had drawn its light veil over the landscape,
softened its sharp outlines and changed them to vague, shadowy
contours, people began to gather round the temple. All their weapons
they had left under guard in their tents.

The temple at Gaulum was an old chief temple built long before the
house became a Jarl's seat. The dignity of high priest had from time
immemorial descended from father to son, and Atle Jarl the Slender had
thus inherited it. The temple was a large and spacious edifice, built
of heavy beams, with its entrance by a main-wall furnished with gables.
Burning and smoking pitch-torches hung fixed in heavy iron rings on
the walls, each watched by a serf. On entering, one perceived in this
flickering light only indistinct images of gods who sat on their
platforms behind a low partition-wall away at the opposite end of the
temple. Within the wall no ordinary person ventured to tread; only
the priest and his consecrated assistants, helpers in the sacrifice,
might go there. The gods sat arranged in a spacious semicircle. There
were several of them, both male and female. Most were splendidly
dressed, some even adorned with gold rings and precious stones. But
the three chief gods, Odin, Thor, and Frey, who sat in the midst of
the semicircle, drew the spectator's chief attention. In the centre
was enthroned Thor--here, as in many other places in Norway, the chief
object of worship. Thor sat in his thunder-chariot, to which were yoked
painted goats with gilded horns. The goats were on wheels, as though on
the point of drawing the chariot from its place in the chief procession
at Thor's festivals. In his right hand Thor held his short-handled
hammer high uplifted. He had an awe-inspiring aspect. Straight in front
of him was a thin slab of rock with a sharp upper edge, placed edgewise.

On the right of Thor sat Odin in a wagon, both larger and more
magnificent than Thor's, but without animals to draw it. Odin sat on a
chair adorned with runes and sacred signs. He held a long spear in his
hand, and stared threateningly with his one eye.

On the left of Thor sat Frey. His platform was a great stone, covered
with a parti-coloured carpet. In contrast to the other gods he sat
naked, holding a stag's horn, his only weapon, high in his right hand.

In the midst of the semicircular space, on a special elevation, stood a
great stone basin in which the blood of the offerings was collected.
In the bowl lay a rod, used to stir the blood and then to sprinkle it
around. On the mound lay, besides, the Sacred Bracelet, a heavy, open
circlet of gold, inscribed with sacred signs, on which all oaths were
taken.

When the people had assembled in the temple, Atle Jarl the Slender
entered, followed by his assistants. He wore white clothes with red
borders. His assistants were also dressed in white.

When Atle Jarl entered, carrying a broad-bladed, long-handled ax over
his shoulder, taller by head and shoulders than most of those present,
thin and erect like the branch-lopped stem of a fir, he caused a gasp
in many a young breast, and even old, hardened Vikings felt a slight
shudder in their backs. This man stood at that moment in covenant with
the gods. They were brought into touch with the Unknowable. There was a
death-like silence in the temple.

Atle Jarl walked with dignity between the thick-packed masses of men
on both sides. At the partition-wall his assistants remained standing
for a while; only the priest could go within. He placed the ax on the
mound where the basin stood. He saluted the three chief gods with a
slow and solemn bending of the knee before each, and then included the
other gods in one. Then he went back muttering secret words, took the
sacrificial bracelet from its place, and drew it on his right arm,
seized the ax with his left hand, and raised his right arm in command.
That was a signal to the door-guard.

The most splendid of all the sacrificial animals, a coal-black ox with
shining head and large, crooked horns, was brought in by serfs, and led
to the partition-wall by other serfs, chosen as sacrificial helpers,
and consecrated to the service. At the same time two of the priest's
assistants came forward, lifted the bowl from the mound, and placed it
a little way off. The ox resisted violently when led in, and uttered
angry bellowings. It foamed with frenzy, and showed the whites of its
eyes.

Atle Jarl stood with his left foot advanced and his ax lifted in both
hands. At the instant the ox was placed in the proper spot the ax fell
with a powerful and practised aim on its neck. The beast gave a bellow
and sank on its knees. Immediately the serfs stood over it with long
knives. A stab in the neck and a cut between the neck arteries, and
then down with it to the basin, so that the precious sacrificial blood
should not be spilt. Meanwhile, one of the assistants kept stirring the
blood in the bowl with a rod so that it should not coagulate.

When the last drop of blood had been drawn off in the bowl, the
assistants raised the dead body by a rope and carried it beyond the
partition-wall. There it was received by other serfs, who carried it
outside and immediately set to work to skin it.

Other animals were now brought forward. One by one they were killed,
and their blood emptied into the bowl. But their bodies were not
carried out afterwards, like the ox's. They were thrown on one side,
and left to wait till the sacrifices were over.

A speckled bull was offered to Frey. All the other animals were
offerings to Odin, the god of battle, so that he should give success
and victory to the Viking expeditions which would take place in the
summer.

Last came Thor's only offering--the serf-woman, Trude, was brought
forward. A pair of serfs dragged her to the wall, where two assistants
received her and stripped her rags from her body. The crowd waited
breathlessly. But not a groan or a gasp came from the serf-woman,
Trude. She was dragged by her hair before the Hammer-wielder, lifted
up, and laid with the small of her back crosswise over the sharp edge
of the stone altar. Then Atle Jarl made the sign of the hammer over
the offering, and the serfs pressed her down. A scream of unspeakable
terror tore through the air, and died away in a blood-curdling low,
quivering wail. With broken back the serf-woman, Trude, lay across
Thor's sacrificial stone.

The bowl filled to the brim was now lifted by the assistants and set
on its mound again. Atle Jarl drew the sacrificial bracelet off his
arm, rubbed it in the blood, and drew it on his arm again. Then he
took the rod and began sprinkling the steaming blood around. First he
sprinkled Odin, then Thor, then Frey, and afterwards each of the gods.
Also the walls, ceiling, and floor he sprinkled with the protective
sacrificial blood. When Atle Jarl had finished the ceremonies within
the partition-wall, the assistants lifted the bowl, and, sprinkling the
blood on the right and the left, he went out of the temple, followed by
the assistants bearing the bowl. When it had been emptied of the last
drop, the bowl was carried back and set in its place.

But the sacrifices were not yet over. Odin's chariot was now drawn
out of the temple, and two splendid white horses were yoked to it.
Then a serf came forward, chosen for his stature for the part, and was
dressed in the ox's skin, with the horns and hoofs hanging down and the
tinkling bells attached to it.

The procession to Odin's grove was arranged, with Atle Jarl at the head
bearing the bloody ax over his shoulder. After him came the serf with
the ox-skin and bells. Then came Odin in his car drawn by white horses
and surrounded by white-robed assistants. The rear of the procession
was brought up by the crowd. Silently, the creaking of the car and the
tinkling bells being the only sounds audible in the bright night, the
procession went forward to Odin's grove. There were waiting already the
nine serfs and the criminals, who, by being strung up as sport for the
winds, should appease the storm-god, each tied to his death tree.

Odin's car was driven forward to an open space, surrounded by sharp
stones. Only the priest and his consecrated helpers ventured to enter
the ring of stones. When Odin's car was brought to the place, and the
crowd had arranged themselves, the assistants went, two by two, to the
waiting victims. One fixed the cord and made sure that both it and the
branch were strong, the other loosed the victim's bonds. One of the
serfs wailed and begged for his life. He met only contemptuous glances,
and was kicked and thumped by the assistants. As he would not be quiet,
they forced a stone in between his jaws.

When Atle Jarl saw that his assistants had finished their preparations
he gave a sign. At the same instant the victims were strung up all
together. Just before they had ceased their struggles a whistling sound
came through the wood. A gust of wind imparted a swinging motion to the
dangling bodies. A thrill of satisfaction mingled with awe went through
the hearts of those assembled. Odin had accepted the offering. Slowly
the procession wound its way back from Odin's grove. When they reached
the temple, the dead bodies of the sacrificed animals had already
been carried away by serfs, to be flayed and divided. The body of the
serf-woman, Trude, had also been removed. It had been sunk in the holy
well by the gable-end of the temple. This was not the first victim it
had swallowed.

Odin was drawn to his place on the right hand of Thor. Atle Jarl took
the sacrificial bracelet off his arm and laid it on the mound by the
side of the bowl. This concluded the first part of the sacrificial
feast--the slaughter night. The people went to their tents and crept
under their skins, to get a little sleep. The early spring day was
already dawning in the east.




XII

Ingolf and Leif went silently towards the tent. Ingolf was pleasantly
fatigued, and felt cheerful. He enjoyed the mental relaxation and
dreamy sleepiness which follows when an inner excitement has found
its natural relief. He went from the ceremony confirmed in his faith
with strengthened will. He felt himself in covenant relation with his
ferocious gods.

With Leif the case was opposite. He had been sickened by the sight
and smell of the blood of the sacrificed animals. All the rest, and
especially Ingolf's behaviour, had had a repelling effect upon _him_
who did not believe in the gods, nay, who had a profound contempt for
these ugly, bedizened images of wood. Ingolf's thorough absorption in
the ceremonies had made him sick at heart. Here was something he did
not understand. How _could_ Ingolf quietly watch helpless men being
ill-treated and murdered in honour of the gods? How _could_ he worship
gods whom he believed he could appease by hanging serfs and criminals
in their honour? Leif did not understand it. He felt himself suddenly
alone, and an eager longing for Helga took possession of him. There was
something about Ingolf which was beyond his comprehension. In relation
to the gods there would always be something to divide them. Hitherto
this had possessed such a slight significance for Leif that he had not
given the matter a thought. Now it grew suddenly, assumed a shape, and
was not to be got away from. Ingolf must certainly not become aware how
great a difference there was between them in this respect. For if he
did, how could he think of entering into brotherhood with him?

Leif's emotion seethed and fermented. With every step his inward
excitement rose higher. To speak out to Ingolf would never do; if once
he began to speak, wild and uncontrolled words would stream from his
tongue. And he had vowed to himself never to let his fiery temperament
discharge itself in evil words over Ingolf.

But, on the other hand, the excitement in his mind gradually became
uncontrollable. And now they were so near the tents, that only a few
steps more would rob him of the opportunity of relieving himself. He
stopped, perplexed, without knowing what he should say or do.

"Ingolf!" he broke out suddenly, as if in bewilderment; his voice
was hoarse and unrecognizable. Ingolf stopped, surprised, and turned
towards him. In an instant they were confronting each other, Ingolf
with an astonished, questioning expression in his eyes and face, Leif
quivering in every limb with an excitement which bid fair to derange
his mind. He rushed at his cousin, flung his arms round him tightly,
and hissed from between his clenched teeth: "Look out!"

Ingolf did not understand what he was about, and had no time to
consider. He needed all his presence of mind to keep on his legs,
for Leif attacked him with all his might, and his strength seemed to
increase with his exertions. Ingolf was not long in discovering that
this was serious; he had to defend himself or fall. Leif hissed and
groaned and bellowed like a maniac. Ingolf thought it was best to make
an end of it, and passed gradually over to the offensive. But it took
him time, and he needed to exert all his strength to overcome Leif. At
last he succeeded. He took advantage of a slip on Leif's part, slowly
deprived him of his foothold--then came the decisive moment--Leif
overbalanced and fell.

Ingolf remained lying on the top of him. He had a good grip, and
held him fast. Leif's face was purple and swollen, and he foamed at
the mouth. His eyes were bloodshot, and were so furious that Ingolf
suddenly felt pity for him.

"Cousin, be reasonable now," he begged persuasively. But to be overcome
in such a purely physical way had been too much for Leif. He struggled
hopelessly to get one arm loose, and when he did not succeed he hissed
with suppressed rage: "I could kill you!" Ingolf let him go at once and
sprang up. But Leif did not do the same, as he had expected. He had
discharged his emotions now and had given up. He remained lying with
his eyes closed, while the shame scorched and burnt in his soul.

Ingolf stood for a little while looking at him. He felt the wrath
lurking in ambush within himself, and bravely fought with it. "What
have I done?" he asked at last quietly.

Leif did not answer, but remained lying there, quiet and motionless,
with closed eyes. Within himself he was silently and hopelessly
wondering how he should set about opening his eyes and rising. Ingolf
stood looking at him. He began gradually to understand him, and to
enter into his feelings. Leif had madly set himself against the gods.
But what was the use of so attacking him, he would like to know? Well,
Leif had his peculiarities in everything. Now he lay there and was
ashamed, and could not bring himself to open his eyes. The best thing
was to give him a little time to collect himself. Ingolf remained
standing awhile and waited. "Come now, Leif!" he urged, in a friendly
tone, and Leif rose. Slowly he collected himself and got on his legs.
Ingolf stood and looked at him with curiosity. His features were
relaxed, and his eyes were dull and troubled.

"What was the matter with you?" asked Ingolf earnestly, and could not
suppress a little laugh.

Leif stood a short while without answering, as though searching his
memory for something he had forgotten. "You needn't trouble yourself
about it," he answered in a weary and rather shy tone, but not without
a certain defiance. "It was not you I hated, but your gods."

"So it was not very strange you could not win, cousin," answered Ingolf
cheerfully. "You are still too slight of build to fight with the gods."

"I shall not go with you to a feast any more," answered Leif,
unaffected by Ingolf's cheerfulness. "This once I may be allowed to say
it, and I beg you not to forget it. Your gods and your worship of them
are an abomination to me, and will always be so. Even if it should lose
me my brother, I must say it."

There was a smothered warmth in Leif's words which made Ingolf serious.

"It is just with you, as you are, that I wish to enter into
brotherhood, Leif," he answered quietly. "Your relation to the gods is
a matter between you and them. What you think of my worship of them
is your own affair. But I am anxious that you should understand that
I belong with all my soul and will to the gods. They were my fathers'
gods; if I were false to them, I should be false to my fathers. Rather
would I this very moment sacrifice myself to Odin than that that should
happen."

"But then it is a sacrifice on your part," answered Leif quietly, "when
you enter into brotherhood with me who despise the gods, and so have
been false to my fathers."

Ingolf was silent for a while. "It is another matter with you than with
me," he answered. "I cannot explain it, but I feel that it is quite
another matter with you. I should become weaker by not believing in the
gods; you would become so by believing in them. We are so different,
Leif. And I wish to be your brother as you are."

"I will do my best that you may never regret that," answered Leif
quietly.

They went to their tents. It was already nearly daylight. In the east
the sky was faintly red; there was only a short time to the sunrise.
Ingolf and Leif did not talk any more. They crept silently into their
sleeping-bags. But neither of them could close an eye. They remained
lying quiet till nearly midday. When the sun was at its zenith that
day, their brotherhood was to be sealed.

Leif was the first who rose. When he had met Ingolf's open eyes, he
said in a low, cheerful tone: "Let us run to the stream."

Ingolf sprang up. "Yes, we will." They ran to a place outside the
encampment, where they were in the shelter of a cliff, and where they
had been accustomed to wash themselves when, as small boys, they
visited their friends at Gaulum. Ingolf dipped his head in the water,
rubbed hard with both hands, and snorted cheerfully. But Leif flung
away every stitch of clothing and lay down in the running water. When
Ingolf saw it, he immediately followed his example. And so they lay
side by side in the stream, and let the cold running water stream over
their bodies, as when they were little boys.

Leif looked at the sun. "We shall have to hurry." They sat for a little
while, squeezed the water out of their hair, and let the sun and the
wind dry their skins. But the water remained in drops on their skins
and would not be dried. Then they took their shirts and rubbed each
other, and then dressed in a trice. "Let us go slowly back," said Leif,
when they had their clothes on, and Ingolf had to look closer at him,
for such a proposal was very unlike him. Leif answered his questioning
look. "Otherwise we shall be so breathless, and we are getting too big
now to run like children."

When they came up from the little valley in which the stream ran, they
saw that the people were already gathered, and hastened their steps.
Leif looked up hastily at the sun. "It is not yet quite midday," he
said, relieved, but went on.

They arrived at the place at the same time as Atle Jarl, who as
high priest was to conduct the proceedings. Atle Jarl, generally a
mild and amiable man, wore his severest expression that day. He had
the sacrificial bracelet on his arm and a spear in his hand. A serf
followed him bearing two turf-cutters and two bright, sharp-pointed
knives. The people had gathered round a circular space, marked out with
wooden pegs. They readily made way for the two cousins and Atle Jarl.
When they reached the place marked out, Atle Jarl curtly bade the two
future brothers take off their shoes and stockings and step into the
ring. While they were doing so, he himself stepped into the ring, and
with his spear marked off a semicircle within it. Then Ingolf and Leif
each received his turf-cutter with orders to begin, each on his own
side of the semicircle, and cut a turf loose, taking care, however,
that both its ends remained firm. The turf that was to be cut loose was
to remain a living part of the ground. Ingolf was set to cut on the
outside of the semicircle, Leif on the inside. They each dropped on
one knee, stuck their turf-cutters into the ground, and began to cut.
Their task was to cut a solid piece of turf which would hold fast when
it was raised. Ingolf cut with an even, straight stroke; he was quiet
and undisturbed by the people standing and looking at him. Leif, on
the other hand, was nervous. He began cutting with all his might; his
edge became bent and uneven, and sweat was pouring from him before he
had got half through. When the spectators saw their different ways of
working, they smiled and winked at each other.

Orn and Rodmar stood just outside the ring. Orn did not look happy,
but he concealed his displeasure under a mask of indifference. Rodmar
stood and looked angrily at Leif. He could hardly restrain himself from
shouting to him and correcting him. He saw, however, clearly that it
would only make bad worse, and controlled himself. But he leant towards
Orn and whispered as though making an excuse. "Ingolf will need all his
quiet and strength before he can get Leif tamed."

"He cannot be tamed," answered Orn in a low tone, but with emphasis
in his voice. "A horse with the staggers cannot be broken in; it is a
useless animal, and brings ill-luck."

"He is my son," answered Rodmar, who always found fault with Leif but
could not bear others doing so. "You judge him too severely."

"He is your son and my kinsman," Orn whispered back sombrely,
"otherwise this ratification of brotherhood would not have taken
place--at least as long as I had a breath left in my body."

Ingolf and Leif had now cut loose the piece of turf, and went together
to lift it. They raised it carefully till it stood straight up and
formed an arch. Then Atle Jarl stepped in and placed his spear in
the middle of the arch to hold the turf up. He himself stood and
supported the spear while Ingolf and Leif cut loose an oblong turf
under the arch. Their blood was not to run on the greensward, but
was to mingle on the bare earth. When they had finished they gave up
their turf-cutters, and at Atle Jarl's command stepped in under the
turf arch, each on his own side of the spear-shaft. Atle Jarl now
dictated the oath, and they vowed mutual brotherhood, each with his
right hand on the sacred bracelet. When the oath had been taken, serfs
came with knives. Atle Jarl received the knives and handed them to the
newly-sworn brothers, with the command to confirm the brotherhood they
had just inaugurated by letting their blood flow jointly on the sacred
earth. Atle Jarl showed them briefly where they should pierce their
calves with the knives.

Ingolf and Leif both did so at the same moment. Ingolf thrust his
knife-point well in and cut a deep gash. Leif put his knife right
through so that the point projected a couple of inches on the other
side of his calf. He had difficulty in drawing it out again. The blood
ran down in red streams. The spectators felt a strange shuddering
thrill at seeing how it oozed out from under the naked soles of their
feet. Leif watched the course of his blood attentively as it approached
Ingolf's on the brown scar of earth between them. As it seemed to him
to go too slowly, he stooped down, directed the streams of blood with
the point of his knife, and stirred the blood and earth round between
him and Ingolf. A laugh then rang out in the air from hundreds of
throats. Even Orn smiled, though against his will, and Atle Jarl's eyes
assumed a milder expression.

Leif looked hastily up and straightened himself with a jerk. He looked
round, a little astonished, and his eyes rested on Ingolf. A very
pleasant smile lay on Ingolf's face, and there was a moist glimmer in
his eyes.

Atle Jarl now proclaimed that Ingolf Arnarson and Leif Rodmarsson had
entered into legal brotherhood, and named the witnesses. With that the
solemn ceremony was at an end. The grass-turfs were carefully laid down
again in order that they might grow firm and be incorporated with the
earth's life.

Ingolf and Leif were now joined together by the strongest bonds that
exist--the blood-tie between brothers, the most sacred and inviolable
of all blood and family ties. The earth by which they had been formed
in different mothers' wombs had now drunk their blood mingled, and had
at the same time given them new birth, since they had passed together
under the turf arch, a part of earth's living frame. The earth knew
now, and had recognized their covenant--a covenant no power could
break. The sons of Atle were the first who approached to tender their
good wishes on the occasion.

Haasten pressed Ingolf's hand and whispered confidentially: "You have
in Leif made a brother who at any time and without hesitation will
give his blood for you to the last drop. Keep always a watchful eye on
him, for his mind is as easily moved as a willow, but it has also the
willow's toughness."

Holmsten handed over to Leif a broad-bladed, long-shafted battle-ax
with a handle inlaid with gold, a splendid weapon, which made
Leif colour with joy. "Here is an ax for you, friend Leif," he
said cheerfully. "Swing it bravely, but take care that you do not
absent-mindedly come to cleave your friends' heads with it!"

Leif was moved to tears. He kissed Holmsten for the ax. Leif and
Holmsten's friendship lasted for whole days, to the great joy and
relief of Ingolf and Haasten. They had never before been able to keep
the peace for even a few hours at a time. Ingolf began to believe that
the costly gifts which had been exchanged between Holmsten and Leif
must have some special significance. He felt unusually cheerful in
spirits that day. Leif also felt a peace and sense of security which
was strange to him. It was as though the responsibility which he had
assumed in entering into brotherhood evoked his manhood. He seemed to
have suddenly grown adult. His mind had found an equilibrium, which
acted beneficially, and was plainly traceable in his bearing.

Evening came, and the second night of the sacrificial feast was about
to commence. As people began to go to the temple, Leif said to Ingolf:
"I shall not go. I shall remain at home in the tent."

"Very well, I won't go either," said Ingolf, and tried to appear as
though it were a matter of indifference to him.

But Leif would not hear of that. "Those who know me will not be
surprised that I remain away," he said. "It is another matter with you.
If you won't go alone, you will oblige me to go with you, and I don't
much like going there."

At last Ingolf went alone. When he entered the temple the people were
already assembled with great jubilation and much noise. On the floor
there was burning a fire from one end of the temple to the other
outside the partition-wall. This fire, named Langildene ("the long
fires"), could be crossed at various points, though only by going
through the lambent flames. Over it hung great cauldrons, whence the
fumes of the meat of the sacrifices filled the air with vapour and
smoke tempting to hungry stomachs.

Tables and benches were arranged on both sides of the fire. It was some
time before each man had his horn. Then Atle Jarl rose, consecrated the
drinking, and proposed the toast in honour of Odin. It was a toast for
Victory and Might, and everyone had to empty his horn to the bottom.
Some made the sign of the hammer over the horn of mead. They were
those who trusted in their own power and might. They consecrated their
drinking to Thor. Now other serfs entered, bearing great dishes. They
fished the meat out of the cauldrons with hooks, filled the dishes, and
bore them round. Then began a festive battle for the best morsels, with
shouting and laughter which shook the temple.

Women now entered, lifted the gods down from their platforms, took off
their dresses, and began to rub them with the fat of the sacrificial
animals. This was a very solemn ceremony.

When the guests had appeased their first hunger, full horns stood again
before them. Atle Jarl blessed the drinking, and they all emptied their
horns in honour of Thor. Then they ate again, but now quietly and
deliberately. The dishes were emptied and filled anew. There was no
scarcity of food or of beer.

They drank horns to Njord and to Frey for peace and fertility. They
drank a horn to Brage, with which they pledged solemn vows. Last of
all, Atle Jarl rose, always steady on his legs and firm in his voice
(he had tasted mead before), blessed the drinking, and proposed a toast
in memory of their deceased kinsmen. That toast used not to be very
widely observed--by that time many lay under the table. Others had gone
outside, and the rows of the feasters grew thinner.

When Ingolf had gone to the temple, Leif's newly found mental
equilibrium suddenly forsook him. He was overcome by a feeling of
disquiet, strong and not to be shaken off--a fit of impatience which
rankled in his breast, and made him perspire and feel unwell.
Something must be done, he knew not what, until it suddenly became
clear to him that he could not do without Helga any longer. He ran
home to the house and got hold of a serf, whom he sent with a message
to Ingolf. Then he took a bridle in his hands and a saddle over
his shoulders and went off to find his horse. There was a strange
feverishness in all his proceedings, but he was cheerful and light of
heart, as was always the case when he had overcome uncertainty and
betaken himself to action. He found his horse, caught and saddled it,
and went straight homewards at full gallop. He dared not think at all,
for it was plain to him that it would be too long before he could see
Helga, and the thought made his heart sick. A feeling of longing was on
him, a longing of the strong kind, which grows in force if one gives
way to it. His rapid riding gave him relief, and released him from
thinking. He entered into a strange relation with the paths he rode by,
and every stone and bush which he passed on the way. A pasture which
he went by reminded him of the horse, and he dismounted, took off the
saddle and bridle, and lay down. The horse rolled on its back awhile,
then rose and began grazing eagerly. This haste seemed to quiet Leif's
longing, and he lay comfortably there. He allowed the horse to still
its sharpest pangs of hunger, but soon his patience was over, exhausted
and vanished. He saddled the horse again and went off at full gallop.
Daylight came, and he was forced to stop and let the horse breathe
and graze a little. This time Leif could not lie still, while it was
grazing. He sat a little, walked a little, and was restless. Long
before the proper time he saddled the horse again, but before mounting
this time he patted its neck and head, scratched it behind the ear, and
spoke kindly to it: "If you hold out, I will remember you as long as we
both live!"

So it carried him forward again, over hill and dale, over smooth,
grassy plains and stony tracts, over clear streams and roaring rivers.
The horse's clattering hoofs awoke in the air alternately falling and
rising echoes. So the incredible was accomplished, and the length of
the way slowly overcome. One morning at sunrise Leif arrived home.
Helga stood outside the house as though she had expected him, and the
world seemed new.

"It is you, Leif," said Helga, and did not conceal her gladness. Leif
had already sprung from his horse. He ran to her and flung his arms
around her. "Helga," he said, and kissed her. "I _had_ to come home all
at once." Helga laughed.

"I dreamt of you last night," she said, and kissed him. "_That_ was
what I dreamt."

"What?" asked Leif.

"That I kissed you."

And she kissed him again. That was a happy day.




BOOK II




I


Years passed and nothing happened. There was much talk of disturbance
and disquiet in the north of the country. The young King Harald and his
uncle, Guttorm, were continually engaged in warfare. Various raisers of
disturbance had already been suppressed, but new ones were continually
starting up. The latest rumour current was, that the young King
purposed, as soon as he had given peace to his Kingdom, to extend it.
It did not look as if he had peaceful intentions. Dalsfjord as yet was
ravaged only by rumours. No events themselves, only the faint thunders
they aroused, came near there.

Orn, however, was always of opinion that it was safest for Rodmar to
remain; especially as Leif had now undertaken the management of the
property, and Rodmar might as well remain in one place as another.

Much beer was brewed in Orn's house. Perhaps it was not without some
connection with this that Orn and Rodmar's talk took all the more
a prophetic tinge. Obscure and rather disconnected wisdom flowed
liberally from their lips. Leif called this wise talk nonsense, and
was not ashamed to laugh openly in his father's face when he was more
wise and obscure than ever. Ingolf, on the other hand, although with
some difficulty, continued to invest Orn with a halo of dignity, and
showed him all possible filial reverence. He always consulted him in
important questions, although certainly only for form's sake. And he
never brought forward a matter without having first procured permission
to speak. This pleased Orn in a high degree, although he sometimes felt
somewhat embarrassed by it, and almost always showed peevishness to his
son.

Orn was by no means easy to deal with. For example, Ingolf, at the
beginning of the spring when he completed his nineteen winters, went
to him to hear his opinion regarding the sowing plans he had made for
the summer, and also about a necessary enlargement of the salt-kilns.
Orn looked up at him with a scornful and malicious look in his
drink-swollen eyes, heard fully all he had to say, and at last broke
out harshly on him.

"You are only a peasant! A good-for-nothing you are, although you are
tall and heavy enough! You wear the family bracelet! What honour have I
from you? There is no energy in you. Do you think one finds honour in
the fields? Do you think one can plough it out of the ground? Food you
find, but never any honour. Do you think a man keeps fresh by burning
salt all his life? Keep away from me with your salt-burning and your
sowing-plans. Would any one believe you were a free man's son, and
soon full grown? Speak with the serfs about it. No--Harald, Halvdan
the Black's son--there is a fellow with some stuff in him! You'll feel
his knuckles one day--wait and see! He'll mark you all with the brand
of slavery--every man of you. Each and all of you will have to pay
tribute to him, if you do not want to be shorter by a head or to have
your necks stretched! It is said that he intends to subdue all Norway
and to become sole King. How old are you now? Nineteen winters? He is
four years younger! You are no King--no! You are right in that. But
your forefathers were chiefs, and ruled themselves, and ruled others as
the King's peers. Go off to your fields and your salt-burning--I won't
listen to you any more. I won't _see_ you! Go! Ha! Wait a little. Go
first to the smith, and have your fathers' weapons smelted down into
meat-axes! Have you not increased your stock? Are you not in want of
meat-axes! No, it was something different in my youth. If I had been
in my prime now, the good Harald would have found at least one neck he
could not break. Unless, indeed, I had deemed it wisest to assist him.
That also might be a way to honour. But you have only thoughts for your
fields and your salt-burning. Go!"

Thus Orn spoke, and was very irritable. Ingolf listened to him
patiently without moving a muscle. And when he received the command
to go he retired with a respectful salute. He honoured the family in
his father, and did not wear the family bracelet in vain on his young
arm. Ingolf looked after his property; Leif neglected his. For the
first two years Leif had managed remarkably well alone. But when it
no longer amused him to rule and give orders to the house-servants,
he began to become somewhat careless. It was to his advantage that
his people were reliable and fond of him--remarkably so, in fact. He
might scold them thoroughly, using the whole of his copious vocabulary
until his voice failed him. He might beat them and abuse them, and bid
them ten thousand times to go the straight way north or down to hell.
They admired his readiness of speech and energetic irritability. It
was always enlivening to see him in a rage. And it was characteristic
of him that his wrath was forgotten as soon as it had blazed up. It
flashed up like a fire of pine-needles and burnt out at once. Besides,
he was not small-minded, and let every one manage his own affairs, so
long as he minded his work. He was a kind and cheerful master to serve
under. Many plants grew in his track, but never the plant of dullness.

Ingolf had another way with his people. He immediately became a father
and providence for them. He was considerate towards the old, and let
them have an easy time. They were never weary of blessing him. He
visited them often, and his visit was always like a gift. He showed
an equable temper with his people, demanded a certain amount of work
from them, and expressed in encouraging words his satisfaction with
work well done. On the other hand, no one had ever heard a threat from
his mouth. He had his own way of showing displeasure by a certain
indifferent silence which did not fail of its effect. No one liked to
feel himself the object of that quiet taciturnity. His peaceful manner
diffused a peculiar sense of security around him. He was careful in his
choice when he engaged new people, which rarely happened. Those whom he
had once engaged remained with him.

Leif could not alter his nature; he was just Leif, once and for all.
When he had managed his property with diligence and watchfulness for
three years it amused him no longer. He began to slacken, and let
things go at haphazard. And since they did not seem to go altogether
badly that way, he gradually preferred not to look after them at all.
So Ingolf found him going idle for whole months at a time. Ingolf
wondered at him. How could he choose to go on and undertake nothing?
No, that was going too far. Ingolf secretly kept an eye on Leif's
property, and saw that it was managed in some way without him, although
not thoroughly. So there was all the less reason for him to interfere
in Leif's way of living. There resulted a good deal of restraint
between the two sworn brothers which was unavoidable. Ingolf tried his
best not to let himself be irritated by Leif's idle ways. He exerted
himself to meet him as unconstrainedly as before. But his openness
was not natural as it used to be, and seemed forced. Leif noticed it
without thinking about it, and the feeling of restraint between them
continued.

Only seldom did Leif follow Ingolf to the fields or to other business.
Their unconscious inner tension robbed their intercourse of all outer
comfort or heartiness. The sense of brotherhood and family feeling
between them decreased greatly, and threatened to vanish.

Ingolf be-took himself to work as a defence. He wrapped himself in
business as in a coat of mail, and work shielded him to a certain
extent. But the unavoidable vacant hours were like rents in his armour.
And the weapons Ingolf had to fight against immediately found every
exposed place.

Leif was not the man to notice that something had happened when nothing
had really done so. He only felt boredom and emptiness, and the
difficulty there is in making time pass when like a refractory horse it
begins rearing on its hind-legs. Either he sat alone with Helga and let
the hours fly, or he simply lay and lazed somewhere, staring into space
and wondering what purpose there can be in a useless day. His mind
became every day more unbalanced, and his temper was like a sportive
squirrel. Sometimes his restlessness and impatience impelled him to
tease and vex those who surrounded him. Not even Helga escaped; on the
contrary, just because she was the most helpless before him, it was she
who suffered most. Not rarely his words made her cry. Afterwards he sat
silent and helpless, unable to repair what he had done, and feeling
intolerable pain.

Leif's only excuse was that he was Leif and had lost his balance. The
hopeless melancholy of youth was upon him.

Years passed and nothing happened. Hitherto each year had had one
event. They visited Gaulum, or Atle's sons visited them. One winter
Leif and Ingolf were invited to the feast at Gaulum; the next winter
they were the hosts. Hitherto in Leif's mind there had been a halo
about these feasts; he had awaited them with eagerness and taken part
in them with a happy fervour of abandonment. Now he hardly cared to
think of them any more, and had quite ceased to take pleasure in them.

For there had gradually risen in Leif's mind, although he carefully
concealed it, a strong ill-will against Atle's sons, especially
Holmsten. Holmsten had always been a thorn in his side. Holmsten's
voice and vocabulary, his smile, his way of being silent, and his whole
character had an irritating effect on Leif. At times, when he was not
especially sensitive, he could, as it were, lock such feelings out.
But there were other times when he stood and actually shivered with
irritation merely at seeing and hearing Holmsten. But, faithful to his
oath of brotherhood and promise to Ingolf, he suppressed all feelings
of that kind as best he could. In any case, they never broke out. Thus
it happened that Holmsten once in a humourous mood made merry over
Leif's appearance. He meant nothing serious by it, but an innocent
remark about Leif's large nose slipped thoughtlessly out of his mouth.
When he saw what effect it had upon Leif, who became quite red in the
face, he was immediately sorry, and said nothing. When Leif had thus
come to know what he looked like, his eyes were suddenly opened to
see how handsome Atle's sons were. From that day it was that he began
to hate them in his heart, especially the youngest. He now noticed
also how they looked at Helga, when they were on a visit. He did not
like those looks. Of course he could well understand that they could
scarcely keep their eyes from Helga. But Helga was his, and that made
a difference. And although Atle's sons could not know that, yet at any
rate they ought not to look at Helga so. It was especially Holmsten
with whom Leif found himself angry--Holmsten, whose existence from
the time that Leif was a boy had rankled like a thorn in his mind.
Holmsten was undeniably the handsomest of the brothers, perhaps because
he, as the youngest, was now at the handsomest age. Moreover, it was
Holmsten whose look fastened on Helga with the greatest pertinacity.

Leif was pained, and suffered. The most intolerable part about it
almost was that it was impossible for him to let Helga notice his
jealousy. She did not give the slightest occasion for it, but that did
not comfort Leif at all--on the contrary. This made Leif's behaviour
towards her rough and unintelligible. She was almost obliged to believe
that he was no longer as fond of her as he had been, since he at times
could do without her. It was only the pain in his look, even when he
behaved in the most capricious way, which quieted her doubts. Yet she
went about sometimes with such pensive eyes. There sat Leif, with a
feeling of emptiness like a man who must see the most precious thing he
possesses slip out of his hand, and cannot move a finger. Leif could
at times become so anxious about Helga that all gladness and pleasure
in life forsook him. Often she looked at him with a questioning and
troubled look, and shut herself within herself.

The summer after Leif had completed seventeen and Ingolf nineteen
winters, Atle's sons for the first time went on a Viking expedition.
That summer was the worst Leif had ever experienced. The want of
occupation, and the complete absence of all events, became doubly
intolerable now that he knew that other young men, who were not much
more than his own equals in age, were sailing out on the wide ways
of the sea, making the acquaintance of foreign people and lands,
trafficking or fighting with those whom they encountered wherever they
went, and, in any case, having new experiences every day and every hour
of the day. These thoughts were so painful that Leif at times became
quite poorly and depressed when they attacked him.

That summer there arose besides in his distracted and uneasy mind a
besetting idea, which, when it had once taken root, was not to be
shaken off. Suppose Holmsten should be killed that summer, how would
Helga receive the news when she heard it? He could sit silent and
watch her for hours at a time in order to discover an answer to this
question. Sometimes he introduced the Viking expedition of Atle's sons
as a topic of conversation before her. She did not seem specially
interested in it, but talked willingly, though without great interest,
about it. These conversations gave Leif a strong impression of woman's
falsity!

At last there came a day when he could hold out no longer, threw away
all shame, and went to Helga and told her that news had come from
Atle's sons that Holmsten had fallen. Helga sat for a while pensive
and serious. "So we shall never see him more," she said, with a slight
tremor in her voice. "I cannot really imagine Atle's sons without
thinking of them all three together--so I remember them the first time
I saw them, so one always saw them. His brothers will be very grieved
at losing him."

Leif listened breathlessly, but her words and tone made him no wiser.
"Was it Haersten--or Haasten?" he thought. "I should have told her
that all three had fallen."

Utterly discomfited by this frustration of his attempt at surprise,
he gave it up altogether. Now he was reckless. "That is not true," he
confessed wearily. "There has come no news from Atle's sons."

Helga became quite silent from surprise. Her astonished look rested
almost anxiously upon him. "How can you take it into your head to say
such things?"

Leif looked maliciously and despairingly at her. "It is still too early
to weep for Holmsten," he said coldly and scornfully. Then he rose
suddenly and went. As he stepped out of the door, a burst of cheerful,
rippling laughter broke out behind him. "Why does she laugh?" he
thought, anxious and angry at the same time, but did not turn round to
examine her face. The rest of the day he kept puzzling about her laugh.
Did she laugh because it was not true that Holmsten had fallen, or did
she only laugh at him, because she had discovered that he was jealous
of Holmsten? For the rest it seemed to Leif that neither was a laughing
matter. So morbid had he gradually become that all laughter seemed to
him suspicious and unbecoming. It took Helga several days to eradicate
the effects of her laughter from Leif's mind. Even kisses and embraces
seemed ineffectual. He suffered from his peculiar obstinate temper,
insisting that he had been insulted, but unable to overcome it. It
required a severe effort before he could bring himself to repay Helga's
gentleness with the same.

But then he seemed all at once to have become quite different. It
seemed as though the exposure he had made of himself had cured him.
He felt an immense relief. Now he had, at any rate, proof that Helga
would neither become white as snow, nor fall dead, even if she should
hear that Holmsten had fallen. He began gradually to surmise that his
jealousy was only a cob-web of the brain.

Besides this, a thought had taken possession of him which drove all
spiteful spectres out of his mind. As early as the next summer he would
go on a Viking expedition himself. He would not remain here and become
prematurely old and peevish. It was true that at summer-time he would
still be two years short of the regular Viking age. But Ingolf would at
that time be of the right age and could get his going legalized--for
Ingolf would go too, as a matter of course. They could not go about at
home for ever and become moss-grown without and mouldy within.

"Look at the old men!" he broke out, when in words that stumbled over
each other he made Helga privy to his plan. "Must one not be sorry
for them? Yet they have been young once. This is what age makes of
people. It is better, when one is good for nothing else but boasting,
to have something to boast of, than for want of experiences to become a
wretched liar."

"Do you think that you will some day become like--like your father?"
asked Helga, smiling. She thought Rodmar was worse than Orn.

"Without doubt," answered Leif decidedly. "I can certainly not realize
it. But why should I become otherwise? Must they not have once been
young and full of life? Now they drivel!"

Helga sat for a little while and thought. And while she thought, her
expression changed and became pensive and serious.

"You are so imprudent, Leif," she said, with anxious eyes, "I fear you
will be killed in your first battle."

Leif laughed arrogantly. "Have you not noticed that I am invulnerable,"
he outbroke, with a beaming smile, "that nothing can injure me? There
is something or other which protects me. I have thought about it. It
can only be _your_ love, Helga. What else should it be?"

Helga kissed him. She had tears in her eyes. "If my love can protect
you, Leif, you _are_ invulnerable. My own friend, do whatever you will,
only do not quite forget me."

Leif hurried from the place to meet Ingolf. And when he found him
he was so completely the old Leif, with body and soul intent upon a
definite object, that, with the stream of his talk and the irresistible
absoluteness of his manner, he swept all ill-humour out of Ingolf's
mind. Now that Leif had become quite himself again, Ingolf needed no
more to be on the watch regarding his own attitude towards him. Ingolf
stood quite quietly, listened to him, and allowed him to talk freely,
without the slightest attempt at interruption. He merely stood and
looked at him, and enjoyed feeling how his eagerness infected his own
mind like a happy excitement. Ingolf felt at that moment a gladness
which he had forgotten. He could have embraced his brother.

While Leif spoke further and developed his plans, Ingolf pondered. He
only followed Leif's stream of talk with one ear, only to ensure that
nothing important escaped him. Meanwhile, he subjected the project to
independent consideration. Perhaps it was, at any rate, over early to
join in a Viking expedition just now. Perhaps they ought rather to
wait a couple of years; Leif was so young, and was still not of the
warrior's age. But, on the other hand, Leif needed a change just now.
And he was quite self-reliant, though not of the proper age. They could
also train themselves in the use of weapons in the winter. If they
waited, Leif would again become strange and not to be understood or put
up with. For Leif's sake they must go. How completely he was again the
old Leif, even in his thoughts!

Ingolf concluded his considerations by saying: "I will talk with my
father about the matter," in the middle of Leif's stream of words.
Then Leif became uncontrollable for a while. He seized hold of Ingolf
and whirled him round. He knew that with this sentence the matter was
decided. But it seemed to him when, out of breath he let his laughing
brother go, that he absolutely must say something about Orn.

"The old blusterer!" he snorted contemptuously. "To think that we
should guide ourselves by _his_ opinion. Well, do as you like. Only
forget not to say that we shall bring wine home for him--much wine.
Then you will see how tractable he will become. I will promise my
father the same, in order to make him willing to give up the keys of
the weapon-chest."

Ingolf went to his father, put the matter in a few words before him,
asked him for ships and merchandize, and first and foremost for his
consent to their making an expedition the next summer.

While Ingolf talked, Orn sat with a dull look and an unwilling
expression in his face, as if it was with difficulty that he heard
him to the end. "Ships and merchandize are your own," he answered
peevishly, when Ingolf was silent. "You can do with both what you will,
and it would not surprise me if you returned home empty-handed. Leif
will still prove a costly brother to you. He will be captured, and
you will have to pay the ransom. Keep a good watch on the ships, and
don't let yourself be cheated in trafficking. When they offer you one
cask of wine for a bear's skin, you should ask three, then you will
get two. For the rest, you can go anywhere in the world as far as I
am concerned, if only you do not disgrace your father. Go! No, wait a
little. If Atle's sons go again on an expedition in the summer, show
that you have a little intelligence, and go with them. Then you will
be five together, and can better hold your own where you go. But if
you return home without a good stock of red wine from the land of the
Franks, I will never see you before my eyes, or hear so much as the
sound of your voice. Go!"

Leif also talked with his father. He was extravagant in his description
of the matter, and lavish in promises. He simply told his father that
now in Ireland and the British Isles grape-wine from all the lands of
the earth could be bought. When the old Rodmar, made young again by the
thought of earth's flowing glories, began to talk of travelling with
them, Leif changed his tone, and pictured the dangers and fatigues of
the journey in vivid colours. Then Rodmar shrivelled into himself again
and gave up the thought of travelling.

But Leif got the keys of the weapon-chest, and for the first time
obtained his father's blessing.

Ingolf told Leif that his father had proposed that they should join
with Atle's sons in the expedition. At first Leif was a little annoyed,
but his joy was so great that everything else became of secondary
importance in comparison with the prospect that he was going out--out
on long journeys in the wide world. He saw at once the reasonableness
of the proposed arrangement. They gained in strength by joining with
Atle's sons, and would be invincible. Besides, there would be more
ships, and the expedition would be a grander thing all round. And there
was, moreover, something enticing in the idea of being with Atle's sons
and witnessing what good and evil befell them.

Perhaps he would have the experience of seeing one or more of them fall
by the enemy's hand. That would be an experience worth bringing home.
When he had got so far in his considerations, he gave Ingolf's proposal
his unconditional approval.

There was much joy in Orn's house. The old men were enlivened, their
stories became more cheerful, and they were not quite so peevish as
before. They already anticipated beforehand in their thoughts how the
barrels of red wine from the land of the Franks would be trundled up
to the house from the landing-place. They knew how a barrel of wine
should be handled from the moment the bung was drawn out till it stood
empty. They already became fastidious and difficult to please with
their thoughts of the red wine.

From that time they drank only mead. All other beer tasted sour,
they said, and wrinkled their noses. One day Orn summoned Ingolf and
reminded him in an imperious tone of honey: "From henceforth only mead
will be brewed here in the house. Go!"

Ingolf smiled to himself when he came out from his father. When no one
saw it, he permitted himself now and then a smile. Ingolf and Leif had
their ships examined, and made other preparations.

Leif spent most days down below at the boat-houses. He was
indefatigable, and showed a reflectiveness and care in his preparations
which both surprised and rejoiced Ingolf.

They were to equip three ships, so there was much to do in taking goods
on board and arranging them, especially as the ships had not been
used for many years, and had therefore to be made taut, tarred and
thoroughly overhauled.

Ingolf and Leif divided the work: Leif looked after the ships and their
equipment, while Ingolf managed the properties of both, and arranged
for obtaining by exchange goods for the expedition.

Leif was indefatigable. Neither the autumn's clammy rain nor the
winter's keen frost and furious snow-storms overcame his energy. The
whole day long, and sometimes far into the night, he was at the
water-side. Helga had to seek him there so that he should not be quite
apart from her. She was glad to see him so happy and absorbed. She was
very warm-hearted, and when he could spare her some time, it was as
though he gave her a treasure. When he thus for a time had forgotten
his work, Helga's exuberant feeling, mingled with the desire to see
Leif at work, made her occasionally remind him that he forgot the time.
The energy with which he set to work again could be a song of secret
gladness in Helga's heart for the rest of the day.

That winter it was Ingolf and Leif's turn to visit Atle's sons. Already
during their first day at Gaulum, Ingolf brought up the subject which
was to him at the moment of greatest importance. Turning to Haasten, he
told the brothers that he and Leif had resolved to go on an expedition
in the summer, and proposed to join them under Haasten's leadership,
provided the brothers also had determined on a cruise.

Atle's sons had had a prosperous summer and were going out again.
Haasten considered it self-evident that they should go in company. He
asked his brothers' opinion. Haersten agreed with him. "Leif is two
winters short of the regular Viking-age," answered Holmsten, with so
little reflection that he hardly knew he had said it, before the words
were out of his mouth.

Leif coloured. And as was always the case when he became angry, he
involuntarily straightened himself. "Let us see if I stand back in any
matter, when occasion arises," he answered, keeping calm successfully.
"If not, is there any reason for setting me aside on account of my
youth?" Ingolf stood pale and resolute. "Leif and I go together," he
said slowly. "I did not think this objection possible, or I would not
have brought forward any proposal for fellowship. Yet we all know how
common it is that the elder lawfully take the younger. Now, let us
talk no more about it. We brothers are men enough to make our way for
ourselves."

"I for my part am willing to go in fellowship with you both," answered
Holmsten quietly and undisturbed, "and willing to take Leif. I only
meant by what I said to draw attention to the fact that he is not of
the legal age."

"Then your words were incautious and liable to be misunderstood," said
Haasten reprovingly, in a severe tone which he seldom used towards his
brothers. Then turning to Ingolf he continued: "We brothers offer you
our fellowship, and beg you earnestly not to decline our offer. We have
been friends since we were boys. We belong together on sea and on land.
I will answer for it that we brothers keep our agreement to the last
drop of our blood and the last farthing in our possession."

Thus they agreed to sail together on a Viking expedition under the
leadership of Haasten as the eldest. The place and time of their
meeting would be further discussed with Ingolf at the time of the
spring sacrifice.




II


One sunny day in the fresh early summer, when airy white clouds were
passing across the bright blue sky and a cheerful breeze was blowing
over the dark blue sea, Ingolf and Leif sailed with their six ships
from Dalsfjord to meet Atle's sons at Hisargavl.

Busy days had preceded their departure. Ingolf had in the course of
the year collected a quantity of goods. They had to be divided among
the ships, put on board, stowed away, and secured carefully. There
were dried fish in quantities--some which they had caught themselves,
and some bought from Lofoten. There were dried skins. There were large
bales of wool. There was also a quantity of furs, obtained from inland
by commerce with the Finns; light wares, minever, and other varieties
of skins. When the goods had been stowed together amidships, the whole
heap was covered with skins for protection against rain and sea, and
well secured besides by long ropes and straps of hide.

The two largest of Ingolf's and Leif's six ships were dragon-ships.
Each had five-and-thirty oars on board, in all, seventy oar-holes, and
were remarkable warships. Splendidly carved dragon-heads, which could
be taken off and put on at pleasure, towered high over the sharp prows,
showing their teeth in war-like fashion and with tongues stretched out
contemptuously against sea and sky, storms and enemies. The stern of
the ship formed the dragon's tail, was artistically carved, and was, as
well as the gunwale, adorned with ingenious intertwined devices.

The other ships were smaller. Two of them had thirty oars on board, the
others five-and-twenty. They were also ornamented with animals' heads
on the bows, and devices along the gunwale and stern, although not so
splendidly as the leading ships.

Ingolf and Leif stood each on the poop of his dragon-ship when the
little fleet rowed out from the landing-place by Orn's house. On
the higher ground were gathered all those who were to remain behind
at home. While the ships were still near the land, loud shouts of
farewell were exchanged between those who stayed behind and those who
were departing. But very soon the long, slender ships with their rows
of oars crept out of hearing. They could then only make signs to one
another.

All this fuss about departure annoyed Ingolf. As soon as they were
in somewhat open water, he had the striped, four-sided, square sail
hoisted. There was only one sail to each ship, but this one could be
turned round the mast and managed with great ease and skill.

While they were still near land Leif often turned and looked back.
He only saw one among the figures of those left behind--a girl whose
fair hair floated in the breeze. She stood so still. Every time he saw
her, his eyes filled with tears, which blotted her from his view. He
did his best to refrain from weeping, but was on the verge of tears.
For the moment the expedition lost all its attraction for him. He felt
suddenly that wherever Helga was not, there was only triviality and
tediousness. If he could have done so honourably he would have turned
back. He felt the separation so acutely that he was neither aware of
the blue sea nor the sunny day. He could not understand why he had not
before considered how impossible it really was to be parted from Helga
for a whole summer. He suffered, moreover, from a painful consciousness
that in his joyful absorption in the prospect of going on an expedition
he had not thought of her at all. He hoped that she would not feel the
separation so severely as he did, but immediately retraced the wish.
For there was a certain consolation in being missed. His distress and
inner confusion were great. Rapid oars were rowing away from Helga
and home, which had always made brightness in his soul, and had now
increased indescribably in value and attractiveness--rapid oars were
rowing him away, and he had to let it be so. He was also obliged, in
order not to let himself fall behind, to pull himself together and,
following Ingolf's example, give command to hoist the sail.

The striped sail bellied out joyfully before the breeze. The heavily
loaded ships pitched moderately. The water foamed around their bows
and splashed against their sides. It was a voyage of the kind which
makes a man feel peaceful and comfortable. The sting of grief in Leif's
consciousness was dulled. His bereavement was mollified by the joy
of journeying. The fjord opened out, and angry-looking waves spoke
seriously with the ships, though always in the most friendly way.
Willingly and yieldingly, if only they were able to float and advance,
the ships obeyed the movements of the waves.

The crews on board were very cheerful. Sailing was a pleasure. They
raised their ringing voices in a loud song, while they looked to the
weapons, ground their axes, fixed spear-points firm in their shafts,
sharpened knives, and tested the strength of their bows. The oars
lay in piles on the forks hung up for that purpose, and the wind was
friendly enough to do the work. It was all as it should be; it was a
happiness to live and a joy to think that they would soon have use
for their weapons. Arms and legs were stretched out, and muscles were
carefully and critically felt. Yes, they were all right. Some had
specially hard and round knots of muscle to show, which were felt by
all the bystanders, and the owners were both congratulated and secretly
envied. The youngest, and those who had the most copious vocabulary,
swore by the salt water and the golden bristles of the holy boar that
they would neither admire nor envy. Secretly they promised themselves
that they would take good swigs from the train-oil barrel.

Thus the day passed, and it was a glorious day.

By the evening there was only a certain, not altogether uncomfortable,
depression remaining from the pain Leif had felt at parting from Helga.
The rest of it he threw off in sleep. As he saw before him coasts which
he did not know and had not seen before--perfectly new coasts in varied
beauty--his mind took its last and decisive turn. Henceforth it only
looked forward.

"Is that Norway, too?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "And have we sailed
the whole night? Norway is great and beautiful! It must be splendid to
live here."

He swallowed every new view with greedy eyes. These strange coasts
aroused an intense desire to live in him. Here life was lived and many
things happened--many things which one had no idea of.

The sworn brothers met Atle's sons, who also had each three ships,
at Hisargavl, as they had agreed. And carried by a breeze, which had
increased to what Vikings would call a good wind, the fifteen ships
steered westward over the sea. They intended to go to the British
Isles and greet the chiefs there. The ships glided smoothly over the
water, keeping together as much as possible. Acquaintances were made
between the ships, accompanied by mutual promises of beer and wine. The
new friends swore to drink each other's healths in horns as soon as
opportunity offered. There was much merriment on board. Here young and
old felt in high spirits. On the sea they were at home, as everywhere
where there was a prospect of adventure and the clash of weapons. And
as the wind increased in strength their spirits rose.

When, next day, there came a storm, their expressions of joy were
not quite so boisterous and demonstrative; now each had something to
look after with his oar or scoop, but the air on board was full of
courage and contentment with events as they might arrange themselves.
A demand was made on their strength, and that was not bad, since they
had it. They would show the old storm-god, Aegir, that they too would
gladly have a brush with him. "Come on, Aegir's daughters, whose kiss
is wet and salt and in its way burning! Come on, you white-tufted,
seaweed-adorned young maidens! The Vikings will not shrink from any
embrace, not even when willingly offered. Even Valkyries and Aegir's
daughters they will embrace with joy. Come on! You will see our
fellow's strength!" Thus they sang and boasted. This voyage made the
old feel young in soul again and matured the young. Gliding along with
oar and scoop, they chewed their dry fish. They had a long time to wait
for any real sleep and rest. In the light nights a healthy man sleeps
only like the birds. If he is on a sea voyage, he closes one eye, takes
what rest he can get amid the waters, and enjoys the night air. For
the rest, he chews his dried fish and is content. One must take the
wind and water as it chances. If neither sun nor stars are visible,
one sails by instinct, which is easy. Odin the All-Father has had his
offerings, and Njord also is at hand. Perhaps the gods guide when the
stars fail. And, anyhow, the Norns have not lost them from sight. They
received what was due to them, and that was as it should be.

After some days and nights of sailing in storm and cloudy weather the
Vikings sighted land. One sleety morning, after a night of rain, some
bare, bleak islands emerged from the fog; otherwise they seemed quite
comfortable. The sea sang them lullabies, and bordered them with white
foam along the cliffs, like a certain other land. Broad billows broke
in mighty abandonment against rugged coasts. "It must be splendid to
live here," thought Leif. He stood and stared at the land with longing
in his eyes. Now they knew where they were, and could confidently sail
farther. One group of islands succeeded another, all equally bleak
and bare. The old experienced Vikings informed the ignorant that there
were the Hjaltland and Orkney Islands. The two brothers had heard the
names before. Now they knew where they were situated. The Orkneys, the
Hjaltland Islands--here they lay.

Ingolf was almost disappointed, though he regarded the islands with
interest. He said: "They are desert islands; what good is there
in them?" "They are easy to defend," an old sea-dog answered him.
Immediately the islands gained in Ingolf's estimation, but he did not
want to live there.

They sailed farther, and came to other islands, equally bleak and
bare--islands with small, narrow valleys, and here and there a crooked,
worn, storm-hardened fir. Those who had not voyaged before, learned
that these were the South Islands. They lay here in the midst of
the sea, exposed to everlasting storms, roared around by unwearied
billows, veiled in rain and fog. "Here the sun seldom shines," one of
Leif's company informed him, "and certainly never for a whole day."
Leif thought that it was a strange and melancholy country. There was
something in his mind which responded to these islands. He would gladly
live here.

They sailed on, and found blue sky and sunshine on the sea.

At last they approached the shore of England. When Ingolf and Leif saw
it, each remained standing on his poop dumb with delight, and a song
arose in both their souls. This was certainly a rich and glorious land!
Such fertility they had never thought possible on earth. Did the vine
grow here? Leif asked his fellow-countryman, with quiet awe in his
voice. The old greybeard answered him, and said that as far as he knew,
when he reflected, the vine did not grow in a land so far north. "This
land's fertility and wealth is certainly great, but nothing compared to
that of the land of the Franks," he concluded. Leif willingly believed
him, but did not understand. Here it must be good to live. In spite of
all bedizened wooden gods, here he would dwell. "Or let me first see
many lands," he added at once with a ravenous, hungry consciousness
of not being able to live everywhere. "Ah! The glorious lands of this
earth--there a life is lived which one has no part in!" he thought to
himself, and felt empty in soul.

Haasten had the peace flag hoisted, and they sailed towards the land.
This would be a good place to trade in. They anchored their ships in
a little bay among wood-covered hills and heights. A crowd of armed
men had already gathered on the place on the shore where they were
preparing to land, and stood gazing towards the ships. There was
evidently a great deal to find out on both sides. Yet they seemed, in
spite of their weapons, quite peaceful, and in consequence they also
hoisted the trade flag.

The ships arranged themselves side by side, according to Haasten's
directions, the first so near to the land that it could be made fast by
a rope to a rock on the shore.

Men with long hooks stood at the ship's sterns and kept them
stationary, till the anchor-stones fell in their proper places, and it
was clear that the ships were secured. Then a long, slender plank with
steps cut in it was pushed towards the land. By it Atle's sons and the
two sworn brothers with them went ashore.

The chiefs of the district inquired of them in courteous language what
they had to sell. Haasten told them, and asked them in turn what wares
could be bought here. When all information had been given it was clear
that both parties wished to trade, and they quickly resolved on a two
weeks' peace for that purpose.

When the peace was made, and hostages given on both sides, serfs
dragged cauldrons and iron stands on shore. Other serfs were sent to
collect fuel. How good it would be to taste hot food again! On board
the ships no fire could be made; there one lived on dried fish, dried
and smoked meat, and bread which gradually became a trial to their
teeth. That was luxurious fare on board, and tasted well in hungry
mouths. On land it was another story; there they liked to sit round a
smoking pot. The first thing they bought was an ox. Therewith _that_
day was finished.

Leif was very restless; he had to go out and look round the
neighbourhood. He chose a number of his best men, obtained leave to
kill game, and gave himself up to roaming about the woods, not so much
to hunt as to see. He feasted his eyes on the mighty forests and the
beauty of the calm lakes. He drank in joyfully the foreign air, and let
his mind be charmed by the contours of the foreign landscape.

But the unrest in his blood would not be quieted. The wonderful
perfume from all the growths of the earth, the sight of the luxurious
overarching fruit-trees in blossom, the fragrant scent of the meadows,
and the profusion everywhere of brightly coloured flowers--all these
combined to intoxicate him. Besides, he obtained wine, which he had
never tasted before, and was transported in gladness and forgetfulness.
He also looked with restless curiosity in the bright, promising eyes of
many delightful young women--eyes which tempted like ripe fruit.

When a week had passed in this way, Ingolf spoke to him in a friendly
and smiling fashion, and reminded him that he was forgetting to trade.
Leif was a little embarrassed by his smile, and suddenly became very
busy. It was true he had completely forgotten to trade. He went to the
market and looked at the wares. And when he saw there a quantity of
silk goods and richly elaborated ornaments of gold, silver, and gilded
bronze, he remembered Helga, gave himself up to trade, and forgot to
chaffer about the things. He bought many ornaments. As soon as he had
bought one, he fell in love with another. He bought precious stones,
costly clothes, and delicate silks. Then his eye fell on some artistic
gold-embroidered stuffs he had never seen the like of, and he bought
a quantity of them. Glasswares of different kinds, goblets, vessels,
and pearls were also a speciality; of them he had to make a copious
selection. He enjoyed this new experience of looking at things and then
buying them. An article which he had never seen before, and had not
the faintest idea that it existed in the world, became suddenly his
property, and assumed life and significance. That gave expansion to
his mind.

Ingolf kept an eye upon him, and amused himself in his quiet way at
his method of trading. In commerce as in everything else Leif was
simplicity itself, and never learnt to use his reason or to keep within
bounds. Ingolf let him go on till he found he had gone far enough; then
he put the brakes on.

"Give me now rather power to trade with your wares," he proposed to
him. "You are no good at trade; you only buy the most unnecessary
things, and let yourself be cheated into the bargain. In the winter you
cannot satisfy your hunger with clothes or allay your thirst with empty
glass goblets." Leif saw that he was right, and willingly granted him
the desired authority. He had bought many things, and felt like a king.
Already he pictured to himself his homecoming. First he would give
Helga a single article such as he did not possess many of. She would
kiss him, and her face would be tinged with a delicate red, as was the
case when she was happy or emotionally stirred. Then he would come with
another thing and still another, till Helga stood speechless with her
eyes full of tears. Then he would draw her to himself....

It seemed to him a very long, dreary summer he was approaching. As he
was in the act of leaving the market his eye fell on an ornament with
carved figures of gilt bone. He felt he must have it, even if it cost
three bearskins. Ingolf intervened in the matter, and Leif obtained the
ornament for one bearskin. So he was at length satisfied and gave up
all further trading. Then he roamed round again in the woods with his
little following, or simply lay and dozed, and let longing and delight
pass like swift breezes through his mind. "Ah, England," he thought,
"your land is fertile and your women are beautiful."

He wished gradually that he could live and be married in all the lands
of the earth--preferably all at once. He dreamt much of women at that
time. He imbibed their various charms with much appreciation. But
sometimes his longing for Helga drove all others out of his mind. Helga
sat at home and was faithful to him, and awaited him with longing.
How did the days pass with her? His heart began to beat heavily and
with a feeling of guilt regarding her. She possessed him once for all.
She was his. Yes, she was like the year, and the other women were
like days--the fleeting days. He compared in his thoughts all the
different women, who had made an impression on him, with Helga. One by
one they faded and disappeared as he remembered Helga, who was his.
They disappeared--yes! But it is to be observed that this lasted only
till he saw them again, when they again kindled his restlessness and
manifold longing.

The day came when the trade-truce was over. Haasten did not think there
was any reason to prolong it, and consulted Ingolf on the subject.
Ingolf answered that they had bought what they wanted, and agreed with
him. So the hostages were returned on both sides with many precautions,
and the Viking-ships, disburdened of their cargoes, rowed out of the
bay and hoisted sail. But they only sailed away for appearance' sake.
By night they ran into another bay. They had a great desire to get some
spoil along the fertile coast. But they did not return unexpected. The
chief of the district, foreseeing this possibility, had collected all
his people, and now stood ready to meet them on the shore. Haasten
thought it safer not to attempt a landing where so many opposed them,
and ordered the ships to row out of the bay again.

The old Vikings grumbled, his brothers were silent, and Leif foamed
with rage. But Haasten did not care at all. He remained lying outside
the bay for two days and nights. The weather was calm, and not suitable
for sailing. He held the chief and his people bound to the spot. Then
what he expected happened. A powerful wind made it possible to set sail
at once, to run down along the coast quicker than the people on shore
could follow, to anchor up the mouth of a river, and to have the crews
drawn up on land in battle-array before the main force of the people of
the district could get there.

Haasten had only allowed a few men to remain on board, but his force
was far inferior in numbers to that of the defenders. The fight took
place in a flat meadow along the river. Haasten quickly saw that he had
undertaken more than he could manage. These native troops had obviously
encountered the Vikings before. Haasten quickly gave his people orders
to take refuge on board; he did not wish to run the risk of losing men
so early in the summer.

Leif and Holmsten happened to be near one another in the fight. Each
quickly discovered how bravely and boldly the other fought, and that
fact, together with the circumstance that they here stood side by side
in a battle for life and death, drew them nearer to each other, and
banished for a while all hate towards Holmsten out of Leif's mind. They
were vexed at the order to go on board with their task unperformed, but
obeyed.

When they were safe, Holmsten said: "Listen, Leif; let us take a pair
of the smallest and swiftest ships, and make a trip on our own account
along the coast."

Leif immediately agreed. Haasten bade them do as they liked, but to be
careful not to be too long away. But Ingolf gave his vote against the
expedition.

"Let the boys amuse themselves a little," Haasten said, with a smile.
"It will do them good. They fight smartly by themselves. And we will
give them some good men." Since Haasten promised that the other ships
should follow them as soon as a great part of the enemy's forces had
dispersed in order to follow the two game-cocks' movements, Ingolf
yielded, although with reluctance.

When the chiefs on shore saw two small ships separate themselves from
the fleet and sail away, they believed that it was a stratagem, and
dispatched only a small force from the place to keep an eye on them.
Haasten had reckoned on this, and now Ingolf's anxiety was partly
quieted.

Leif and Holmsten sailed up along the coast, and succeeded in landing.
But they had no experience in drawing up men for battle, and when
the land forces sent to watch them suddenly attacked, there was no
order among their men. There followed a confused struggle which soon
developed into a number of single combats, man against man. Leif was
opposed by an older fighter than himself, who did not leave or afford
him the least opening for an attack. He had enough to do to ward off
his rapid and heavy blows with shield and sword. Leif already thought
that that day would be his last under the sun; he felt a paralysing
fear stealing slowly over him and robbing him of strength. He noticed
that he had become wet down to his legs, which had begun to shake
violently, and shame and fear concentrated themselves to a wild frenzy
in his soul. He suddenly saw red. If he were to fall, his opponent
should at any rate carry away marks of the battle. He flung away sword
and shield, and took hold of his battle-ax. How he killed the other
he never understood, but at last he had him stretched flat on the
ground. He picked up his sword and shield, completely out of breath,
and shaking in his whole body, and looked around for a new opponent.
Not far away the leader of the land-force was exchanging powerful blows
with Holmsten. Holmsten had had his shield hewn in pieces, but there
seemed to be something the matter with his opponent's sword. When
Leif had stood for a moment looking on, his eye fell on a man who was
approaching Holmsten from behind with uplifted ax. It was impossible
for Leif to get near in time, but purely instinctively he grasped his
spear, and as instinctively hesitated a moment before throwing it.
Holmsten's head cloven by an ax was what he in his heart longed to see.
But it was as impossible to let it happen as it was desirable. It
must not happen! The spear whistled through the air, and a man with
lifted ax fell over on his face just behind Holmsten's back. Holmsten's
opponent had become aware that something was happening, and became
for a moment off his guard. Holmsten took advantage of that moment,
drove his sword into his stomach, and thrust hard. The other tottered
and fell, with the greatest astonishment in his distorted face. And
now that their leader had fallen, the rest of the force fled. Some of
them were cut down while flying. Holmsten and Leif gave themselves
no time to draw breath. They ran towards the town, followed by their
men. The women and children fled in great confusion when they saw the
Vikings approaching. Some of the men wanted to go after them, and Leif
felt his heart thump in his breast when he saw the young women flying.
Especially one of them, whom he clearly recognized, and who did not
seem to be taking very much trouble to escape, and certainly had set
her eye upon him, attracted him. But when he heard Holmsten call the
men back sharply, he gave up following her. Holmsten was obviously
strongly excited, though outwardly quite calm.

"First work, then play!" he commanded, in a tone which permitted no
opposition, and the Vikings directed their course further against the
deserted town. Holmsten and the other sons of Atle had not bought
anything but corn, honey, and wine. What they wanted in the shape of
articles of luxury and clothes, they expected to get without further
expenditure. It was plain that there was plenty to take in the town. A
rich booty of ornaments, silks, clothes, precious stones, and other
similar things was collected in bundles and carried to the waiting
ships. When this had been seen to, Holmsten gave as many of his men as
he could spare leave to go on shore. Now they could go and flirt with
the girls if they liked. Holmsten remained on board and stowed away
the booty. So Leif could not manage to go on shore, though he greatly
wanted to see what was up there in the wood.

When sunset approached, and it began to be evening, Holmsten told Leif
to go on shore and blow the signal with the horn for the crews to go
on board. They had collected plenty of booty, and there was nothing
more to wait for. Now they had been long enough on shore. Leif had from
the ship marked a little height which lay apart, and from which the
horn could be heard far around. Upon it he meant to stand and give the
signal. The ascent to the height was covered with low bushes. In one
of these bushes Leif's eye fell on a girl. He looked more closely, and
knew her again. Her eye was soft and timid, and she was very young.
Leif forgot what he had gone for, and remained with her. He cooled
his hot face in the profusion of her dark hair, and lost himself.
First he was taken with her extravagant wildness; then he was scared,
and rapidly cooled off. When he left her, she wept. Leif went slowly
farther up the ascent. When he reached the top, he set the horn to his
mouth and blew hard. Its tones reverberated angrily over the landscape.
Leif was depressed in mind by disappointment and weariness. It was not
a pleasant weariness like that after a battle. He had toyed with the
British girls, and dared not think of Helga. The remembrance of Helga
was like a wound in his soul--a wound which he dared not touch lest
he should tear it open. It must have time to heal, which it might by
forgetfulness. He felt a great relief when they rowed out from the bay
and set sail. He never wished to come here again. Up on the height a
girl sat and wept. In self-defence he hardened himself. Let her weep!
What was it to him? He was not hers, and she had sought him herself.

Holmsten and Leif were greeted with loud shouts of joy when they
returned to the fleet. They gave an account of the battle, showed their
booty, and reaped much praise. When Haasten and Ingolf heard that Leif
had saved Holmsten's life, they exchanged a look, and were both very
glad. Haasten praised Leif for his prowess in battle, and it was a
great honour to be praised aloud by Haasten. But it gave Leif little
pleasure now. His unstable mind had lost its balance. Now he wished
that he had never thrown the spear. Ingolf was not long in discovering
that a change had taken place in his brother. He knew Leif, and guessed
the reason. A long sea voyage would be the best for Leif now, he
thought, and he induced Haasten to alter his plan and to sail first to
a place on the Irish coast which he knew lay far away. Haasten complied
willingly. He had been successful in trading, and had secured a rich
booty. Perhaps it was the most prudent course not to visit at once the
nearest coasts. It was never certain what connections there might be
between the different chiefs of the district. So they hoisted sail and
directed their course towards Ireland.

It was soon evident that Ingolf's insight was correct with regard to
what Leif needed to restore his mind to its balance again.

They encountered a lively summer storm in the channel. That was
beneficial. The warmth and the fine weather had begun to make the crews
somewhat slack.

The sea journey ventilated Leif's mind. He again became his former
self: a young Viking with desire for adventures of all kinds and an
insatiable thirst to see new lands and to exchange blows with foreign
chiefs.




III


The Vikings travelled far that summer. From England they sailed to
Ireland, past the Isle of Man, whose cliff-lined coast they could only
salute on that journey. Later on they meant to renew and deepen their
acquaintanceship with it.

They had successful trade with Ireland. Leif saw many new things which
he could not resist. Ingolf looked after the purchase of corn, honey,
wine, wheat, and the more useful articles of metal for both of them.

Atle's sons were excellent traders. At first they made considerably
more out of their goods than the sworn brothers. But Ingolf gave close
attention to their proceedings, and learnt the art from them. And when
he had learnt all that Atle's sons could do in the matter of trade, he
did not remain stationary at that point. He developed himself further
on his own account. Instead of doing trade in single articles, he
began to deal with considerable quantities. This brought in greater
gains. Soon the sons of Atle had something to learn from him.

The five Viking leaders had remained on the best terms together.
Haasten, with his self-control and sense of fairness, was distinctly
marked out as leader. Leif had still fits of hatred towards Holmsten
and of ill-humour towards the other brothers, but he kept his temper
under restraint. And whenever they encountered foes he became, as it
were, at once their brother, and fought bravely on their side.

He much admired Atle's sons' skill in handling their weapons and their
composure in battle. They fought as coolly and calmly as if nothing
at all serious was intended. Only when they attacked was a certain
excitement apparent. An attack by one of Atle's sons meant generally a
swift death for the opponent. They played, to be sure, but there was
seriousness in their play. It meant nothing less than life or death.

Leif was greatly taken by the immovable calm with which they let their
weapons talk. He did not understand how they could fight and yet at the
same time be as it were spectators. He understood Ingolf's method of
fighting much better.

Ingolf attacked at once with his full strength and remained steadily
on the offensive. His figure seemed to increase in weight. His
blows clove shields, and his thrust penetrated where it struck. He
never let himself be forced into a defensive attitude, but attacked
fiercely, though always under control. His mode of fighting was not
so supercilious as that of Atle's sons; he gave himself more away,
but preserved his composure. This quietness and assurance of Ingolf
and Atle's sons remained a riddle for Leif. For him, composure in
battle would have meant simply death. He handled his weapons very
awkwardly till he began to see red. From that moment he became so sure
in his use of them that it was a pleasure to watch him. But he fought
unconsciously, and did not know what had happened before his opponent
lay prone. Then for the first time he took breath and collected
himself. It was fine to see him, when he let himself go, tall and
disorderly, crouching in the indomitable display of his strength. It
seemed easy to take his life, and as if his enemy had it in his hand.
Leif did not care how many openings he gave his opponent. But it was
not easy to take advantage of these openings, for he never remained
long in one place. He danced round his enemy, confused him with his
apparent want of plan in attack, and pierced or slashed him before he
was aware. Haasten enjoyed watching Leif fight. He insisted that Leif
was invincible, for he was so thoroughly absorbed in the battle that
even a superior opponent must give way before his waspish attack. "Leif
could only be killed by accident--only a mistletoe branch could strike
him," Haasten said. He came to be quite fond of Leif.

The Viking expedition sailed farther along the coasts of Ireland,
and Leif was fascinated with the remarkable country he found there.
Ireland, that unquiet, ever-changing land, appealed in a peculiarly
intimate degree to his heart. Every time that he thought he knew it,
he discovered that he did not. He was continually coming across
something new. Wild, stony tracts were suddenly succeeded by fertile
plains. Desert heaths, dark woods, narrow valleys with black rivers at
the bottom, friendly coasts, rugged lines of cliff, peaceful towering
mountains, placid lakes, roaring rivers--all these Ireland had. Most
wonderful of all, perhaps, were the abruptly changing lights. Ireland
had its own sky, full of whims like itself, rapidly changing from lofty
pure blue depths to a watery layer of clouds over the land. There
might be a blazing festival of sunshine over the landscape, and the
next moment it was over-shadowed by heavy masses of cloud. A tract of
country which had been like a brilliant smile was suddenly completely
changed, and became dark and threatening, filled with a special sense
of discomfort, deep and unescapable as a dream. Ireland played with
one's heart, filled it with joy, to oppress it the next moment with
fear and foreboding.

And Ireland's people were like Ireland's land and light. They were wild
men whose soul was a mixture of gentle dreaminess and fierce rage.
People who devoted themselves to fighting with their whole soul and did
not know how to give or expect quarter. Their polite friendliness, nay,
even brotherliness, in peaceful intercourse stood in glaring contrast
to the savagery in battle and their cruelty towards fallen or captive
enemies. They could amuse themselves by opening a man's stomach and
letting him wind the entrails out of his body by leading him round
a tree. They counted that a delightful amusement, and their gaiety
was enhanced if the captive groaned. They were a nation of singular
enthusiasts, bards and warriors, swarthy or red-haired, and alternately
irascible or quiet.

Never in his life had Leif seen so many remarkably beautiful women as
he did here. There were women with rich red hair, soft gleaming skins,
quiet and inviting beings. They aroused his longing. There were also
dark women, who were in themselves not less taking. Their pale skins
and dark eyes filled Leif's dreams. There were other dark women with
golden skin, pliant and slender. There was abundance of women of all
complexions, and nearly all were beautiful.

The Vikings were enthusiastic about them, but their enthusiasm was
moderated by the fact that the women carried daggers hidden in their
clothes, so that now and then there was only a step between love and
death. Generally speaking, the Vikings were not unpopular among the
Irish women. And not seldom an originally loose connection between a
Norwegian chief and an Irish girl developed into marriage.

Besides these people, the Vikings in Ireland came across another type
still more savage in manners and shape, with tattooed bodies. It was a
matter for astonishment to see the contrast between the land and the
people. The sworn brothers and Atle's sons traded and ravaged far and
wide in Ireland and the British Isles that summer. On the whole, they
had had good luck, made good trade, taken much booty, and only lost
few men. The last was especially due to Haasten's wise moderation and
always vigilant foresight.

Haasten had often since employed the stratagem, which had succeeded so
well the first time, of sending Leif and Holmsten out on a foray with
two of the smallest ships, while the rest of the fleet detained the
land defenders at another spot. Holmsten and Leif both equally enjoyed
these excursions. And as they always took the best men with them, their
expeditions generally succeeded, and brought in rich booty.

Once, however, it had nearly gone hard with them. A Swedish
Viking-fleet consisting of five well-manned ships came across them
as they were rowing out of a bay, where their ships had lain while
they made a foray on shore. The Swedes inspected them a little, and
thought that they could make use both of the ships and of what might
be found on board. So they hoisted their battle-flag and set after
them. Leif and Holmsten were obliged to accept battle with the superior
forces of the enemy. It was impossible to escape. They cleared their
ships for the combat, determining not to surrender. But before the
battle had begun, the other ships came rowing round a neighbouring
promontory. Leif and Holmsten had been longer away than usual that
time, and Haasten, and especially Ingolf, had at last become uneasy,
and determined to go and look after them.

When the Swedes saw the other ships approaching, and perceived that
they were many and large, they turned sharp round and rowed away as
rapidly as possible, but the wind was slack and unreliable, and the
Swedes were lucky to find a fog-bank, which they ran into and escaped.
When this happened, the summer was already approaching its end. The
Vikings had by that time sold all that they had brought with them from
home, and were well provided with foreign goods of every kind. There
was really nothing more to wait for.

The sea began to awake gradually from its summer lethargy. It was
plainly shown by the ships' movements that the waves were already aware
of the approach of winter.

The ships were all heavily laden. And as they were warships they were
not very well adapted for voyaging in the autumn. So the Vikings sailed
home over the sea, the same way as they had come, under the colourless
skies of late summer by day and the clear golden stars by night.

They had prosperous winds, and reached Norway about the time that the
leaves were beginning to fall.

Leif was full of longing for Helga during the voyage home. He counted
the days and could not sleep. It seemed to him suddenly that in the
course of the summer she had come very close to him. Absence and
separation had, as it were, intimately united them. His longing,
however, was considerably mingled with fear--a fear without shape or
distinct substance, yet none the less painful.

At Hisargavl, Atle's sons took leave of Ingolf and Leif. They thanked
each other for the summer they had spent together, arranged to meet
there next summer, drank each other's health in dark wine from glass
goblets, and swore eternal friendship. Ingolf and Leif invited Atle's
sons to come to the feast the first day of the month of Goi, with as
large a retinue as they liked to bring, and Atle's sons promised to
come. Holmsten, half-intoxicated, happened to mention Helga's name,
and Leif listened with all his ears. But for the rest he could make
nothing out of Holmsten's confused talk, except that he now knew that
Helga was in his thoughts.

That evening Leif threw a spear overboard. So the sworn brothers and
Atle's sons parted, and each sailed home with the rich booty of the
summer.




IV


Helga awoke in the night and heard the sound of oars in the fjord. She
dressed hastily and went down to the landing-place. It was full moon,
but the sky was covered with dark masses of clouds. Out on the dark
surface of the fjord the ships looked black and ghostly. A sudden fear
made Helga's heart tremble. The ships came rowing so silently in the
night. The stroke of the oars sounded so lonely in the stillness. Was
Leif with them? She counted the ships and found they were not the full
number. But she could not distinguish them clearly, and the larger
ones might overshadow the smaller. How silently they rowed! Would it
not be better if she went home to bed? That would be where she would
lie if she came to know that she would no more see Leif. She would
never wish to get up again. The foremost ship rowed into the somewhat
broken moonlight on the surface of the fjord. Helga thought she could
recognize it. Was that not Leif's dragon? She strained her eyes till
they smarted, and ran down to the edge of the water. The ship over
there was so dark and indistinct she could make out neither colour nor
shape. It glided nearer like a shadow. The water dripped in silvery
drops from the oar-blades.

A rift in the masses of clouds let the moon's pale light illumine the
shore. Helga stood in it thinking intently. Was Leif with them? That
would be an almost incomprehensible happiness. And even if he were,
still there would come a day when his ship would return without him, or
his people would come some winter day carrying him on a bier, and there
would be blood upon the snow. A time must come when Leif would be no
more. Then she must die.

Helga stood there bathed in the wan light of the moon, and gave herself
away to her last breath. She embraced Leif with her soul, alive or
dead. When the ships came quite near she stepped quickly into the
shadow of one of the boat-houses. She would see if Leif was with them
before she made a mistake.

Rapidly the ships approached, rowed by long oars, keeping regular time.
Yes, the foremost was Leif's dragon-ship. Majestically it glided over
the water, and there--yes, there on the poop stood Leif. Ah, Leif!
Leif! Helga wept. She wept and was happy. But she quickly dried her
eyes. See how Leif had exerted himself. He wished to be the first on
shore. She could hear the excited tone of his voice when he gave the
order: "Inboard!" Leif was impatient now; his movements were abrupt
and hasty. He urged on his crew, and his voice became sharp. He could
not wait--he could never wait the last moments. Leif! Leif! He did not
guess that she stood there.

Helga did not go out of the shadow and down to the ship. She saw the
crew working with the long boat-hooks and pushing the landing-plank
out over the ship's side. She could just catch a glimpse of a man who
went down it. And then came Leif running. How like him it was. When he
was right opposite her, she went forward to meet him. Leif started,
stopped, and stood. All his impetuosity ceased.

"Could you not see me?" asked Helga, with a smile that quivered. She
felt so rich and happy, and came gradually nearer. Leif was not in a
condition to answer or to say a word at all. He stood there, and that
was all he could do. He could not even collect himself and kiss her.
Helga came slowly close up to him and laid her arms quietly round his
neck. They drank a long kiss from each other's mouths till their lips
were sore.

Leif wished to say something, but there was a lump in his throat. When
he discovered that, he began to weep. Helga smiled and kissed him more
fervently. Her fearless Viking was only a long, ungainly boy who wept.
He stood and embraced Helga violently but helplessly, and tears ran
down his freckled, weather-tanned cheeks. Helga turned gently in his
embrace. He thought she wished to be released, and let her go. But
Helga did not wish to be out of his arms. She only wished to turn so
that they might walk side by side. She did not wish that any one should
find them there, and led him away. She wanted to have him for herself
now that she had at last got him again after an endless summer. And
Leif let her have her way; he had forgotten everything else except that
he had her again.

They did not talk much. Only some hasty questions and quiet, hasty
answers were exchanged between them. They had, as it were, no time for
more talk. There was silence between them--a good and happy silence.
They had each other.

In the house there was great excitement. Morning broke on an apparently
hopeless confusion of men and women, who chatted together, kissed, or
only sent each other embarrassed and happy glances. There were also
children of all ages who jumped and sang and quarrelled together in
little private combats, and men who carried loads from the ships to the
house, and sauntered back again in knots, talking vigourously.

Ingolf went quietly to and fro and saw that the work was done. The
ships had to be unloaded and the goods carried home to the house, and
it was best to get it done soon. At this time of year the weather and
the sea were not to be relied upon. Ingolf felt a sense of happiness
and confidence at being home again. He relaxed a little the strict
discipline which he generally maintained in all work, and granted each
man sufficient time for embracing friends and for confidential talk.
But if any one did not go to work of his own accord, when a reasonable
time had passed, he called him by name in a friendly way and aroused
him. No more was needed. The work went on vigourously. The men wanted
it done as soon as possible. Ingolf had promised them a few days'
holiday when the goods were in the house and the ships in the sheds.

Orn came out, bent and aged, blinking with inflamed eyes in the garish
light of morning. He gave such an immense yawn that his shaggy jaws
cracked and shivered, chilled by the cold autumnal air. Old age had
come upon him, bent his back, and gnawed the flesh from his limbs.
When Ingolf saw him, he hastened to him. Now that he saw him again,
after not having had him daily before his eyes for several months, he
suddenly realized how old and decrepit his father had actually become,
and was seized by a strong feeling of sympathy. He whispered something
as he passed in a man's ear. The man smiled and nodded, and ran down
to the ships. Then Ingolf hastened to his father and greeted him with
reverence and tenderness.

The old man was always on his guard against too much friendliness. Old
age had increased his mistrust of people. He was peevish and gruff.
He returned his son's greeting very nonchalantly, and began with
noticeable haste to question him concerning purely practical matters.
Had he all the ships with him? How much had he allowed himself to be
cheated? He had not, it was to be hoped, brought an Irish wife home
with him? How many of his men had fallen? He had probably nothing
creditable to report?

It seemed to Ingolf that his voice had become remarkably high-pitched
and strident.

And when Ingolf had answered, the old man repeated his questions time
after time. It suddenly occurred to Ingolf that his father could no
longer hear as well as before. He had to raise his voice, and he found
it trying and embarrassing to have to change it. Orn noticed the
change, and shouted: "Yes, I no longer hear so well. It is especially
this ear here which is affected. But it is worse with Rodmar! He is
alive still. But he has gone blind!" Orn laughed with a snort. "That
is still worse!" His laughter filled Ingolf with discomfort. Then
Orn suddenly stopped laughing. He had happened to cast a glance down
towards the ships. Now he stood, his glance became fixed, and his eyes
widened. Then he suddenly began to count and point at the same time
with a crooked finger. "One, two, three...."

When he had counted up to twenty, he broke off and said to Ingolf, with
a voice trembling with joyful emotion: "How many are there altogether?"
Ingolf smiled. "There are many," he answered, in a friendly tone. "I
took care that you should not want wine, father."

From the landing-place below there came a long line of men up towards
the house, each one trundling a barrel. As though guided by his sense
of smell, Rodmar came at the same moment tottering out of the house,
supported on two sticks, and carefully feeling his way forward with his
legs. Orn turned towards him, and shouted in a high and excited voice:
"Now the barrels of red wine from the land of the Franks are coming in
a long line rolling up to the house, Cousin Rodmar!"

"Ah, my eyes!" answered Rodmar, in a trembling and weak voice. "Gladly
would I have seen that sight. But keep silent, so that I can at any
rate hear the wine slopping inside the barrels!"

There was a great restlessness in Orn's blood. He took short steps,
and could not stand still. With his crooked fingers he took hold of
Ingolf's cloak, drew him down towards him, and gave him a hasty kiss on
his forehead. Then he tottered on stiff legs up to Rodmar and clapped
him on the shoulder with a trembling hand. "I cannot hear, and you
cannot see, cousin. But let us thank Odin that we can both still taste.
Isn't your tongue dry with knowing that there is so much wine close by?
Mine rolls in my mouth like birch-bark."

It was not long before the two aged kinsmen sat side by side in the
high-seat and tasted for the first time the red wine from the land of
the Franks, which they had been waiting for during a whole long summer.
They drank the wine noisily, let it fill their mouths, and tasted it
with satisfaction.

"How do you like it?" asked Orn between gulps. Rodmar gave himself
barely time to answer. "It tastes good," he answered hastily, and
drank, "but I miss seeing the colour."

"Splash a little in your eyes, cousin," Orn answered, and laughed.

There they sat, and became very cheerful later in the day. Long before
the sun went down they were asleep and snoring loudly. Drink had come
to Dalsfjord.

Not till towards evening did Ingolf find Leif and Helga. Ingolf
embraced Helga, and kissed her with much tenderness. "Are you pleased
with all the gifts, sister?" he asked, with a smile.

Helga looked with wide-open eyes first at him and then at Leif. Then
she smiled without comprehension and a little uncertainty. Leif looked
unhappy. "I quite forgot them," he stammered, blushing and embarrassed.

Ingolf laughed loud and heartily. But Helga threw her arms round Leif's
neck and kissed him tenderly before the eyes of her brother.




V


There was a chief and Viking named Olmod the Old, son of Horda-Kaare.
He was a kinsman of Leif.

Olmod the Old was popular with all. He was a wise man, quiet and
circumspect, a warrior in battle and a hero where drinking-horns were
emptied. No one would have guessed that Olmod the Old concealed a
great restlessness under the mask of quiet and imperturbability which
he outwardly wore. He talked willingly, and had a flow of cheerful
conversation, but was not lavish with his confidence. All thought that
they knew his mind, but no one did.

Olmod the Old seldom remained long in one place. In the summer he went
on Viking expeditions; in winter he was a guest in various places. He
had many friends, and wherever he stayed he brought cheerfulness with
him.

He was very fond of his kinsman, Leif, whose character resembled his
own. It was a significant fact about Olmod that Leif was unaware that
he possessed a friend in him. Leif would have been rather inclined to
believe the opposite. Olmod seldom talked to him, gave him no presents,
did not show him favour or friendship in any degree. But in secret
Olmod kept an eye on his kinsman, Leif, and knew all about his affairs.

That winter Olmod visited Atle Jarl at Gaulum. In doing so he fulfilled
an old promise. He knew that Leif and Ingolf had been on a Viking
expedition with Atle's sons the previous summer. It had suddenly
occurred to him that he knew Atle's sons too little.

During his visit to Gaulum, Olmod gave such close attention to Atle's
sons that he actually came to over-hear a conversation between Haersten
and Holmsten which they did not intend him or any one else to hear.

"I hear that Helga and Leif are fond of each other," said Haersten.

"That sounds hard to believe," answered Holmsten.

"Women's taste is often strange," continued Haersten. "Did you see,
also, brother, that Leif threw a spear overboard at Hisargavl?"

"Why did you not tell me that before?"

"Because it has only just occurred to me that Leif regretted the use he
had once made of that spear."

"With my good will I shall not give Leif reason to deprive himself of
many more weapons," said Holmsten gloomily. "It would be rather after
my mind to take care that he finds full use for all his weapons."

Olmod had heard enough. Now he knew what Leif's friends were. Shortly
after overhearing this conversation he departed. He directed his way
towards Orn's house, and was welcomed by Orn and the brothers. When he
had stayed a week in the house, he prepared to go farther. Before doing
so, he talked confidentially with Ingolf.

"Don't take it ill if I mix in your affairs, Ingolf. I begin to get
old, and old men are talkative. I only wish to remind you that Atle's
sons, whom you and Leif have invited to the feast this winter, are
powerful chiefs, and that it will be advisable for you to show them
all possible honour--among other things, by inviting as many of your
kinsfolk and friends to the feast as you can." Ingolf remained silent
after Olmod had spoken. He looked attentively at him. Olmod met his
look with a smile. His smile was quiet and experienced. Ingolf became
suddenly aware that he had more than a guest in Olmod.

"You come from Gaulum," he said in a low tone and thoughtfully. "Is
that your advice?"

"That is my advice," answered Olmod, with a firmness in his voice which
left no doubt as to his seriousness. And he added, as though casually:
"Haasten is only _one_ of Atle's sons."

"Have you talked with Leif on this subject?" Ingolf asked suddenly.

Olmod the Old said only: "I know my kinsman, Leif. And I know you, too,
Ingolf."

Ingolf gave Olmod some handsome presents on his departure and escorted
him part of the way.

On the first day of the month of Goi, Atle's sons came with a large
retinue to Orn's house. Ingolf had followed Olmod the Old's advice,
and invited a large circle of his own and Leif's friends to the feast
for Atle's sons. When Haasten saw how many were invited to the feast,
he said to Ingolf, with a smile: "We sons of Atle are not accustomed
to receive our friends with such a great force." Ingolf looked at him
and answered seriously: "One can never show one's friends too great an
honour, Haasten."

Haasten became silent and thoughtful. Involuntarily he looked at his
brothers. They stood there talking confidentially together. There
was something in their bearing which made Haasten uneasy. He noticed
also that Ingolf was watching his brothers. Haersten and Holmsten had
withdrawn themselves from the rest, and stood whispering together.

"We have never been received in such a magnificent way here before,"
said Haersten, with a smile. "There must be something behind it."

"I should not be surprised," answered Holmsten, "if Olmod the Old had
been here. Where did he go to when he left us? It occurs to me all at
once that his bearing was different when he left than when he came."

"What can Olmod the Old have told any here?" asked Haersten
thoughtfully.

"Something which he possibly heard," replied Holmsten dryly.

"What will you do now, brother?"

"I don't know yet. But some time Leif shall come to miss the spear
which he threw overboard at Hisargavl!"

Orn became quite another man as soon as guests came to the house. He
livened up and became young again. He did not gulp down his wine, but
drank deep and was none the worse for it. He was still capable of
filling the high-seat with dignity and of presiding over a festival.

Rodmar, on the other hand, preferred to remain in bed when anything
unusual was going on. The restlessness which the sound of many voices
produced in his state of blindness made him unwell. When he could not
sit quite peacefully with Orn he liked best to be alone with his wine.

Orn beckoned Haasten to a place beside him on the high-seat. Outside
it he seated the other sons of Atle and the sworn brothers, and then
the remaining guests according to their age and rank. When the guests
had taken their seats the hall was completely filled. Orn set great
store by such feasts. He liked sitting as chief in his hall. He stinted
neither food nor drink. It filled him with inward satisfaction to see
people eat and drink and be merry.

He became cheerful and resumed something of his old dignity.

The fire burnt pleasantly on the flat stone of the hearth. When the
guests at last were satisfied, the bowls and wooden dishes were carried
out, and the real drinking festival began. The youngest and handsomest
women in the house went about in festal attire and poured out beer.
Among them was Helga. She served at the high table. Holmsten's eyes
followed her wherever she went and stood. He had never shown his liking
for her so openly.

Helga could not help noticing his persistent gaze. It made her afraid.
She would rather have remained away from the hall, but, on the other
hand, she dared not leave Leif out of her sight. Leif sat with his
mouth compressed and a gloomy expression in his eyes, and drank but
little. That was not his usual way at a feast; he was accustomed to
drink rather too much than too little. Only seldom did Helga succeed
in catching his eye. He did not return her smile. She went to and fro
in great alarm. She took care never to look at Holmsten, and she did
not smile at him as at the others when she filled his horn.

Holmsten pretended not to notice it. His eye glowed with the same
warmth, and his look followed her with the same persistence about the
hall.

Orn proposed the toasts to the gods. He was still equal to emptying
horns in their honour. When he proposed the toast of Brage, Holmsten
rose and struck on his horn. "It is the custom of high-born men," he
said in a loud and cheerful voice, "to make vows when Brage's toast
is called. I have a vow to make which I will beg you kind friends to
witness."

Holmsten stopped and looked round him. He caught a warning and slightly
anxious look from his brother, Haasten. He saw Leif's bowed head and
caught a glimpse of his serious face; he saw Ingolf's face grow rigid
with quiet expectation. And he saw Helga standing anxious and uncertain
and looking at Leif.

Holmsten smiled. For a while he stood with his burning gaze fixed upon
Helga, as though waiting to catch her eye. Then he lifted his horn and
said in loud tones: "I make this vow with Brage's toast, that I will
marry Helga, daughter of Orn, or no other woman." There was silence
in the hall. Helga remained standing still for a while. She looked
intently at Leif, and saw the blood mount to his face and his shaking
fingers grip the foot of the horn. When she saw that he would succeed
in controlling himself, she silently left the hall, her face very pale.

Haasten had sprung up from his place when Holmsten made his vow, but
had sat down again without saying anything. Ingolf sat with a smile on
his face but a look in his blue eyes that was as sharp as a knife. Orn
smiled graciously at Holmsten, and Haersten laughed contentedly.

At last Leif looked up. There was a hard and hostile look in his
usually cheerful eyes. He looked slowly round, and let his glance dwell
for a while on each of Atle's sons, and finally on his sworn brother,
Ingolf, as if he were considering him especially. He looked almost as
if he would not be sorry to encounter them all at once should that be
necessary. To Orn he only vouchsafed a hasty and contemptuous glance.

Holmsten quite understood the effect his words had produced on each of
those whom his speech concerned. He looked round with composure and
continued cheerfully: "Now I have begun this game. Now it is your turn,
friend Ingolf."

Ingolf gave no sign of rising. He turned his face towards Haasten and
said in a quiet and firm voice which was heard over the whole hall: "It
seems to me it is now Haasten's turn to continue the game. He is our
leader, and the wisest of us all besides."

Haasten met his look and rose slowly. He did not find words at first,
and remained standing silent for a while, looking down. A hush of
expectation spread in the hall. When Haasten at last spoke his voice
was quiet and troubled. "I make the vow," he said, "that I will judge
justly and impartially, if a judgment should ever be demanded from me."

Haasten sat down with a melancholy air after speaking. Holmsten said
cheerfully: "Your obscure vow does not seem to me to bear out the
assertion that you are the wisest of us all. How will you act, if it is
between your friends on one side and your enemies on the other that you
must pronounce judgment?"

Haasten answered in a severe and discouraging tone: "That I intend
myself to determine."

Ingolf rose. He smiled no longer; his look was serious and his tone
firm and quiet. "With Brage's toast I make the vow that I will not
divide my inheritance with any one but my sworn brother, Leif. May all
bright gods and all good people present hear it." When Orn had heard
that vow, he rose with some difficulty. Suddenly he seemed very old.
The look which he cast at Ingolf was not friendly. In gloomy silence he
left the hall.

Holmsten was still cheerful. "I don't understand that vow," he said,
and laughed.

"It is not difficult to understand," answered Haasten severely. "Ingolf
will give his sister, Helga, to Leif, and no one else."

Holmsten laughed incredulously, and looked at Leif in challenge.

Leif rose awkwardly with a jerk, and stood erect. "I make the vow," he
said in a voice that shook with suppressed anger and emotion, "to show
that in nothing do I stand behind my ancestors and other good men of
my race!"

"That may be an easy vow to keep," shouted Haersten. "Have you
forgotten that your grandfather had to leave Telemarken like a
criminal?"

Leif met Ingolf's look and controlled himself. Ingolf rose slowly. He
was just as quiet as before, but those who knew him could see that
now he was angry. He directed his words to Haasten. "When I invited
you, Atle's sons, to this feast, I believed that you were my own and
my brother Leif's sincere friends. From what has happened here this
evening, and from the words which have fallen, I can see that I have
made a mistake--not as far as concerns you, Haasten, but your brothers.
Holmsten has done us a doubtful honour. His whole behaviour does not
show exactly such an attitude towards us brothers that I should like to
have him as a brother-in-law--even if no one else were in the way. As
regards Haersten, he has spoken insulting words against my family here
in the hall. You, Haasten, will always be welcome in the place which
you now occupy as my guest and friend. But your brothers I cannot ask
to remain. Only with my friends will I continue this feast."

Haersten and Holmsten had sprung up from their places. Haasten also
rose. "I had no share in, and could not prevent, what has happened
this evening," he said quietly, and in a tone of sadness, "otherwise
it would not have happened. But I cannot remain here as your guest,
Ingolf, when you send my brothers away. We, Atle's sons, have always
kept together."

When he had spoken, he left the hall silently, followed by his brothers
and all their retinue. But no one else followed them on the way.

When they had gone, Ingolf set guards on all the roads. He wished to be
prepared, in case any more surprises awaited him on the part of Atle's
sons. It had become clear to him now that Haasten had no longer such
complete power over his brothers as before.

Ingolf was depressed in spirits. That which he had long feared had
happened at last. But this breach with Atle's sons had come in another
way than he had thought. He had expected that Leif would be a direct
cause of it, not, as now appeared, an indirect one. Leif had surprised
him by his self-controlling bearing. Now he knew he had a brother
in Leif he could completely rely on. Ingolf guessed that it was not
the first time that Leif for his sake had controlled himself in the
presence of Atle's sons. But, on the other hand, he could not betray
Leif. He must stand by his side anywhere, and against any one--even
against Haasten, if necessary. Ingolf observed, to his wonder, that he
did not really miss Atle's sons, now that he was confronted by a breach
with them. He had Leif; he had on his side only one man. But that was a
man he could rely upon, and knew that he could. Ingolf felt himself in
some degree richer than before.




VI


For some days after the feast, which had been so abruptly broken off,
Orn did not speak to any one. A cloud hung over his face. His look was
like that of a mad bull. He ignored Ingolf entirely; and if Ingolf
tried to talk to him, he paid no more attention to what he said than to
a breath of wind. Even the blind Rodmar spoke in vain to his kinsman.
To Rodmar it seemed that the world had become very strange. Did Orn not
hear when he spoke to him? Had he become deaf, or perhaps dumb also?
He gave up trying to make it out. He did not like trouble of any kind
any more. There was always the resource of lying in bed and having wine
brought. Rodmar retired deeper into his darkness and drank himself into
a state of stupor and oblivion. When Orn had carried about his fit
of wrath in solitude long enough, he began to get tired. Wrath also
disturbed his intoxication. He did not find the same happiness in wine
as before. He considered the matter closely, and found a new standpoint
to view it from--a more manly and less troublesome one.

He sent for Ingolf. "I understand well," he began in a harsh but not
unfriendly tone, "that you do not wish to let yourself be cowed by
Atle's sons. I have considered the matter, and I must confess that it
was a very challenging way that Holmsten chose in which to appear as a
suitor. It was, however, impossible for him to know whether Helga had
been already promised in marriage, and how far his vows might cross our
plans. I think that the answer you gave him was good, and becoming a
chieftain. We of our race can afford to marry our children to whom we
like. We certainly do not need to trouble about marriage with Jarl's
sons. It has pleased me to see that you are not afraid to give even
such people as Atle's sons the rough side of your tongue. I do not
deny that till lately it was my idea that a marriage connection with
them would be an honour for our family. But now I see that it is no
less honour for the family to refuse such a connection. That shows to
all and each that we reckon ourselves at least equal to Jarls. You are
wise, my boy. You may go."

It was a long time since Orn had spoken so gently to his son. Ingolf
went about the rest of the day smiling now and then to himself. He felt
a great relief. His father's attitude had pained him more than he had
been willing to admit to himself.

After his conversation with Ingolf, Orn went to Rodmar, who was very
glad to observe that he had not become dumb or deaf. A joyous time
recommenced for the two kinsmen. They drank copiously of the red
wine, and boasted more than ever. It became to them a source of much
arrogance that hostility had broken out between their sons and Atle
Jarl's. They even took Leif into favour, and willingly listened to
his account of his exploits in the Viking expedition of the previous
summer. Leif was in their eyes still a little, loose-minded fellow,
but at any rate a man. One could acknowledge him both as a son and a
son-in-law. He had split various heads, and saved Holmsten's life.
There one had a proof that even the worst good-for-nothings could
become something if only they had good folk to look up to.

Leif was ungracious enough to care for their praise no more than he
had cared for their blame. But they behaved magnanimously to him in
that respect. They excused him by recollecting youth's general want of
proper respect for age.

When spring approached, the old uneasiness came over Leif. He became
very restless, and his eyes took an absent expression. One day he went
down to the boat-houses and began to inspect his ships. As he did so,
it suddenly came into his mind that during the last part of the winter
Ingolf had not troubled himself at all about goods for the summer's
Viking expedition. It was not like Ingolf to forget a thing of that
kind.

Without delay he sought Ingolf and began to speak on the subject.
Ingolf stood and looked attentively at him while he spoke. When he had
finished, Ingolf answered with composure: "It seems to me, Cousin Leif,
that it would be better for us to remain at home in our house during
the summer than to sail out on a Viking expedition. Do you remember the
vows which were made here in the winter at the feast we gave to Atle's
sons?"

"The vows were not of the kind to be hastily forgotten," answered Leif,
and looked in his brother's eyes. "You are, I suppose, not afraid of
meeting Atle's sons on the sea?"

"I am not afraid," answered Ingolf, in a sharper tone; "but I would
rather avoid hostility with Atle's sons."

Leif stood and looked down gloomily. When he had considered a little he
said: "Atle's sons could easily suppose that we were afraid if, after
what happened here in the winter, we gave up the Viking expeditions we
had planned for the summer. I do not intend to give Holmsten reason to
call me afraid. Do you, brother, decide for yourself what you will do.
I shall go."

Ingolf was silent and considered the matter. He was in great
perplexity. He hardly dared to let Leif go. On the other hand, he
dared not hinder him either. He knew well that when Leif had once got
restless he must get away. For himself, he did not like to run the risk
of meeting Atle's sons. He had a presentiment that a collision was
inevitable if their way crossed that of his brother. And in any case
he wished to avoid lifting hand against Haasten. But the reason which
especially kept him at home was, that he no longer trusted Haersten
and Holmsten. If both he and Leif went away, they might both use the
opportunity to carry off Helga. On such an occasion both his father
and Rodmar might easily lose their lives, or be exposed to indignities
which he would have to avenge. When Ingolf had come to a conclusion,
he said: "I do not wish as matters now stand to leave our family and
property without someone to look after them. I will no longer prevent
your going since you have set your mind upon it. But it will cause me
great anxiety to know that you are out on a Viking expedition with
only three ships. For I cannot spare more men away from home. You may
encounter Atle's sons, you may meet other hostile Vikings, or you may
through want of foresight get involved in an unequal battle. I would
rather, therefore, that you stayed at home, Cousin Leif. But if you
will promise me not under any circumstances to engage in an unequal
battle, as far as it is in your power to avoid it, I will not oppose
your going."

Leif promised that willingly. He never thought about promises. He
grasped Ingolf's outstretched hand and said: "I promise you to proceed
cautiously. If I meet with danger or superior force, I will escape as
well as I can. You need not be uneasy for my sake, brother."

Ingolf remembered that Leif had kept his word with regard to Atle's
sons. There was no longer any reason not to put full trust in Leif's
promises, even if, in accordance with his whole character, they were
given a little hastily, and apparently without thought. And if only
Leif kept his promise, there was no special reason to be anxious about
him. In a battle which was not too unequal, he was safe enough, unless
the Norns had destined his death, or Odin had marked him out. For
against the gods and goddesses of fate the best man fought in vain.
When the matter had been thus decided, Leif began seriously to prepare
for the journey. The goods which Ingolf had collected at the beginning
of winter completely filled three ships. All that remained was to
select the crews and to take care to keep the ships fit for sailing.

When Leif told Helga that he was going, she merely nodded assentingly
and smiled at him. But her quivering smile concealed bitter grief and
great anxiety. Helga knew Leif--ah! she knew him. This Leif of hers was
a man whom no bond could hold. That was his character. And she did not
wish to spoil his happiness by seeking to hold him fast. Never should
he guess what she suffered when she saw him sail away. Never would she
mention her sense of loss and the anxiety she suffered during the time
she must be without him. Separation and longing were integral parts of
the happiness she shared with Leif. So young Helga smiled bravely and
helped Leif with his preparations for the journey, giving him cheerful
words on the way. But she never showed him her anxiety, and concealed
her grief till she was alone.

One day in spring, when the wind blew freshly over the fjord, Leif
sailed away with three ships. He stood on the poop and wondered that he
had never thought before how hard it would be to part from Helga.

His old countryman clapped him on the shoulder and said: "On a voyage
it is best to keep the salt water outside the ship."

Leif smiled with a wry face. His heart had not yet been hardened. Helga
stood on the edge of the shore and saw the striped sails bellying in
the breeze. The ships lay slanting on the water. They glided along as
if in play, and became so quickly smaller.

Helga stood alone on the shore. All the others who had been down to bid
farewell to those departing had gone back again to the house. Helga
stood there alone with the breeze. Everything was green and cheerful
around her. Trees stood covered with new leaves, and flowers grew again
from the ground. And there sailed Leif, taking the summer away with him.

When Helga could not see the ships any more, she at last gave up.
Helplessly she let herself drop down on the young grass. All power had
suddenly left her. She could not even weep. She remained lying there
long with her heart beating violently.

The day after Leif had sailed, Olmod the Old landed at Orn's house. He
had five ships, and was on a Viking expedition. He was able to inform
Ingolf that of Atle's sons Haasten was remaining at home that summer.
He further said that he had heard that Leif was going alone that
summer, and he wished to have joined him. When he heard that Leif had
already sailed he hastened to go on, wishing to overtake him.

That spring came young King Harald sailing north along the coast. He
had made a vow not to let his hair be cut till he had reduced the whole
of Norway to submission, and was therefore by some called Harald Luva,
and by others Harald Haarfager. Whatever part of the country he came
across, he called his own. Kings and chiefs had to submit with a good
or with a bad grace. All men from the lowest to the highest became his
tributaries. He made laws, and appointed chiefs over districts to take
care that the laws were obeyed. Harald met with no opposition either in
the hills or the fjords. All the Jarls became his subjects.

But there were other chiefs who murmured, and considered that Harald
paid scant respect to the law and ancient land-rights. These Harald
dealt with hardly. He killed them when he could lay hold of them, and
took from them their property without mercy. Many of these chiefs had
no other resources, if they wished to preserve their lives and freedom,
but to leave the country. They sailed in numbers for the Faroe Islands,
the Orkneys, Hjaltland, the Southern Islands, together with the British
Isles and Ireland.

King Harald found many a Norwegian neck that preferred to be broken
rather than bend. Although himself the most obstinate of all, he would
not endure obstinacy in others. There was but one King of Norway, and
that King's name was Harald!




VII


Leif had not sailed long before a great quiet came over him. Alone with
the sea, and his own master! No one to obey! No one to consider! That
was something to his taste, and under such circumstances there was no
room in his heart for care and longing. Successive days awoke him, each
with its own voice. Hungry in soul and body he crept each morning out
of his sleeping-bag.

It suited his plans to sail to the British Isles; accordingly he was
on his way thither. Otherwise he might have sailed to the land far
toward the west which a beggar had once told him of. The only objection
was that, according to the narrator, there were no people to trade
with there and no one to pillage. He was out on a trading and Viking
expedition. Besides, it was an absurd country, so entirely without
inhabitants. If ever he had time and opportunity he might still wish
to take a closer view of it. "Iceland," the beggar had called it, and
had prophesied that he should some day see it. He wished to be certain
about it, but it lay so far out of the way that he could not well
include it in his voyage that summer.

If he did, he ran the risk of being obliged to spend the winter there.
And he could not endure the idea of a whole winter without Helga. But
he emphasized the fact to himself that if he now let Iceland alone, it
was an act of his own free will.

The land out there in the west would not run away, so whether one
went there a summer earlier or later was a point of minor importance.
Leif, now voyaging alone, came to be quite intimate with the sea. He
enjoyed standing at the helm and feeling the ship under his hand. He
liked best sailing with all sails spread, and cutting his way through
the water as it foamed. It was to him a great delight to sail in such
a way that even old and experienced Vikings opened watchful eyes. He
tortured his dragon-ship till it seemed to him the sea held its breath,
ready to close its foaming jaws round its prey. When he thus kept his
ship rocking right on the edge of destruction, clutching the quivering
tiller fast in his thin hand, his heart felt light in his breast. He
felt himself like a ruler over the sea.

The old Vikings watched Leif closely, and found that they had in him
a guide after their own heart. They winked admiringly at each other
when he sailed his maddest. His reckless courage filled them with
expectation. They showed great willingness in obeying his wishes and
orders. His young voice sounded sharply and pleasantly in their ears.

They took Leif's measure secretly and thoroughly approved of him.
Though he was not so strong in body as warriors generally were, yet men
with such restless eyes were rare. And the strength he had lay in hard
lumps of muscle in the right places. When he greeted or thanked a man
he clutched his hand as with an iron claw.

The Vikings found that they had reason to expect an eventful summer
with much amusement and many dangers. They thought without regret
that some of them might find their way to Odin before this Viking
expedition was over. They had not much objection to sitting round the
golden-bristled boar, though it should be this very winter.

Meanwhile, Leif had formed a fixed idea that he would show Ingolf
he could trade and get on in foreign lands on his own account.
Accordingly, when he got there, he showed a caution which was not
really according to his own mind, and which the Vikings had not
expected. He traded with great foresight, bought chiefly corn and
other necessary commodities, including wine and honey. He was also, in
pursuance of his promise to Ingolf, cautious with regard to engaging in
battle.

His men had expected great things in the direction of depredations on
the coast, and were to a certain extent disappointed.

Leif had comparatively few men, and he did not engage in unequal
warfare. In order, however, to get some booty, he practised unexpected
attacks with quite a few picked men. With five or six followers he
would row ashore in a boat in out-of-the-way spots. If they succeeded
in getting on shore unobserved they began to steal forward by remote
paths and through deep and dark woods. These were occasions of
incredible excitement and secret joy.

It was possible for days and nights to pass without so small a force.
And when they had at last found a their finding a place adapted
for making an attack with place, a considerable time might pass in
watching for an opportunity. But when their well-prepared attack at
length took place, it was overwhelming and irresistible. Even old and
experienced Vikings had to acknowledge that they had never before taken
part in such bold and exciting expeditions. And they loved Leif for
the happiness he provided them in their old age. There was constant
emulation among Leif's men to get leave to accompany him on these
forays. But Leif showed an immovable firmness and foresight in choosing
his companions. It was counted a great honour to be among those chosen.

The summer passed in sailing to and fro along the coasts of England and
Ireland.

Leif diligently avoided collisions with other Vikings. There were, as a
rule, many following him, and he never could be secure from an attack.
It was therefore best to exhibit suitable caution. For the rest, he
slept peacefully in his bearskin bag at night. Should it happen that
he was involved in a fight without his own fault, he had nothing to do
with that. In many places where he came, he found that Haersten and
Holmsten had been just before him with their six ships. Leif took no
real trouble to overtake them. He remembered his promise to Ingolf,
and had resolved to put his trust in chance. Chance had before shown
him considerable kindness. But when, towards the close of summer, he
directed his course homewards, chance had not yet come to his help.
It was therefore with a certain disappointment in his mind that he
turned homeward from his summer expedition. It was indeed no small
disappointment to him that fate had not allowed him to meet Atle's sons.

Olmod the Old, who, as has been related, was voyaging with a fleet of
five ships, made inquiries about his kinsman, Leif, wherever he went.
In many places Leif had been just before him, but had sailed again no
one knew whither.

Olmod the Old was continually on his scent, and sailed, so to speak,
in his wake the whole summer, though without any success in overtaking
him. He vowed offerings and gifts to Odin if he would help him to find
his kinsman. But Odin seemed to have turned his eyes from him.

Olmod kept himself likewise informed concerning the voyage of Atle's
sons. From their movements he could not ascertain whether they intended
evil against Leif or not. It did not really look as if they were
following him. Perhaps they did not know what direction he was taking,
but Olmod considered it best to be on the watch.

Late in the summer, Olmod lost every trace of Leif. But as a
compensation he so nearly succeeded in overtaking Atle's sons that he
at last caught a glimpse of their ships making out to sea on their way
home. It seemed to Olmod that they were sailing rather early. Were they
thinking of concealing themselves among the rocks and islands off the
coast and giving Leif a warm reception when he turned home? Olmod the
Old was from his own experience not unacquainted with stratagems. He
kept a sharp eye on Atle's sons.

For some time he kept his ships hidden in a creek near the ordinary
route in order to catch Leif, if possible. At last he could wait no
longer. Leif, he thought, must have turned homeward by some other way,
and as good sailing weather just then set in, he directed his course
towards Norway. He had come to the conclusion that the safest thing
was to try to find Atle's sons, or at any rate to get news of them. If
he found that they had sailed the direct way home, there was scarcely
anything to fear from them that autumn.

On a dark and stormy autumn day, with clouds driving across the sky
and a tossing sea, Leif came sailing past Hisargavl. He was sailing
along, thinking of his disappointment, when he suddenly found himself
surrounded by ships bearing down upon him with their battle-ensigns
hoisted. For the sake of his promise, Leif counted the ships; they
were six in number. He looked closer at them, and recognized them as
those of Atle's sons. Then Leif felt a great contentment fill his
mind. Here at last came his friends, the sons of Atle. And luckily
all chance of flight was excluded. It would have been vexatious if he
had had to break his word, but now it was all right. For Ingolf could
not expect of him that he should surrender unconditionally in order
to avoid battle with Atle's sons. He gathered his ships together and
commanded them to lower sail; quickly he had boards for defence fixed
on the quarter-deck, and cleared the ships for action. He went about
and became gradually agitated with excitement and happy expectation. At
last--at last the opportunity had come for seriously exchanging blows
with Holmsten. One of them should in any case be a guest of Odin that
evening. How he was to manage with his three ships against the six of
Atle's sons did not worry Leif much.

While he issued his orders, he had only eyes for Holmsten's
dragon-ship. There Holmsten came, also in a state of excitement. Now
the long boat-hooks could reach the gunwale on Holmsten's ship. "Pull
hard, men!" Leif had a great longing to salute Holmsten. The first
spear whistled through the air. From both sides it was greeted with
cheerful battle cries and gay laughter.

At length the two dragon-ships lay side by side, rocking violently
upon the grey sea. Blows and shouts were exchanged above the high
quarter-deck boards. Leif pushed his men roughly to one side. He had
set eyes on Holmsten. A spear whistled past his ear, and he heard
Holmsten laugh and shout: "There is a spear in place of the one you
sank here last autumn."

Leif twisted himself to one side, seized the spear, aimed at Holmsten,
and sent it back. "I have enough weapons, friend Holmsten! I will test
the ax you once gave me on your own skull." Holmsten avoided the spear
at the last moment by a leap to one side.

Now Leif was close to the gunwale. The fight went on energetically
on both sides of him. The ships reeled violently and crashed noisily
against each other. Salt spray concealed now and then the hot faces.
Leif held his ax raised and shook it towards Holmsten. "Now, when I
cleave your head before long, it will not be through carelessness!
Remember that, Holmsten."

Holmsten laughed derisively. He could not properly reach Leif because
of his men. "It will double my joy, friend Leif, to know you are lying
cold at the bottom of the sea, by the side of your spear, while your
friend Helga makes me comfortable."

Leif leaped up on the quarter-deck boards, swinging his ax high over
his head, but was forced back. He tried again and again, but was met by
a wall of weapons. One of Atle's sons' other ships hooked itself fast
on to the other side of the dragon-ship. The battle raged furiously
along both gunwales.

During an involuntary pause in the battle, Leif found time to look
round him a little. One of his ships was already overpowered, and the
other surrounded by three of the enemy's smaller ships; his own was so
hard pressed that it was obviously only a question of how long he could
hold out.

Leif saw clearly how untenable his position was. He did not envy Atle's
sons their victory. He called those who had followed him on many bold
expeditions to him, and said in a choked voice: "If we are going to
Valhalla, friends, let us take Holmsten with us, and as many of his men
as we can!"

So he stormed the gunwale, followed by his best men, and succeeded in
obtaining a foothold on Holmsten's dragon-ship. And now Leif was at his
ease. Generously he dealt out blows and thrusts, and devoted himself
energetically to the battle. He saw his men falling round him, and he
himself had several wounds which he had not time to think about. He was
not afraid of death, but meant to take Holmsten with him.

While Leif stood there, and dealt doughty blows around him in order
to get at Holmsten, there came in sight a fleet of five ships by
Hisargavl. The five ships were sailing swiftly, and the water foamed
round their bows as they approached. At last Olmod the Old was about to
overtake Leif. And he had bestirred himself, as it appeared. He gave
himself no time to survey the situation, but drove his ships right
in among the combatants. In his green cloak, with a golden helmet on
his head, he stood in a dignified attitude by the mast and issued his
orders.

"It looks as if you wanted a little help, Cousin Leif!" he shouted in
the joy of battle. All other talking he left to his weapons.

Haersten saw quickly that his position was untenable, and gave orders
for flight. But it was by no means so easy to get away in a moment.
Holmsten's ship soon lay wedged in between those of Leif and Olmod the
Old. Leif made use of the confusion which ensued among Holmsten's men
at suddenly finding enemies on both sides, and made his way close up
to Holmsten. When Holmsten saw him coming, he prepared to receive him
in his cool and quiet way. But now Leif had become quite wild. When it
seemed that he could not get forward quickly enough, he flung his ax
at Holmsten's face. Holmsten dropped his weapons, threw up his arms,
reeled, and fell.

Leif's joy at seeing Holmsten fall was so great that he forgot to be on
his guard. One of his men pushed a shield in front of him just in time.
The shield was cloven by the blow of an ax, intended for Leif. But Leif
was not to die that day. Now he was himself again, picked up his ax,
and continued the attack. After Holmsten's fall the opposition was soon
broken.

A couple of Olmod's ships had recovered the ship Atle's sons had won
from Leif. Olmod secured for himself Holmsten's ship as a reward for
his trouble, and in order to be able to provide offerings and gifts to
Odin. The remainder of Atle's sons' ships escaped in disorder.

Olmod came across Leif where he was sitting and binding up his wounds.

"You are bleeding much, cousin, and can be glad that you still have
blood to bleed."

"That I owe to you, Cousin Olmod. What lucky wind was that which blew
you here, just when you were most needed?"

"Ask, rather, what freak was it of Odin's that he did not let me
overtake you before. I came to Dalsfjord the day after you sailed, and
have pursued you in vain all the summer."

Leif looked up hastily. A sudden fear shot through him.

"What did you want me for?"

"That you have seen."

Leif was quiet again. "Nothing more?" he asked.

"Don't you think I had cause enough? Did you expect me to follow your
tedious tracks, the whole summer, merely to bring you a greeting from
Helga?"

Leif rose and drew a bracelet off his arm. It was for Olmod. He brought
forth his most valuable things, resolved to give Olmod all the best he
had. Objections were useless. When Leif gave, he gave what he had, and
kept nothing back till he had no more.

"Finally, don't think that by killing Holmsten and putting Haersten to
flight you have finished with Atle's sons," Olmod said warningly. "I
think, Cousin Leif, you had better come home and spend the winter with
me."

Leif thanked him warmly for the invitation. "It is such a short way
home to the fjords that I don't care about making a circuit. But What
if you came home with me and remained with us for the winter, Cousin
Olmod?"

But Olmod declined. A whole winter in one and the same place did not
tempt him at all. "You brothers have enough friends round you, but be
careful, cousin. I should be surprised if Haersten let the grass grow
over the matter he has to settle with you. I am glad that this time
I could be a little use to you, Leif. You have rewarded my help, as
one might expect from you, spendthrift that you are! May good fortune
follow you wherever you go."

Olmod and Leif parted with great friendliness, and each sailed to his
own home.




VIII


It was really a surprise to Ingolf when he heard from his brother what
had happened at Hisargavl. He had gradually come to fear a collision
between Leif and Atle's sons. He did not trust Atle's sons any more
since the feast of the previous winter. With a gloomy and slightly
absent expression he heard Leif's account to the end. "I do not grieve
for Holmsten," he said severely, when Leif finished. "I am glad that
both brothers did not escape alive from the game. The Norns often
strike accurately."

"It was by my ax that Holmsten fell," Leif answered curtly. "I will not
share the honour of having slain him with any one, not even with the
Norns!"

Ingolf smiled, but there was no laughter in his mind.

"The most important point, Leif, is that you returned home alive," he
said cordially. "Thank yourself for it, but allow me to thank the gods
and goddesses of fate."

Helga was very quiet when Leif told her about the battle. There rose in
her soul a yet greater tenderness towards him. Every day, yes, every
hour, with Leif became precious. A foreboding told her that Leif was
scarcely destined to live long. Her happiness was like the flying birds.

Orn became quite enlivened by hearing of the fight at Hisargavl. Ingolf
related it to him with much detail. As soon as he had finished, Orn
demanded to have the whole told over again. It was entirely after his
mind--a proof that the race was not extinct. He put many questions and
asked for incidents. Time after time, when the talk concerned Leif, he
nodded approvingly. When his curiosity was at last satisfied, he sat
silent and thoughtful, and still kept nodding to himself.

Rodmar sat in his darkness and heard the account through at one
sitting. When Ingolf began again, he sighed deeply, rose, and,
supported on his two sticks, tottered to his chamber and crept into
bed. He could not understand that there was still so much disturbance
in the world.

When Ingolf came out again from his father he was silent and
thoughtful. He sought Leif, and found him in Helga's room. Ingolf sat
down silently by his side and remained for a while without speaking.
"Now Haasten remains behind with one arm," he said at last, in a
subdued tone, more as though speaking to himself than to the others.

Helga looked hastily at him. "One must feel a great longing after a
brother one loves," she said quietly.

Leif laughed sarcastically. "It will scarcely be a one-armed Haasten
who comes out to take vengeance for Holmsten."

Ingolf looked at him. There was a troubled, but firm and quiet, look
in his eye. "I should be surprised if Haasten took vengeance," Leif
laughed scornfully. Ingolf rose quietly and said: "But it would be best
to be on our guard against Haersten."

Ingolf took home to the chief house as many of his own and Leif's men
as could be spared from the rest of their property. Moreover, he
collected his friends from the surrounding district. He always had
many people round him in the winter. He set guards on all the roads to
secure himself against an unexpected attack, and for the rest watched
events quietly.

What had happened, had happened, and could not be altered. And whose
fault was it? Neither his nor his sworn brother's, it seemed to him.
He made offerings to Odin and Thor, and relied on them and on the good
luck of the family.

Already, on the day after his arrival, Leif had to go to bed. For a
considerable time he had to keep quiet. He suffered a good deal from
his wounds. They were on various parts of his body, so that it was
difficult for him to find rest.

Leif was not good at keeping quiet. He was tormented by an intolerable
impatience. Time after time when his wounds were on the point of
healing up they opened again, because of his want of care. The fever
which accompanied the wounds had a wearing effect both on his flesh and
his temper. He became even more bony and thin than he had been before.
Long and wasted he lay there in bed, and vexed himself over the loss of
the days, of which he was unjustly deprived.

Helga nursed him patiently, and always sat by him. That was the only
thing which reconciled him with this kind of existence. He could not
look away from her even for a moment. Leif discovered that there was
a happiness and soothing effect in the touch of Helga's hands, which
he had not hitherto known. All the time he had to have her hands busy
about him. Leif was not easy to manage. In vain did Helga beg and pray
him to leave the bandages alone and not continually look at his wounds
at the wrong time. At last she went in despair to Ingolf, and Ingolf
found a means. On the same day that Helga had spoken to him, he said
to Leif in his usual composed manner: "Your wounds are a long time
healing, Cousin Leif. You will hardly be fit for fighting by the time
Haersten attacks us." That was effectual. Ingolf knew his brother. From
that day Leif lay rigidly still and did not touch the bandages. With a
mighty effort he kept his mind in control and curbed his impatience.
With a mysterious smile in her eyes, which Leif could not understand,
Helga continued to nurse him. Leif could not make out why her eyes
had suddenly become so bright. Here he lay, tortured both outwardly
and inwardly. One would think that was nothing to be amused at. At
last he asked her plainly, and in a rather morose tone, why she was so
cheerful. Helga laughed, and promised to tell him as soon as his wounds
were healed; for now that could hardly be long. Leif sighed. It seemed
to him that already the time had been incomprehensively long.

At last the day came when Leif could go about on his legs again. But
it was plain that he had quite got out of the habit of going with his
head high and his legs down. His head was not so high aloft, and his
legs tottered. He had to laugh at them. They were really silly legs--to
speak plainly--miserable legs of dough. He went about laughing and
waddling, and was obliged every minute to sit down and rest his legs.
He had never guessed that such a simple thing as walking could become
so difficult.

But one day it was difficult no longer, and Leif rapidly forgot both
his sickness and his weakness.

What was Haersten about? It seemed to Leif plain that he had a claim
that Haersten should come now, and quickly. Now that he was in a
condition to receive him in a suitable manner, he began to long for him
deeply.

Leif went and exercised his arm-muscles by cutting logs for the fire.
Ah! So he intended to split Haersten's head. But Haersten still kept
them waiting. It was not according to Leif's mind to go and wait for
an attack, which did not come. Had he had sufficient hope that Ingolf
would go with him on a journey to Gaulum he would have proposed it. In
his leisure time Leif imagined for himself an attack on Atle Jarl and
his sons, picturing it down to the minutest details. He would himself
strike down Haersten and Atle Jarl. But he would prefer to let Haasten
escape with his life. It was a shame that such a splendid plan of
attack should always be shipwrecked on Ingolf's obstinacy.

At last Haersten came. It was lucky that Ingolf had set guards upon
the roads. Haersten did not come alone. He had planned his attack with
care. He wished to wait till the brothers perhaps might not be so much
on the alert. And he wished to come with a picked and numerous band,
which it took time to assemble secretly, as the sworn brothers had
friends also in those parts. Haersten had resolved that _one_ life was
too little compensation for Holmsten. They should both die. Preferably
he would strike them both to earth with his own hand.

Haersten had to do without Haasten's help in planning and carrying out
his attack. On the other hand, Haasten did not put difficulties in his
way. Haasten gave his mind to taking what vengeance he could, and to
the extent he was able. "But my mind and my sense of justice tell me,"
he said, "not to go with you against the sworn brothers."

Haersten asked him whether his mind and his sense of justice did not
also bid him to leave both his brothers unavenged in case he also
should fall. Haasten answered him that time would show, but that it was
conceivable.

"It might seem that you care more for Ingolf than for your own
brothers," Haersten said coldly.

"I have a great regard for Ingolf," answered Haasten. "You brothers
were not afraid to profit by your greater force when you attacked Leif."

So the conversation ended. When Haersten had quietly collected as many
men as he thought would ensure a victory over the sworn brothers,
even if he found them prepared, he started one night and took the
way to Dalsfjord. He advanced by secret paths, and hid in the woods.
He marched only by night, resting by day. But though he showed all
possible caution, Ingolf's guards got news of his expedition. They
were able to inform Ingolf in time that Haersten was approaching with
a numerous following. In great haste the brothers collected a still
larger number, and marched against him to meet him before he expected
it. The encounter took place one winter morning on the heath. Haersten
and his men had spent the night on the outskirts of the wood. It was
a still morning, with mild air, and the ground was heavy. The weather
was admirably adapted for a battle, save that the snow became slippery
when it had been trodden hard. Haersten and the sworn brothers prepared
themselves, each on his own side, for a trial of strength, in all
quietness and at their leisure. The result of the battle was of great
importance to both parties, and they urged their men to be cautious and
keep together.

Haersten seemed to seek Leif. And Leif was not the man to avoid a
willing opponent. It was not long before they stood opposite each
other, both fierce and vigilantly watching. But the fight between
them was of short duration. They had only exchanged a few blows, and
neither of them had yet been wounded, when Haersten slipped on the
smooth ground. In the same instant Leif's ax descended on his neck.
Haersten fell and remained lying. Red blood streamed profusely out of a
deep wound in his neck. Smoking, it oozed into the cold white snow and
formed holes with reddish edges. Thus fell Haersten.

When he had fallen, Ingolf had the trumpet blown for a truce, and
invited Haersten's followers to go in peace. As no one wished for
more fighting, Haersten's men marched, carrying his body, from their
unsuccessful attempt, back to Gaulum.

Leif was quite jubilant. He never remembered having been so glad. Now
he had avenged the attack at Hisargavl, and settled all the rest of
the account which he had with Atle's sons. There was a high degree of
intoxication in his mind. He composed and sang with a strong voice a
victor's song.

But Ingolf did not show any joy at the victory. He was silent and
thoughtful. As soon as he had returned home with his men, he went to
his father and told him of Haersten's fall. "It will not be in the neck
of Atle's sons alone that Leif's ax has struck wounds," screamed Orn,
with his heavy cutting voice, when he had heard Ingolf to the end.
"Trust me! It is all over with our peace in Dalsfjord. Even though we
have many friends, Atle Jarl and Haasten will in the long run prove
too strong for us. Make peace with Haasten, my son, before it is too
late. For old friendship's sake he will be satisfied with taking your
property and driving you away from this district. I am too old, I
know, to leave Dalsfjord myself. But don't you trouble about that. I
am full of days, and will die soon. I had a foreboding that Leif would
cause misfortune. But he is a plucky fellow. And what has happened has
happened. Let me see him."

It had never been the case before that Orn had wished to see Leif. Once
the sight of Leif had been to him a plague and an unceasing source of
annoyance. Now he wished to see him. Leif was called, and willingly let
himself be inspected by Orn's red, inflamed, swollen eyes. His spirits
were so cheerful that he felt impelled to show himself friendly even
towards Orn.

"Your appearance does not answer to your exploits," Orn exclaimed. "You
are rather slight in body to be a warrior. But, at any rate, I will
give you Helga since she wants you. Take her and marry her, but do it
quickly. For I will gladly drink your health at your marriage before I
die. And I shall die soon."

Leif smiled and thanked him and was very friendly. It amused him to
think that the permission was really rather superfluous. But that day
he did not wish for any trouble. Haersten's death made him feel so
prosperous and benevolent.

Ingolf had all day long been meditating. In the evening he asked Leif
to speak with him in private.

"What do you think of sending messengers to Haasten and offering him an
agreement on terms to be fixed by himself?" he asked quietly.

"That seems to me to be unnecessary weakness to submit the matter to
Haasten's decision alone," answered Leif arrogantly. "If he wishes to
pay us a call we shall know how to receive him."

"You forget, brother," said Ingolf calmly, but in a troubled voice,
"that only in the utmost extremity can I use weapons against Haasten.
You have deprived him of both his brothers. Even apart from the manner
in which it happened it is a great loss for him. I, for my own part,
will gladly purchase peace with Haasten at the price which he agrees
upon."

The tone of Ingolf's voice moved Leif to the heart. "If you, for your
part, wish to submit to Haasten's decision, I dare say I can consent,"
he said, in a compliant tone. "Hitherto I have not lost by letting you
decide matters."

Ingolf chose the men whom he considered best suited for such a mission,
and bade them go to Gaulum and offer Haasten terms. Haasten received
Ingolf's envoys silently, and without returning their salutations.
They had, however, been his companions on a summer Viking expedition,
and several of them had been his friends. They did not know Haasten
again. He had aged, and all signs of youthfulness had been obliterated
from his face. Though his skin was still soft and smooth it was deeply
furrowed. His look was cold and solitary. When he had heard the object
of their errand, he said in an icy tone: "I will answer some day.
Meanwhile I offer you shelter and food."

Haasten let them wait a whole week for an answer. He had a hard
battle to fight first with his father and then with himself. Atle
Jarl would at first hear nothing about an agreement. He demanded
unconditionally, although coldly and without passion, the lives of
the sworn brothers. He blamed Haasten for what had happened, because
he had at the time refused to follow his advice and offer Ingolf and
Leif blood-brotherhood. Haasten did not answer at length. But he did
not give up till Atle Jarl agreed to lay the matter in his hand. When
Haasten had thus become solely responsible, he had a hard battle
to fight with himself. His family instinct demanded blood and not
compensation. Even multiplied _weregeld_ could not compensate him for
the loss of his brothers. But could Leif's and Ingolf's lives do it
either? The fact was that nothing could compensate for the loss of
his brothers. But large fines might sustain the outward honour of the
family. To bear weapons against Ingolf, who had not committed any
crime, was in itself unthinkable. Besides, Haasten remembered his vow
to decide impartially if at any time a decision should be demanded from
him.

When he had at last arrived at unity with himself he bade Ingolf's
messengers be called, and spoke as follows: "The sworn brothers have
desired me to judge between them and myself. My judgment is this. No
compensation shall be asked for Holmsten because of his unjustified
attack on Leif. But as compensation for Haersten, who went to take
righteous vengeance for his brother, and by doing so lost his life at
Leif's hand, I adjudge to myself all the sworn brothers' real property.
Before three winters have passed they shall have left all their land
and territory and fjords and hills. Otherwise they will be treated as
outlaws wherever they may be found in the district."

The messengers went home and informed the brothers of Haasten's
sentence. When Ingolf had heard it, he said quietly: "That was to be
expected."

Leif, on the other hand, was furious. He never remembered to have heard
of such an unreasonable sentence. Ingolf bade him take the matter
quietly. "The sentence is certainly hard," he said, "but Haasten's loss
is harder. I would not willingly change my circumstances with his."

All bitterness against Haasten vanished comparatively quickly from
Leif's mind. The question, where they should now go and settle,
absorbed him, all at once, so completely that he had no thoughts to
spare for anything else. Leif was glad enough to go and settle in a
new country. One day he wished to go to England. Another day Ireland
had suddenly assumed a great attraction for him. The Faroe Islands,
Hjaltland, the Southern Islands--at least once a day in his thoughts he
settled in all these. All at once the idea of Iceland occurred to him;
strange to think that he had not come upon it at once.

Making a leap in the air, he went there in his own thoughts and settled
in a strange land, and so sought Ingolf in hot haste. "We will go to
Iceland!" he shouted in his delight, and was already absorbed, body and
soul, in his idea. "There we shall have a whole country to ourselves."

"Is it not somewhat lonely?" asked Ingolf, smiling.

Leif thought over that, and conceded that in the long run it might be
rather lonely. "But you will see many will follow after us. Many in
Norway are discontented with Harald, who will not tolerate any will by
the side of his own. The best people will follow us thither--people who
can no more find complete freedom in this country. Harald is already
seeking to kill many of the best men. There his arm cannot reach them.
Sooner or later the land will be colonized; it is said to be fertile.
Let us be the first. Ingolf, do you hear, let us be the first."

There was something in Leif's plan which attracted Ingolf. If he had
to depart and find himself a new dwelling, why not seek it in a new
country? Ingolf the Imperturbable felt his heart beat.

Leif was all fire and flame, and consequently not to be resisted. At
last Ingolf yielded. "We can journey there in the summer and survey
the country," he said.

When Leif had got Ingolf so far, he became wild with joy and dangerous
to approach. Ingolf had to wrestle with him; there was no getting out
of it. A little after they were both lying in the soft snow. When the
wrestle was thus over, they began to pile snow on each other, till they
had to stop for laughing. The boy was uppermost in each of them. They
were happy, and forgot to be troubled and anxious at the loss of their
property. Blood and life surged through them. They could still fight as
in the old days.




IX


Ingolf kept deeply secreted in his heart the image of a young girl.
Her name was Hallveig, and hers was the only woman's look which had
ever stirred his soul. Her grey eyes lived so vividly in his memory, he
could see them before him when he wished. The thought of them made his
usually quiet heart quiver. Her name was Hallveig, and her image was
painfully and distinctly impressed on his mind.

He had seen her for the first time in the preceding winter when, on one
of his trading journeys, he had spent the night at the house of her
father, Frode. And that first time had hitherto been the only one.

He had made the acquaintance of her father, Frode, and her brother,
Lopt, before, at various sacrificial feasts. Lopt and himself had
much in common. Lopt was a quiet and rather reserved man. His whole
appearance bore the stamp of the well-to-do yeoman farmer's firmness
and self-possession. Lopt and Ingolf had always felt attracted by each
other. They were both strong, high-born men without deceit or flaw in
their minds. A mutual consciousness of their inner affinity had from
the beginning brought them near each other.

Thus Ingolf came to the house one winter evening and saw Lopt's sister.
Her name was Hallveig, and she was only eighteen. She was very serious.
Ingolf never saw her smile like other young women. Already her inner
seriousness roused great disquiet in his mind. Hallveig did not go
about lavishing her smiles. Her look was watchful and critical. She
looked at people, and had a scale to weigh them by. One became clear
about one's value under her look. And her look did not flinch nor
change like that of other women when one encountered it. It met one
like a man's. It was in some degree a boy's look, thought Ingolf. He
sat there that evening and could take neither his eyes nor his thoughts
from Hallveig. Lopt and Frode often had to repeat their questions to
him. The whole of Ingolf's listening faculty was turned inward and not
outward. He sat by her side and forgot both them and himself. All that
he knew was that now and then he cast a furtive glance at Hallveig. And
yet he sat the whole time and looked at her. It was the first time that
Ingolf had been in love, and it was of benefit to him. The next day
was fixed for his departure, but he did not go. He was travelling with
important objects, and it would be very extraordinary if he delayed
his journey without special reason. But he remained all the same, and
forgot to give himself or others a reason for it. He simply remained
because it was impossible for him to go that day.

He had a long talk with Hallveig, sitting by her side in the morning.
A little after (so it seemed) he was surprised to find it already
evening. How the day had gone was a puzzle to him. He was lost.

Ingolf did not find it at all surprising that he found such a good
opportunity to talk with Hallveig undisturbed. He had neither time to
notice nor to reflect upon the fact that Lopt and Frode had left them
alone the whole day. He had no idea that any one could look at him and
observe from his behaviour what impression Hallveig had made upon him.

The whole of that day, which he afterwards did not know what had become
of, he sat and talked with Hallveig. Not once did she smile at him.
But there was in her look a charm which surpassed every smile. There
was a warmth in her look and a secret confidence which put him at his
ease. Her nearness filled him with a peculiar quivering consciousness
of security. He felt that there was already a deep intimacy between him
and this woman whom he did not know and yet knew.

The next day Ingolf went on his journey. When he gave Hallveig his
hand at parting their eyes met. The look of both was firm and serious.
Suddenly Hallveig smiled. Her eyes became bright with a beaming smile.
All at once Ingolf perceived that there was something he had forgotten
or neglected--something which could not be omitted. He stood there
with her hand in his, uneasy and irresolute, quite otherwise than he
was accustomed.

But he now already held her hand at departure and must go. Confused
and dissatisfied with himself, and yet at the same time filled with a
tremulous happiness, he went away. Ingolf did not forget Hallveig's
solitary smile. He reflected much whether she had ever given any other
man her smile, in the same way as she had to him. He did not believe
it. But if she had, the man must die.

How Ingolf passed the year, before he returned to Hallveig, he did not
know. It was quite unconsciously that he gave the memory of her time to
grow and blossom in his soul. All that he knew about it was that every
time he had resolved with himself that now he would go to Frode's house
and visit her, his mind was filled with anxiety and unrest. He found
no solid reason for waiting. His longing urged him almost irresistibly
to make the journey. He was also quite certain that he ran a risk by
postponing it. All the same he waited.

At a feast at Gaulum the previous autumn he had met Lopt. During the
three days of the feast they had been inseparable. Quite involuntarily
they had kept together. Once, when the talk had turned on Lopt's
and Frode's affairs, Lopt said, smiling: "We cannot get my sister,
Hallveig, married. She rejects all suitors." As Lopt spoke, Ingolf's
heart began to beat violently and joyfully. The day seemed to expand
around him and become beautiful. The colours of the heavens and
earth crowded at once upon his sight. The air itself became fresh and
reviving. He found no answer to make to Lopt's remark, and therefore
pretended not to have heard him. Soon afterwards he began to talk of
something else. But he did not succeed in deceiving Lopt, who, when
alone, smiled to himself. Soon after Ingolf's meeting with Lopt, Leif
returned from his Viking expedition. Ingolf had enough to do, and was
for a time cut off from all possibility of travelling.

But when the agreement with Haasten was settled, and the journey to
Iceland to look for a residence determined on, it became at once as
impossible for Ingolf to postpone the decisive interview with Hallveig
as it had been for him before to resolve on a visit. Ingolf, according
to his custom, first spoke with his father on the subject. Orn was
highly pleased, and declared himself in every way satisfied with his
choice. "Frode," he said, "is rich and well-born. It is time that
you settled in life. Leif and you can celebrate your marriage in the
autumn. You should not put off the journey for a day. You can go, my
son."

Ingolf went to Leif and asked for his companionship on a journey
without disclosing further the object or the direction of it. Leif
needed no pressing. He was always ready for a journey, he did not care
where. If Ingolf did not reveal to him his object and the place whither
he was bound, it was because he had good reasons for concealing it.

The brothers left home with a select but not very numerous retinue.
Leif received a strong impression that this mysterious journey was
of great importance. Could it possibly be a wooing expedition? Leif
studied Ingolf closely, and came to the conclusion that it was. It
amused him to guess whom Ingolf had pitched upon. He could not make
out. In that respect he knew nothing of Ingolf. Had Ingolf really
fallen in love dumbly and silently? Leif could not picture Ingolf to
himself as an enamoured suitor. In secret he was immensely amused at
his brother's seriousness and taciturnity. But he showed great caution
in his behaviour towards him. He observed that a great deal was at
stake for Ingolf. He surmised that his quiet demeanour was not so
genuine as it usually was.

When one evening they reached Frode's house, Leif did not guess that
they had already arrived at their journey's end. But as soon as he
saw Hallveig, he knew; and he was immediately filled with a warm and
brotherly affection for her.

When Hallveig heard that Ingolf had come, she at once knew the reason.
She put on her finest dress, and displayed her most valuable ornaments.
Any one might think what they would; for her it was a festal day.

In this attire she went to meet Ingolf. Quietly and seriously she
returned his greeting. Her whole manner told Ingolf that he was
expected.

One evening she led Ingolf to her room. The next day Ingolf spoke
with Lopt and Frode, and asked Hallveig in marriage. Frode gave him
his daughter gladly. Lopt said that there was no one he would prefer
as a brother-in-law. They quickly settled all the conditions. The
sworn brothers' loss of their property was not mentioned at the
time. Hallveig was summoned and questioned. Willingly and with deep
earnestness she gave her mind to the matter. When, later on, she was
alone with Ingolf, she wept and kissed him fervently. Ingolf was a
constant surprise to her. Afterwards she smiled at him through her
tears. There was a peculiar power and a complete abandonment in all
her caresses. Ingolf felt beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was
completely his, and for the whole of life. And her demeanour showed
just as certainly that she was happy.

Frode and Lopt celebrated the betrothal by a great feast. Ingolf and
Leif remained a whole week in the house. When they left, the wedding
was fixed for about three weeks later. In accordance with Ingolf's wish
it was to take place in Orn's house, since his father felt too old to
travel.

Ingolf and Hallveig were agreed on having the shortest possible
interval before their marriage. They did not wish to wait a day longer
than necessary, now that they at last had each other. They found it
almost impossible to separate, though it was only for three weeks. They
could not comprehend how they had hitherto been able to live without
each other. Ingolf felt now that the two years which had passed since
he saw Hallveig for the first time were as though lost for him. Yes,
his whole youth seemed as though lost for him since he had not met
Hallveig before.

Never had Ingolf before reflected how short life really was. He had not
measured it with love's measuring-rod.




X


Orn was peculiarly restless during the first days after Ingolf's
departure. He became gradually alarmed, though he had considered it
the wisest course to conceal his alarm from his son, lest Frode should
perhaps make difficulties, now that the agreement with Haasten had
deprived Ingolf of all his real property. It was quite clear to Orn
that it was on this point the prestige of his family would be tested.
If Frode did not refuse to give his daughter in marriage to a man who
had been judicially deprived of all his landed property, it was because
the man was Ingolf, Orn's son.

As the days passed, and it became evident that the brothers, at any
rate, were not returning at once, Orn became quieter, and with every
succeeding day his calm increased. The continued absence of the
brothers could be only due to their having succeeded in their object.

Orn and Rodmar celebrated this by a justifiable drinking bout. Before
the fumes of their intoxication had quite passed off, Ingolf and Leif
returned home, having, as was apparent, quite succeeded in their
object. Orn and Rodmar went on drinking to celebrate the good news.
Then Orn went to bed and slept for a night and half the following day.
When he had had his sleep out, he began to arrange everything for the
double marriage which was imminent. He also wished to have a hand in
the preparations for the feast. He let all and each know that since the
gods had been so kind as to allow him to celebrate both his children's
weddings, and that at the same time, there should be a feast which
should be known far and wide and be long remembered. He had the temple,
together with every house and every cottage on the estate, swept from
roof to floor, and all the woodwork cleaned. He himself selected
the cattle and the swine which should be fattened for the feast. He
tasted the liquors brewed, measured out the meal and the corn, and was
everywhere.

Rodmar was homeless in all this disquiet. He tried his old device of
going to bed and keeping himself to himself in his darkness. He counted
the days and was morose. About three weeks were to be occupied with
preparations for the wedding, and then a week with the festivities
themselves. Rodmar drained his drinking-horn deep. The future looked
very empty to him.

Orn sent Leif and Ingolf out to invite people to the feast. They spent
many days in travelling from house to house. Orn questioned them every
evening as to where they had been, and made plans for the next day. He
was indefatigable. A peculiar excitement, which he did not remember to
have felt before a festival since his early youth, deprived him of his
appetite for food, and partly also of his tendency to drink. He was
about from early morning to late in the evening. All the same, it was
difficult for him to sleep at night.

Helga sat in her room and sewed at her bridal dress. Every hour of
leisure which Leif found he spent there with her. He was considerate
towards Helga, and avoided disturbing her with talk or caresses. He
could stand for hours together and watch her, as she sat and sewed,
eager and absorbed, with busy hands and hot cheeks. Leif was very happy
at that time. But as soon as he had not Helga before his eyes, he could
not realize that in a few days they should be man and wife, and had to
go in again and watch her sewing the bridal dress.

Orn had the banqueting hall draped with costly tapestry, and shields
hung up.

At last the day dawned. And the same day spring made its entry with
southern winds and genial temperature. Already from the early morning
guests began to assemble at the house. Somewhat before noon came Frode
with his daughter and son and a splendid retinue. Then the wedding
could begin. With eight days' unbroken festivities the marriage bonds
between Ingolf and Hallveig, Helga and Leif, were sealed.

Frode showed great gladness at the connection, and celebrated his
daughter's marriage with all the customary sports and pageants. Orn
only celebrated his son's with sacrificial feasts, with, as became
a host, the usual meals and drinking bouts. The meals were many and
luxurious, and the drinking bouts were long. Quantities of mead and
wine were drunk, and many swine and oxen eaten, besides game and other
food common at festivals.

Once more Orn was able to sit in stately fashion in the high-seat and
preside over a feast. During the days of this festival Frode shared the
high-seat with him. They knew each other well by the wounds received in
their youth and manhood. Many cheerful memories were revived, and they
shared in great friendliness their drink and the high-seat.

Orn had become an old man. Age had bent his back, made his face puffy,
and dulled his hearing. Nevertheless, he wore an air of dignity on
such an occasion. The chieftain was uppermost in him, and his natural
courage blazed up in one last victorious flame. Ingolf had rather
feared that his father would not be equal to preserving his dignified
bearing through such a trying festival, but his fear proved groundless.
Orn rallied all his powers and held out. He took part in every meal.
He emptied his drinking-horn at every health. He sat as host in the
high-seat, and still on the last day of the feast his spirits were
unequalled, his thinking power unaffected. He held out till the last
guest had left the place. Then the spring had already done its work.
The snow had gone. Everywhere one caught glimpses of the first signs of
summer's approaching splendour.

The next day Orn lay dead in his bed. His right hand clasped the knife
with which he had just succeeded in cutting the sign of the Hammer on
his breast. He had secured his seat in Valhalla.

Thus died Orn. His death did not especially surprise Ingolf or any one
else. Age and debility had during the last years handled him roughly.
In spite of all, he had been a chieftain to the end.




XI


It was very still in the house after Orn's death. His harsh, irascible
voice was suddenly lost in a great silence. And this silence was doubly
impressive just after the concluded festivities. Ingolf at once set his
people to brew drink, slaughter animals, and prepare for the funeral
feast. Orn should begin his last journey with all suitable honour. But
this time the work was done without the noise which usually attended
preparations of that kind. In Ingolf's soul there remained a special
sense of bereavement. He had always shown his father reverence; now
he realized that he had also been very fond of him. Ingolf selected
with care a spot down by the fjord where a funeral barrow would look
well in the landscape. He caused a little natural hollow to be filled
with potter's clay; then had one of his smaller dragon-ships rolled on
logs thither and fixed on the bed of clay with its bow turned towards
the south. Orn's journey should be towards the south and the sun. When
the ship was settled in its place and shored up, Ingolf traced a wide
circle round it. Orn perhaps was the last of the race who should rest
in the soil of his fatherland, therefore his funeral barrow should be a
notable landmark.

Ingolf collected a large number of workmen from his own and Leif's
estate, and set them to work at erecting the barrow. It was to be done
quickly. For nothing is quite sure for a dead man till he rests in
earth under the sign of the Hammer.

Ingolf sent messengers round to invite all those in the district and
many distant friends and relatives to the funeral feast at a few days'
notice. He and Leif superintended the work at the barrow, and it went
forward rapidly.

The voracious earth was not to be allowed to devour Orn's ship,
therefore stones were fixed everywhere between the earth and the
woodwork. Outside it were piled gravel, earth, and turf.

Amidships, round the mast, which was hoisted as though for sailing
and so that the roof of the barrow might form an arch over it, was
the burial chamber, as broad as the ship and two fathoms in length,
timbered with thick oak-beams. It was to resist the pressure both of
the stones and the earth: there should Orn lie, warm and comfortable,
ready for his journey. All was arranged with a view to a journey by
land and by water.

In the stern of the ship were stored up all possible articles which
could be of use in cooking. There were iron cauldrons of various sizes,
with the iron claws belonging to them and swivels for hanging them
up on; a large barrel for the supply of the ship's drinking water,
together with other larger and small oaken barrels with hoops of tough
kinds of wood; different vessels with and without lids, together
with wooden dishes, some in the shape of fishes; pails with handles
of iron and bands of bronze or wood; scoops of iron and of wood;
knives; a stone hand-mill and a stick to turn it with; a frying-pan;
a three-legged kitchen-stool; axes; and many other articles. Some of
the wooden ones were splendidly carved, and on others many-coloured
designs were painted. In the stern was also the ship's anchor. The
rudder was, of course, fixed in its place.

Ingolf further furnished the ship with all that was necessary: cordage,
sails, oars, tent-cloths and poles, hooks, oar-forks, and other
articles for a voyage. A landing-plank was not forgotten.

In the fore-part of the ship he placed a carved and fully equipped
sledge, with the harness and bearskin bags belonging to it. Thither he
had also brought a painted and carved carriage, with a driving-seat
and harness. Orn's saddle was brought on board, together with bridle
and reins, and all things needed for a horse. Orn should never be in
difficulties regarding his land-journey.

Ingolf had many things brought into the burial chamber. He filled
several boxes with useful articles belonging to a chieftain's equipment
and placed them in it. A bed and bedding were brought in, and he gave
his father costly coverlets for the journey. He did not forget to
supply a comb, so that his father might arrange his hair and beard
when he presented himself before the Ases. He gave him also rings,
ornaments, and other valuables, so that all should at once know whom
they had before them. Moreover, he provided him with thunder-stones,
small Thor-hammers, and other sacred articles for his protection on the
journey, together with a money-box to defray the possible expenses.
Orn should certainly not want coin. Ingolf also had several barrels
of wine and meat brought to the burial chamber, together with costly
drinking-horns to drink from and to proffer. An ox and a swine and
many other animals had already been selected for slaughter. Orn should
suffer neither hunger nor thirst on his long journey.

When all these things had been arranged, and the barrow was already
partially erected so that there was only a wide passage to the burial
chamber, and all that remained was to pile stones and earth over the
ship, the day came which was fixed for the funeral feast and committal
to the barrow.

A swarm of people had collected to do the last honours to Orn. Ingolf
himself conducted the ceremonies, both at the temple and at the barrow.
He had inherited the office of priest of the district from his father,
and now himself discharged the priestly functions. With the sign of the
Hammer he consecrated his father for the last journey.

Stretched on a bier, clad in his splendid garments, Orn left his house
for the last time. A golden-winged helmet crowned his white hair. A
sword gleamed by his side. A shield painted in many colours covered
his breast. Equipped for a chieftain's journey, Orn was carried to his
burial chamber.

The serf who was selected and already consecrated to follow him, for
it was not fitting that Orn should journey quite alone, stood ready,
and only waited for the knife, with which he was to stab himself, to be
given him.

Then came Rodmar, who in these busy and restless days had been
forgotten by all, tottering on two sticks hither from the house, led by
two of his men and followed by another man carrying a chair. He was
not dressed as a chieftain. Looking untidy, as he had just got out of
bed, in clothes which he had not changed for a long time, and with his
grey locks floating freely in the wind, came Rodmar, staring stiffly
and blankly with his blind eyes.

Rodmar had had a bad time in his darkness and loneliness since Orn's
death. He had hoped that death would come and fetch him before the
barrow over Orn had been finished. He would so gladly share the barrow
with him, and follow him on his journey.

It was impossible to remain behind now that his only friend had
departed. The solitude became intense and oppressive around him, and
the pain of his darkness was doubled. At last he took the resolve to
follow his elder kinsman in death, as he had always followed him in
life.

Rodmar crawled over the gunwale on his crooked legs and groped his way
forward to the opening of the burial chamber. Then he turned and spoke
to the air. "Is there wine on board?" he asked in an impatient and
peremptory tone.

Leif sprang on board and led his father from barrel to barrel so that
he could feel them with his own hands. Rodmar shook the barrels to see
whether they were full, and sniffed them distrustfully. He chose one
of them, and demanded to have one hoop knocked off. This was done.
Afterwards he asked that the tool for opening it should remain with him
and be close to his hand. He was also allowed to retain the tool.

His seat was fixed in its place, and Rodmar sat down with a long sigh
of relief, as it were. On one side of him he had an open barrel of
red wine, on the other a horn filled to the brim, standing on a little
table, which had been quickly brought to the place.

Rodmar borrowed Leif's sword, and, baring his breast with fumbling
fingers, cut on it with his own hand the sign of the Hammer. Then
he said farewell to Ingolf and the others standing round, and in a
slightly morose and curt tone gave Leif his last blessing. Then the
opening to the burial chamber was closed up. Rodmar sat, as long as
they could see him, motionless on his chair. He had secured Orn's
society for ever. He was prepared for anything that might come. A man
should be able both to live and die with a light heart. He had drink
for the journey, and there is also wine in Valhalla.

Ingolf killed with his own hand an ox that was laid on an oak-plank by
the side of the kitchen utensils. Its mouth was held open with a wooden
gag and turned towards the south. He also slew with his own hand four
horses, two dogs, and a swine. The swine was laid by the side of the
box; the other animals were taken to the fore-part of the ship. The
serf who was to have accompanied Orn was now spared, as Orn had better
company.

Stones were heaped over the ship and all its contents, and then the
barrow was hastily filled up. This closed the funeral ceremonies. Orn
and Rodmar had departed to Odin.




XII


It soon became evident to Ingolf that on that spring day he had
not buried Orn only. He had also interred with his father his
home-feeling, his peace and confidence in this region of his childhood
and youth. Already, when on the first morning after the burial he
stepped out of the house and saw his father's mighty barrow lift its
dome in the landscape, it struck him all at once that the district had
assumed an alien aspect. The confidence in the contours and colours,
which has its root in the child's free look and strong, unconscious
sense of belonging to the spot where he has grown up, was gone. The
landscape had suddenly lost its light in his eyes. He felt thrust out
and lonely. It was not here that he should live his life.

Hitherto it had not been really clear to him what a profound change his
life would undergo because of Haasten's sentence. The fact that he was
now homeless had, as it were, not yet broken on him in its full extent.
Now he saw suddenly what Haasten's sentence really implied--a complete
alteration of his whole life. First, years perhaps must be spent in
search and insecurity. And then a battle for life and death with inner
and outer powers, in order to gain home-feeling and home-rights in a
foreign land.

Ingolf felt from his own experience that the race which has not its
own soil to grow in is doomed to misfortune and ruin. The possession
of land stamps the race. The man who could be sentenced to lose his
possessions was exiled from the earth--this was what Ingolf felt now.
Such a man must gain earth's favour anew by his honest will to live in
peace on earth's fruits.

Ingolf's hitherto unconscious instinct of opposition to force of all
kinds was now suddenly revealed to him. That which had now happened to
him was not undeserved, even if the blame for the outer cause of the
misfortune could not be imputed either to him or to Leif.

He had continued to ravage foreign lands and to pillage people with
whom he had not the least quarrel. From a kind of secret cowardice he
had suppressed the unwillingness he had felt in doing so, as unworthy
of a man and a Viking. But now he saw that law and right extend beyond
the borders of one's own country. They are valid wherever there is land
and sea. The man who aims at living by force and pillage, not only
sins against the law which he carries within him, but also against the
earth--the sacred earth, which by the grace of the gods is so luxuriant
and fruitful that every year it is ready to fill the peaceful barns. As
long as the Ases had still reigned undisputed there was peace in their
dwellings. The Ases had been driven to conflict and war by the dark
powers who were responsible for all disturbance. Thus all disturbance
and violence came from the evil power. Ingolf vowed to himself that
from that day he would never lift a weapon against any man except
to protect his own and his family's life and property. That resolve
somewhat soothed the disquiet and restlessness which had seized him
when he became conscious of his homelessness, and suddenly felt himself
exiled from the kindness of the earth. The bright Ases would still
grant his family a home and prosperity when they saw his honest purpose
and clean struggle. The earth would yet take him into favour again when
he no longer defiled it with blood and violence, would fulfill his most
sacred, yes, his only wish, that his family-tree might be leafy and
strong-stemmed. Since fate had granted him Hallveig as a wife, it could
scarcely intend to exclude him from the earth.

Ingolf thought much of the far and foreign land away in the west which
he was to travel to. Was it there that his family's cradle for the
future should be? Was it there that the pillars of his high-seat should
consecrate the earth for him?

He dared not believe it yet. Neither did he dare to go to the gods and
ask them. He himself had to seek his future home. He must win again
what had been lost here by his own fault. He wished to commit himself
to the power of the sky and sea without first seeking instruction from
the gods. He would match his own strength and will against storm and
sea as a pledge and sign. He would not beg; he would gain by fighting
the favour of fate and of the gods.

Now that his father was dead, he was himself the eldest and chief of
the family. The responsibility for the honour of the dead, and the
honour and prosperity of the unborn, rested principally on him. For now
he alone wore the family bracelet, and now the high-seat was also his.




BOOK III




I


Ingolf and Leif equipped themselves in great haste for their journey
to seek the land which Raven-Floke had last visited, and which he
had given the name of Iceland. They wished to be there as early in
the year as possible, in order to be the better able to explore the
distant and unknown island. Therefore there was no time to be lost.
The first thing they did was to acquire a trading vessel, a strong
sea-ship, in exchange for two of their smallest ships, which, in all
probability, they would not want to use again. A trading vessel was
just what they now needed. In the conflict they were proceeding to,
there was no use for small, light battleships. Their new vessel was
certainly neither little nor light. It was a regular ox to look at.
High and broad, clumsy and solid, it lay, and the movements of the
water only made it rock sluggishly. By the side of the long, slim,
low-decked dragon-ships, it was seen to great disadvantage. Leif
laughed at it, called it his rock and his old woman's boat, said that
it had a stomach like an old cow, and expressed his fixed opinion that
it certainly cherished secret designs of going to the bottom at the
first opportunity. But Leif did it great injustice. The vessel was good
enough for its purpose, even if it was a little slow in turning and no
beauty to look at.

It had a half-deck at prow and stern and a small side-deck along the
gunwales. The rest of it was one large hold, in the midst of which
towered a great, solid, strongly supported mast. It was exclusively
built for the purpose of long trade-journeys, and therefore quite
excellently suited for such an expedition in which the chief object
was to convey as much as possible. There were but a few banks of oars
fore and aft; one might as well try to row a rock over the sea. It was
not adapted to be propelled by slender oars. The oars were only there
to turn it and to facilitate going on shore. It was to sail, not to be
rowed. Therefore it was entirely dependent on wind and weather. But,
on the other hand, it took the wind and weather with a composure and
immovability which came near to justifying its nickname of a "rock." It
only had one enemy--lack of wind.

It certainly did not dance on the billows like a dragon-ship. It was
too contemptuous of the unstable element around it, whose humours it
only yielded to when compelled, and then as little as possible. It
entered into no brotherly alliance with the wind. _That_ it took into
its service and allowed to further its object.

Such was the new ship, inspiring confidence in a high degree and
independent, both in form and behaviour--free from all kinds of levity.
Storm and sea were its--certainly often somewhat wayward--servants, but
not its masters.

Hallveig took an eager part in the loading of the vessel and in all
preparations for the journey, and showed Ingolf in numberless little
ways that she had no intention of remaining at home. When Ingolf was
aware of it, it seemed to him that he had all along known that Hallveig
was like that. And yet it gave his happiness an increased fullness
and weight. Without inquiries of any kind, with a silent agreement,
as though it were a matter of course, Hallveig prepared to follow him
always and everywhere, to belong to him and to be near him.

For Helga, who already went about with a hidden foreboding of coming
separation in her mind, the spring suddenly became really spring when
she saw Hallveig's preparations. If Hallveig could travel with them, so
could she. Of herself, Helga would never have hit upon so bold an idea,
though not from want of courage. Her courage and readiness to sacrifice
herself where Leif was concerned were boundless. Her backwardness was
from an inherited fear of causing trouble and being inconvenient, and a
deep anxiety not to displease Leif in any thing great or small.

Helga wept for gladness when it was decided that she should also go
with them. She did not often weep in the sight of others. Her weeping
made Leif quiet and thoughtful. He guessed that he often, for the most
part through thoughtlessness, caused Helga grief which she did not
show. For some time his tenderness towards her knew no bounds, and
Helga was happier than she had been for a long time.

Hallveig and Helga had been at first somewhat shy of each other.
Helga was in her own way independent enough. She certainly had a will,
and knew in every case what she wanted. But Hallveig's whole resolute
way of behaving and acting alarmed her a little. It took her some
time to understand that Hallveig was far from being inconsiderate and
selfish, that, on the contrary, she had a recklessness and warmth in
her devotion which was apparent in each of her words and deeds in such
a decisive way that to superficial observation it might look like want
of consideration and self-will. Yes, in her devotion Hallveig was
certainly reckless. Every one could easily see that she loved Ingolf
and belonged to him with body and soul. The quiet and apparently cold
Hallveig displayed a peculiar latent warmth and energy in all that she
undertook. She did not lavish smiles and caresses; that was not her
nature. No one had heard her speak tenderly or lovingly to Ingolf. But
out of all her actions shone love and tender solicitude. An invisible
fire burned around the apparently cold-natured woman.

When Helga first became convinced that she had at the beginning
mistaken her sister-in-law and done her injustice in her heart, a
specially warm devotion for Hallveig broke forth in her soul. And
from the moment that Hallveig saw that the reserve Helga had hitherto
displayed towards her had been a veil she had covered herself with
in the presence of a stranger, she embraced her also with the latent
warmth of her nature.

Hallveig showed Helga that outside the house also a woman may be a
benefit and do good service. Even when it was a question of loading
a ship for a long journey there were many things a woman could help
and participate in. Hallveig, who was never at ease when Ingolf was
occupied with the ship, from this time always took Helga with her when
she went down to it. She had an amusing way of walking, Helga thought.
She took long, resolute, manly strides, and her legs were obviously
legs under her skirts. Helga found it difficult to follow her when she
was in a hurry, as she almost always unconsciously was.

Hallveig examined even the smallest details that concerned the
loading of the ship, with her husband and Leif, and did so in
a matter-of-course tone which aroused Helga's astonishment and
admiration. In everything she said, Hallveig showed her practical
sense. She did not hesitate either to give help where it was needed.
Her help and advice were gladly welcomed. Her advice was advice and not
child's prattle. It was nearly always followed.

Hallveig had a peculiar rapid way of surveying matters. This was
the best place for this, and for that. She demanded that everything
which might be needed on the voyage should be as easily accessible
as possible. Ingolf and Leif had never given a thought to that. They
only thought of packing things so that they fitted in, took the least
possible room, and were so distributed according to weight and size
that the ship might lie on the water as level as possible. Now Hallveig
showed them that with a little reflection all these objects might be
excellently combined.

Hallveig's and Helga's presence and hearty participation in the
work--for Helga also quickly began to use both eyes and hands--put
Ingolf and Leif in high spirits, which helped them over many
difficulties and trifling annoyances.

The vessel was loaded amid much merriment. Corn in chests, dried fish
in great bundles, butter in small barrels, and boxes of dried flesh
and salt meat, beer and wine in barrels--a whole year's provision of
food and drink--were brought on board and packed carefully in the great
hold. But the vessel's stomach had to find space for much more. Small
compartments had to be made for the animals which were to be taken with
them. A cow and a pair of goats; they could not be entirely without
milk. There was also an ox to be slaughtered, and a bull-calf to be
company for the cow through the winter and grow large and fat and ready
to be slaughtered in the spring. A sow with small pigs was also useful
to have with them, together with some sheep, and a couple of horses
were simply indispensable.

And, at any rate, there was room for a hut for Hallveig and Helga. The
hut was Hallveig's idea. She did not wish only to be with them; she
wished to live on board and to be comfortable. Leif jumped like a boy
with delight when Hallveig put forward her proposal about the hut.
From that day not even the smallest thing seemed to him quite right
till Hallveig had expressed her satisfaction with it. He would rather
have Hallveig's help in counsel and action than that of most men, he
declared decisively. And he was absolutely resolved to teach her to
swing an ax and to hurl a spear. Hallveig did not often laugh, but she
had to laugh sometimes at Leif. There was the same completeness and
power in Hallveig's laughter as in all the rest of her character and
behaviour. When Hallveig laughed, there was something to laugh at. She
could never be imagined laughing at any one or anything she did not
like.

So these spring days passed. Liveliness and activity reigned
everywhere. This journey to a foreign land, which at the beginning
seemed so difficult to carry into effect, so improbable and
unrealizable, became through all these preparations imminent and a
matter of course for all those who took part in it. Here Ingolf now
stood in the smithy and forged scythes to cut grass in a land which
he had never seen and really only heard a tale about. Who was Naddod
the Viking? Who was Gardar Svavarsson? Who was Raven-Floke? Or Thorolf
Smor? Could one be sure they had not imagined that land over there?
Or that others had imagined _them_ and the whole affair? One might be
foolish to believe it, but he was going to get a sight of it. And while
Ingolf forged scythes to cut grass in that legendary land of the west,
and made spades to dig in its soil, that fact became firmly fixed in
his mind. In spite of all doubt, the land lay and actually existed over
there in the sea. And, in fact, it became more than real to him. It lay
there and spoke secretly to his soul; it waited for him almost like a
friend. And thus it seemed at last to have a claim on him, which he
could not disregard. For the land lay there and expected to be taken in
possession, as is the right of every land. Such and similar thoughts
filled Ingolf. And yet he did not guess that while he stood there in
his smithy and forged scythes and prepared implements with which to
till the new land's soil, the land took _him_ in possession by help of
the secret power a land possesses--never again to let him go.

Ingolf and Leif had to prepare themselves to build winter dwellings
and to store hay for their animals, therefore they took implements
with them, without considering what power the earth and implements
together have over a man's soul. They did not guess that only homeless
men wander their free ways, which are no ways, or rather that secret
earth-powers guide all other steps.

Ingolf and Leif provided themselves with fishing-gear and nets for
catching birds. They also took a pair of boats.

When the boat was loaded and everything else was in order for the
journey, Ingolf concluded his preparations with a great sacrificial
feast, at which he made abundant offerings to the gods, in order that
they should grant him and his fellow-travellers good fortune and
happiness on the voyage. Nevertheless, the days went by without the
commencement of the hoped-for sailing weather.

These days of waiting were hard for Leif to bear. He became morose. Any
kind of waiting was the worst thing Leif knew. It made his hasty and
adventurous spirit full of discontent. He cursed the vessel, called it
a wretched old woman's bath, and invented even worse names for it.

Ingolf took the matter quietly. Certainly he had already made his
offerings to the gods, and copiously. But it was a special voyage they
were to make--the gods were to protect them, and on wide and strange
ways. He therefore brought fresh offerings, and also secretly gave
Odin and Njord private gifts, besides vowing yet greater ones if they
would prosper his journey there and back and on the way. This expedient
helped. There came a day with splendid sailing weather--a sunshiny
day full of light and warm wind. Before midday all was ready--the
animals brought on board, the crew in their places (Ingolf and Leif
took only the smallest possible crew with them), and the vessel cleared
for sailing. Under a heavily bellying sail it glided out between the
skerries. Hallveig and Helga stood on the poop by their husbands and
watched the shores glide past on either side. Hallveig was quiet in
mind, and felt only glad at the fine day and the journey. Sea and
land were all the same to her, if only she had Ingolf. Here they were
sailing out to find a new land, to seek a new home. She was ready with
all her soul to remain fixed in the spot on the earth which Ingolf
might choose for them, no matter where it might be.

But with Helga it was otherwise. She was calm and quiet enough, but
her calm was, as so often on other occasions, only outward. The strong
scent of the pines from the spruce- and fir-clad islands they were
sailing by, roused a profound longing in her soul. This was the place
where she was at home. There in the house down there by the shore,
which seen from the fjord here looked so strange. There seemed to be a
sob in Helga's soul. She, the faithful, had only one home. She did not
at all wish to turn or to remain behind, for she stood here by Leif's
side. But she felt as though her heart were being split asunder and her
soul divided. For this place which she now left, to return to it next
spring only for a time, had shared with her happiness and solitude.
There was hardly a stone in the house which she had not patted with
her hand and made her confidant in joy or sorrow. She was bound to the
house and the surroundings of her childhood with ties which could not
be loosed or cut asunder. She knew with certainty that she would always
feel strange and homeless outside Dalsfjord. She reproached herself for
this feeling--for she had Leif--but she could not overcome it. All she
could do was to vow to herself never to betray it. Thus Helga took a
secret with the scent of the pine trees from the islands.




II


Ingolf and Leif sailed by the guidance of the sun and the stars, and
steered directly westward. For the first two days and nights a steady
east wind filled the square sail and carried them steadily forwards.
There were high spirits and much excited expectation on board. Indeed,
it seemed as though the wind had been sent by Odin with the sole
purpose of furthering their journey. But just as they had settled down
in confidence that they were under the god's special protection the
weather began to shift and change. Now it seemed, for the most part, as
if one or another of the divinities had set himself fiercely against
them, or as if Odin had suddenly become busy elsewhere.

The wind took the wrong direction, and seemed uninterruptedly occupied
in settling private accounts with the towering waves of the sea. In
the course of two days and nights it had gone several times round the
horizon and varied through all degrees of strength from a moderate calm
to what Vikings would mildly call a storm. And then all of a sudden
it disappeared. They looked longingly for it--east, west, south, and
north--for though they had cursed its vagaries heartily enough, it
was still preferable to a dead calm. But it was absent, and remained
absent. Unreliable as it had always been, it had gone off to other
regions, and left them alone here in the midst of the sea. There lay
the vessel, pitching lazily, and making no way at all. Where they were
no one knew, and there was nothing to show them. Whither the wind had
carried them, while it was still with them and blew alternately from
all points of the compass, they could not find out. The sun and stars
had only rarely been visible. The spirits of all on board were rapidly
sinking. Matters were not improved when, after several days and nights
of calm, there came gliding a cunning, silent bank of fog and swallowed
them up, blotted them out from the eyes of heaven, swept all sight
of sea and sky out of the world, and left the vessel lying, rocking
lonelily, forgotten by all good powers on a strange sea.

There they lay while the days came and went--grey days which could
only make marks on Ingolf's time-stick. For even though Ingolf was
displeased enough with these days he kept a steady count of them,
marked each of them off on his stick with the little notch that was
their due, and, for the rest, execrated them in silence.

Leif had given up all hope now; morose and aggrieved, he surrendered
himself to the power of chance. He sat most of the days on the gunwale
with his legs dangling outside, singing from sheer despair. Only now
and then he interrupted his song to hurl a violent succession of
sanguinary curses in a penetrating, angry voice into the damp, foggy
air.

With every day that passed, Ingolf became more silent and
introspective. What was the obstacle in their way? Were the gods so
much opposed to this journey that they were absolutely determined to
prevent it?

He did not like being questioned regarding the number of days he had
marked off. The days were quite bad enough without making them more by
talking about them. And at last he flatly refused to answer questions
regarding the number of the days. For long periods he would sit silent
looking at his stick, forgetting to mark the days, with his mind full
of inward longing and powerful exorcisms.

He heard that the crew were talking about drawing lots for a sacrifice.
Ingolf was not narrow-minded. But he remembered the offerings which
before his journey he had made to Odin, as well as the vows he had made
of further offerings if the journey prospered. Odin had often fulfilled
his wishes for less sacrifices than those. He really did not understand
what was the matter with Odin this time.

Hallveig and Helga were the only ones on board who, to some extent,
kept up their spirits. To Hallveig it seemed quite natural; they were
very well off, and the fog and the calm must some time come to an end.
Every morning she awoke with the firm conviction that that day the fog
would lift. Helga, on the other hand, had to pull herself together,
in order not to be infected by the depression of the rest. Yet she
was accustomed to do this, and on this occasion she had, besides,
Hallveig's good-humour to support her. But their good temper seemed
almost to put the crew into a still worse humour. Even Ingolf--not to
speak of Leif--could sometimes be impatient at their unconcern. And
one day, in answer to a cheerful remark of Hallveig's, he very curtly
drew her attention to the fact that the water-casks were seriously
near becoming empty. Hallveig looked at him steadily and a little
astonished. Ingolf had never before seen that look in her eyes. She
went to her hut without saying anything more.

Ingolf looked round for Helga. She stood by the gunwale, playing with
Leif's hair. When Ingolf had thus ascertained that Hallveig was alone
in the hut, he followed her into it. Hallveig was sitting and looking
before her when he came. She did not meet his glance as usual, but
remained sitting and staring into space with a troubled expression on
her serious face. Ingolf stopped before her and laid his hand on her
shoulder. Then Hallveig looked up at him. "It can do no good to give
up," she said seriously; "that will not make things better. Have you
not noticed how the men follow you with their eyes, and are disturbed
by your looks? There is nothing left us, Ingolf, but to take things
as they come. The fog may lift some time. And since it has not rained
for a long time, it may soon rain, so that we can again have the
water-casks filled. And we have also beer and wine on board, so that we
can get along for some time."

"What makes me uneasy," answered Ingolf, "is that we seem to be pursued
by misfortune, and that I don't know at all where we are. It might
almost seem as if the gods had forgotten us, or as if we had fallen
under their displeasure. If the fog and the calm continue, and there is
no rain for some time, it will soon be all over with us. You and Helga
ought never to have been taken with us on this journey. I have also
heard that the crew are beginning to talk among themselves of casting
lots. Perhaps a sacrifice will be necessary."

Hallveig was silent for a long time. At last she sighed deeply and
said: "I have never been able properly to understand how the gods can
desire human sacrifices. Perhaps, however, I would have agreed on this
occasion if I was quite sure that the lot would not fall on you. But
I cannot rely on the gods so absolutely. Let us rather wait awhile,
Ingolf."

Ingolf left her with the firm resolve henceforth to alter his outward
demeanour. He saw that the first and foremost thing was his duty and
obligation to exhibit to the crew a calm and untroubled face, be the
outlook never so hopeless. The first man he met he greeted with a
cheerful remark, and after that day he was altogether more lively and
communicative.

When the crew saw what an alteration had taken place in Ingolf, they
thought in themselves that he must in some way or another have
received a token from the gods. Their desire for a sacrifice and
drawing of lots ceased. Ingolf's altered demeanour inspired them with
hope and courage.

But the days went on, and one day the supply of drinking water ran out.
During the night following the day when the last scoop of water had
been equally divided among all on board, Ingolf did not sleep. And he
could easily see that Hallveig lay awake by his side. But they did not
talk. Ingolf was more and more convinced that the gods had for ever
withdrawn their favour from him. Perhaps it was their intention to let
him miserably perish here at sea. Would they not even grant him to die
on land? Could they not even spare a place for a funeral mound for
him and his? Ingolf reproached himself severely that he had involved
Hallveig in his own and his race's ill-luck.

Towards morning they began at last to talk together in a whisper.
Ingolf opened his whole mind to Hallveig, and confided to her his most
secret thoughts and anxieties. Hallveig said that she had married him
because she intended to share his fortunes whether they were good or
bad. She feared neither life, nor death, nor the displeasure of the
gods, if only she had him.

While they were still lying there and whispering together, Leif stood
suddenly in the doorway and shouted. He had kept watch during the
night, and had good news to tell. The fog was gone and the wind was
gradually rising. He had given orders to hoist the sail, and now only
wished to ask whither they should sail, for he did not know. The sky
was overclouded all the time, and the sun could not be seen. Would
Ingolf come and see if _he_, perhaps, could scent out the right
direction?

Ingolf was on his legs in an instant. All anxiety and trouble was blown
away from his soul by the first puff of wind. He took counsel with
his deepest instincts, and found a direction to sail in. The wind was
rather slack at first, but then it had got out of the habit of blowing.
In the course of the day it freshened to splendid sailing weather.
There were birds on the water; they must be near some land. Towards
evening they caught a glimpse of a dark streak ahead, which showed
distinctly against the fog-banks on the horizon. There rose a shout
on board: "Land in sight!" Then Helga wept. No one was astonished at
it. Some of the men also felt a flutter at their hearts this time on
sighting land again. But Hallveig stood quiet and undisturbed, staring
at the dark streak ahead. What sort of land was it? Were they already
there? That night no one thought of seeking sleep or rest.

Early in the morning they were among some precipitous green islands
which were divided by narrow straits with strong currents. From the
vessel they could here and there catch sight of smoke from houses and
huts. This, then, was an inhabited land, and not the one they sought.
One of the old men on board had been here before, and was able to
inform them that these were the Faroe Isles. That reassured Ingolf; it
meant they had not come out of their course. There was great joy on
board. Here they could go on shore, feel firm ground under their feet,
and provide themselves with water. There were some among the crew who
ventured to hint that the voyage had lasted long enough, but a look
from Ingolf was enough to reduce them to silence. All depression and
doubt had been swept out of his mind along with the fog.

The brothers now had all tubs, buckets, together with the empty barrels
and casks which were on board, filled with water from a spring on the
coast. When that had been seen to, they were so fortunate as to get
good weather with a stiff breeze. It was again possible to sail by
the sun and stars, straight to the west. They left the Faroe Isles
astern and made for the open sea. The weather remained fine, with a
light breeze blowing. The wind was certainly somewhat capricious both
as regards force and direction. But it blew all the time, and that
was what was needed. Only seldom could the vessel hold on a straight
course; they were obliged to tack, and so the way became somewhat
uncertain. Still they made progress.

On the seventh day after leaving the Faroes they at last sighted land.
A large and wide-stretching land, crowned by white glaciers behind
blue mountains, and land with broad, open fjords and bright streams
which wound down green mountain-sides, rose from the sea before their
wondering eyes.

This must be the land they sought. Here then it lay, solitary and
uninhabited, far away in the uttermost part of the sea. It lay silent
and patient, expecting them.

The land greeted them with sunshine and summer and blue mountains.
Majestic it lay there, with skyward towering promontories and broad
mouths of fjords which, like open arms, offered them a royal welcome.
No other land had ever received them with such a festal and solemn
greeting as this gave them.

A strange silence spread on board the vessel. It was early in the
morning that they sailed into a fjord full of swans. The blue surface
of the fjord was completely covered with these white birds, which, with
proudly lifted necks and in great flocks, swam to one side as the ship
glided on. Many other birds swam among them--variegated eider-ducks and
handsome water-fowl. But one did not notice them because of the white
swans. Hallveig named the fjord Svanefjord.

The brothers had chosen this fjord because it was protected by a little
group of islands which might make it more secure as a winter haven than
the open fjords. They tacked a little to and fro, using a corner of
their sail, and surveyed the land. Bare mountains rose on either hand.
On the north was a strip of fertile land along the fjord; on the east
side the waves broke freely at the base of the mountain. The land at
the end of the fjord seemed fertile and inviting, but they could not
find a landing-place which suited them.

Ingolf proposed that they should inspect a little more closely the
nearest fjord south of the one they were in. He had seen from the ship
that there lay a broad fjord sheltered by a small, low group of islands.

They tacked past a promontory and entered the other fjord. It was
both broader and deeper than the one they had just come from, but was
likewise full of swans! Hallveig laughed with gladness when she saw it.
This fjord also must be called "Svanefjord," she declared. They might
be called North and South. She did not know there were so many swans to
be found in the world. "Birds love this land," she said to herself.

Helga stood by her side. She compelled herself to smile and share
Hallveig's gladness, but her heart was full of pain, for the beautiful
land she saw here and which Hallveig already seemed to love, could
never be _hers_. She saw the swans, the mountains, and the green dales.
But in her heart there was no room for anything but a quiet, slightly
strange emotion. The scent of the pines from the islands at home was
too keen in her memory. Ingolf and Leif stood silent and in a solemn
mood, side by side; they looked at the land and did not say a word.
They had stood thus a long time when Ingolf turned to his brother and
said quietly: "What do you think of the land, Leif?"

"It is a big land and seems a good one," answered Leif, in a low voice.

"If only most of it was not barren mountain," said Ingolf, but his
voice lacked the reservation which his words expressed.

"I think we might soon feel at home among these mountains," said Leif.

"It does not look unfriendly," Ingolf admitted.

In his inmost heart he was deeply moved. The strength and sternness of
the mountains filled his mind with a peculiar excitement. Among these
mountains the green dales and fertile stretches of land, which he
caught a glimpse of at the end of the fjord, assumed a doubly home-like
aspect.

Suddenly Leif awoke from his long reflection and silent contemplation.
Abruptly and unexpectedly, as always, a resolve had been born in his
mind, and aroused him. "It is all the same to me what sort of a land
it is--I shall settle here," he declared in an excited tone. "Since I
have come, I think it would disappoint the land if I left it again. And
I will not disappoint this land, which lies here so ready to receive
me--so much is certain."

Ingolf was silent. Leif had given expression to his own thoughts. He
felt so convinced at this moment that here it was his lot to settle and
remain. But this feeling was followed in his mind by a peculiar anxiety
which almost made him sorry. Was it a good land--a land where one
could peacefully build and settle, and where his family could flourish
in happiness and prosperity? Not himself alone, but his children and
children's children should dwell here, if he determined to settle
himself in the place.

The brothers chose a landing-place on the north side of the fjord, and
steered thither. It was with strange feelings that they set foot on
this new land, which from time immemorial had lain here behind the sea
and the distance, alone with its birds. On sea and land, everywhere the
birds swarmed. The questioning whistle of the golden plover and the
rippling quaver of the curlew were the first sounds that greeted them
as they trod the stones of the shore.

Ingolf and Leif immediately set the crew to work to bring the animals
on land and to unload the vessel. They themselves proceeded to pitch
their tents, after having selected a spot with thick green grass, well
protected from wind and weather by a projection of rock, and close to
the brink of a small, clear stream. The kitchen utensils were brought
up, and a fire kindled. The shore was covered with driftwood, so that
there was plenty of fuel. Pots containing salted flesh were hung up; at
last they got hot meat again. They could not remember that any meat had
tasted so good as this hot salt flesh after the dried fish, preserved
flesh, and hard and finally mouldy bread they had had on the sea
voyage. They baked bread, too, and ate it warm from the embers. It was
splendid to have soft bread between their teeth again.

Round them the animals dispersed, grazing eagerly over the fertile
pastures. It was a pleasure to see the satisfaction with which they
swallowed the green grass. Towards evening the vessel was so far
unloaded that it could be brought ashore and rolled on logs over the
ground. They had chosen a little cleft in the rocks for it to lie in
shelter during the winter.

By the evening, when the men had crept into their skin bags and had
lain down to sleep, Ingolf and Leif, Hallveig and Helga, still sat
round the remains of the fire, but did not think of sleep. They sat
silent, close to one another, and did not talk. The night was bright
and still, and dew was falling. The fire gleamed palely in the night.
Red ember-snakes writhed at the bottom of it. The fjord spread a
shining surface, dotted white with sleeping swans. There was a peace
and stillness over the land which filled their minds with a peculiar
awe and sense of expectation.




III


The summer they spent in South Svanefjord was, for the brothers
and their wives, an unbroken succession of beautiful days. There
was a peculiar atmosphere of peace and prosperity about the lonely
settlement, where the fire burnt day and night under the cliff behind
the tents, while on a rising ground close at hand their winter dwelling
rose slowly from the ground. It was a house sixty feet in length,
thirty in breadth, which the brothers were having built--a house with
thick turf walls for a protection against the cold of winter, and
adapted to be partitioned according to their needs when they had first
roofed it in.

While their men worked at the dwelling and gathered in hay as winter
fodder for the cattle, Ingolf and Leif let the days come and go. And
whether they were sunny days or the fog hung in grey, soft, gliding
belts down to the middle of the mountain-sides, all the days had a
peculiar solemn solitariness and charm about them.

The land they had come to was after Leif's heart. It made quite a
different impression on him to any other land he had visited. The
sense of power that brooded over it, and the almost palpable solitude,
swallowed up the unrest of his mind and gave him peace. The mountains'
strongly marked and infinitely varied shapes, a little copse hidden
among grey cliffs, close up to a glacier, the heavily pouring rivers in
deep ravines, the fjords where the swans swam among other fowls like
royal dragon-ships among peaceful freighters, a seal bathing in the
sun on a rock by the fjord, not wise enough to be afraid of men, the
countless birds' nests with the snugly hidden, different-coloured eggs
one came across everywhere, and then the soft, downy young ones hopping
about between little hillocks--all filled his soul with a sense of
wonder and calm hitherto unknown.

Ingolf and Leif made little excursions on their horses in the
neighbourhood. They soon ascertained that the fjords north of the
Svanefjords were very poor in pasture-land; the mountains descended
for the most part steeply to the sea, while the land, on the other
hand, seemed to become better the farther southward they went. When
they had made that discovery they equipped themselves for a journey
of some days in order to examine the land south of the Svanefjords
more closely. Over a low, stony stretch of tableland they came to
another inlocked fjord which was much broader than even the broad South
Svanefjord. The greater part of the upland of this fjord was, however,
covered with gravel and clay. Quite outside by the sea was a stretch of
luxuriant meadow, and here and there stood rock-islets amid the sand,
round which there were large green pastures. Farther up, right under
the mountains, there was also pasture-land, and there they found the
largest and most luxuriant wood they had yet seen. They came to a river
with many rapidly flowing courses which streamed with clay-coloured,
turbid water over a sandy and unsafe bottom. But they had caught sight
of some sharp mountain-peaks far to the south-west, and since it could
scarcely be difficult to cross the ravines between them, they resolved
to proceed thither and see what was to be found on the other side. It
was generally the case with this land, that one was not satisfied till
one had seen what there was on the other side of all the mountains
which came in view. They passed with some difficulty the dangerous
river-current, and rode farther along high, steep mountain declivities
striped with many-coloured gravel.

They found a ravine between the mountain-peaks, and when they had
reached the other side of the mountains, there opened on them, while
they rode along the edge of the steep descents which led down to
the lowland, a view, the like of which they had never seen. A fjord
dotted with small green islands, wide-stretching meadows and pastures
intersected by gleaming watercourses, a wide bluish ring of mountains
which locked in the luxuriant region with a mighty curve, and behind
all this in the south and west, glaciers--an immense, slightly arched
stretch of sparkling snow with white offshoots to all ravines.

It was on a clear, sunny day at noon that they stood there and surveyed
this region, which arrested their minds with a sense of solemn wonder
and irresistible fascination such as no view had ever done before. In
his rapture, Leif laid his hand upon Ingolf's shoulder and pressed
it; he had tears in his eyes, and his large mouth quivered. They had
dismounted from their horses and stood silent for a long time. And when
they mounted again to examine the district further, they rode on in
silence. From that hour they were Icelanders; the land was theirs, and
they belonged to it. In silence the compact was finally and irrevocably
solemnized.

When they came back from their trip, Hallveig and Helga had an
important and, as they themselves thought, serious piece of news to
tell them. They had one day climbed up the green ascent above the
encampment, quite up to the base of the cliffs, in order to get a
wider view over the fjord and the district. And just as they sat and
contemplated the low group of islands and a little island beyond it,
they saw smoke rising from the island. It had been a perfectly calm
and clear day; there could be no doubt that they had seen correctly.
They had not said anything to the men, and they now only wished to
ask Ingolf and Leif to be careful, and not to go about any more
alone. Ingolf and Leif immediately put the larger of the two boats
in the water, called some of their men, and bade them take their
weapons with them. They wished to find out what kind of people they
had for neighbours. It was in vain that Hallveig and Helga begged and
prayed them not to insist on going out, and least of all in a little
rowing-boat. The brothers were too resolved on finding out more about
the smoke from the island. In answer to their wives they objected
that the ship was too unwieldy, and was, moreover, not a ship of war.
There was scarcely any chance of fighting; if there were people on
the island, they were probably some peaceful, starving, shipwrecked
men, whose vessel had been driven to sea and lost. For the rest, they
promised to be careful, but they were resolved to go out to the island
that day.

So they rowed out thither. Even when they had got quite close to it,
they could see no sign that it was inhabited. They rowed round it, and
still saw no inhabitants or buildings. They determined to land, and
chose a creek on the south side of the island. As soon as they had
landed, they saw a wretched little boat, in which they would hardly
have trusted themselves to cross a fjord, hidden among the rocks. They
went farther up on the island, and found a hut well concealed in a
hollow.

As they approached, a man came forth in a splendid cloak and
head-dress, with a staff in his hands, and followed by some lean shapes
black with dirt, and meanly clad. They came out from the hut, but
remained standing before the door, without going towards them. They had
seen this kind of people before, and immediately perceived that they
had what were called Irish monks before them.

Both Leif and Ingolf, as well as several of their men, knew some Irish,
and therefore went nearer in order to hear a little why these people
dwelt here on a desert island.

The monks, one of whom carried a cup of water, evidently did not wish
them to come too near them or their dwelling. The sworn brothers
remained standing at some distance and questioned them. The monks
answered their questions reluctantly, but they gathered from them that
they had lived here for several years, that they had long since heard
reports of this land, and that other monks before them had journeyed
to seek it out. They had not seen any of them, but the land was wide,
and they had remained here on the island where they had first landed.
This information Ingolf at last extracted from the monks, with many
questions answered, for the most part, in monosyllables.

When the brothers could not think of anything more to ask them, and
were going down to their boat again, the man with the head-dress,
cloak, and staff stopped them with a question. "Why had they come
hither?"

Ingolf told them that they had come here to look at the land, and
intended to settle here.

His words aroused a movement and disturbance among the monks, and their
leader gave him to understand plainly that the land was sanctified
and reserved by God for Christian men; no heathen had ever settled
here, nor ever could. Every kind of misfortune would strike them if
they migrated hither, unless they first let themselves be baptized and
went over to the Christian faith. Ingolf answered them quietly that
they must grant him that it would ill become him to be less faithful
to his gods than they were to theirs. The monk answered that heathen
did not trust in gods but in idols. Ingolf answered that the Ases had
hitherto protected him and his family. Then bidding them farewell, he
went off, followed by Leif and his men. They saw the monks sprinkling
with water the places where they had trod. Then Ingolf smiled and Leif
laughed aloud. The monks sprinkled even the waves which had licked the
heathen's boat.

When Ingolf and Leif returned, they were able to quiet Hallveig and
Helga with the news that they were peaceful and harmless people who
inhabited the little island. Their only weapon was a little water in
a cup! After that they called the island "Monks' Island." When the
autumn came with cold and sleet the sworn brothers already sat warm in
their turf-house. Before the dwelling Ingolf had caused to be built a
smaller edifice, where he set up small, roughly carved wooden images of
Odin and Thor. And when the time for the autumn sacrificial feast was
come, he offered them an ox (they must share the offering as best they
could), and had a little feast.

Leif held aloof from all things of that sort. During the twenty-four
hours of the feast, he went out catching birds by day and slept quietly
in his bed by night. In his lonely wanderings the brown leaves of the
autumn rustled round his feet and spoke to him. Leif did not think much
about catching birds. He enjoyed being alone with the mountains and
the blue sky. Wherever he met a family of grouse who held faithfully
together he let them go. He only aimed at solitary birds, caught them
round the neck with a practised fling of his light line, and drew them
to himself with one sweep through the air.

Ingolf's sacrificial feast and all his devotion to the gods was a
continually recurring trial to Leif's brotherly feeling. He could not
reconcile himself to Ingolf's constant and devoted adherence to the
worship of these ugly wooden idols. Time after time he was obliged, in
order to control his rising displeasure, to remind himself that Ingolf
never interfered in his beliefs and thoughts concerning the gods, and
therefore had a right to expect the same from him. But in his heart
Leif scorned and despised Ingolf's gods, and it was inevitable that
some of this violent antipathy should sometimes glance on his brother.

Singularly enough, on the other hand, Leif did not take it at all ill
that Helga held fast to her own and her fathers' faith, without its
being clear to him that he possessed in that, as it were, a proof of
her steadfastness. He did not at all wish that Helga should forsake her
gods to follow him in his want of faith and contempt for them. The day
that she did so would have given a severe blow to Leif's happiness. So
and no otherwise was his nature.

The winter came with hard frost but without much snow. The weather
for ski-ing, which Ingolf and Leif were waiting for in order to show
Hallveig and Helga a little of the country south of the Svanefjords,
did not come. Their disappointment was, however, mitigated by the fact
that their sheep and goats could, contrary to expectation, go out and
get their food the whole of the winter, with the exception of a few
stormy days. The brothers came to the conclusion that it was a land
where relatively few people might possess many sheep. They also noticed
that sheep and goats both in winter and summer went up to the mountains
and did not remain below in the luxuriant pastures. It was evident that
the grass they grazed among the stones upon the apparently barren
mountains must be of peculiar strength, for the sheep's bodies remained
stout and their wool white.

The goats had found some holes in the mountain near the house. There
they remained at night, took refuge there in bad weather, and were
comfortable.

In spite of the short days and long nights and the great solitude the
winter proved by no means long. Neither the brothers nor Hallveig
nor Helga felt the solitude oppressive; it brought them into closer
intimacy with each other in a way that no summer days could have done.
They sat round the fire, busy with their little occupations, and
talked cheerfully and confidentially together. Ingolf and Leif carved
wood, Hallveig and Helga spun yarn and dyed it in different shades of
heather-colour, made mittens and handkerchiefs, or artistically woven
bands of it.

In the middle of the winter Hallveig gave birth to a boy, whom Ingolf
sprinkled with his own hand with water and named Thorsten after Thor,
and in remembrance of his former friend, Haasten, from whom fate had
so painfully severed him. When Hallveig had given birth to her boy,
Helga became extremely solitary in soul. She never could find any
sign that she was with child. When no one could see her, she wept
bitter tears about it, but gave no outward sign. Outwardly she was
uniformly cheerful and bright, and showed to each and all an untroubled
demeanour. It was something she kept to herself, like the scent of
the pines from the islands. Spring came, with mildness in the air and
vernal winds. As soon as it could be managed, the ship was launched,
loaded, and made fit for sea. The sworn brothers needed as much as
possible of the summer to make preparations for their migration here
the next spring, to exchange those of their movable goods and the
live-stock which they could not take with them for useful wares, and in
general to arrange their affairs in Norway before they left the country
for good. All of them, except Helga, left the new land, though they had
only been there a year, with regret. The land had been a good friend
to them, and they were loth to bid it farewell even for a short time.
When they sailed away from it, it lay there so quiet and silent, gazing
after them, as it were. Before they departed, the migratory birds had
all come back. The land lay bathed in sunshine, with cheerful bird-life
on the fjord and on the shore.

Leif, the restless, was no more eager for journeys. He would rather
have remained where he was, and not have travelled to Norway at all.
But even Leif had to grant that the plan was impracticable. The
provisions for the journey, which they had brought with them, were
rapidly decreasing, and, moreover, it would be difficult for Ingolf
when he came back to find just the same spot in the land, dependent as
he was on weather and sea. Besides, Leif saw clearly that Helga, though
she had unhesitatingly acquiesced in his wild proposal, preferred that
they should travel with the others. Helga was willing to sacrifice
everything for Leif, even the scent of the pines from the islands at
home. But when she gave her brave assent to remain, her self-command
failed her a little, and her lips quivered slightly. The whole winter
she had looked forward with joy to the moment when she should sail
between the islands to Dalsfjord. Like a secret treasure, she had
concealed the consciousness that _that_ was in store for her, in her
steadfast heart. That remained there till Leif started with the others.
But when he sailed away from the land, the old unrest was again awake
in his soul.




IV


The brothers were favoured by a good wind as they crossed the sea to
Norway. Only ten days after they had sailed out between the skerries
outside the Svanefjords, the vessel lay before Ingolf's house in
Dalsfjord.

When they disembarked, it was only Helga who felt as though she had
come home. Ingolf and Leif had already separated themselves in their
hearts from their birthplace, and Hallveig, whose home was wherever
Ingolf was, had never been intimately acquainted with this district.

Leif had already on the return journey expressed his wish to go on a
Viking expedition in the summer. He gave many reasons--among others,
that he needed serfs. Further, he alleged that it was the simplest way
of obtaining goods for their journey to Iceland the next spring. Ingolf
could arrange their affairs in Dalsfjord while he was out trading for
them both. Leif spoke much about this important trading and about his
very inconvenient want of serfs. They were dear to buy, and it was
easiest to take them where one could find them. All these and more
reasons were adduced by Leif. But he concealed his real reason for
the journey, which was that it was impossible for him to conceive how
he should spend a summer at home at Dalsfjord. His blood had suddenly
become restless. His mind was like a bow which had been long on the
strain.

Helga, who, as was her way, always left matters to Leif, made no
objection to his plan. On the contrary, she gave it her warmest assent.
But now it appeared that there would be no more sunshine in the summer
which would be the last she spent at home.

Ingolf, for his part, knew Leif. And he was forced to admit that the
arrangement was not a bad one. They certainly needed goods, and would
obtain them most cheaply by fetching them themselves. For the rest,
whatever private plans Leif had in his expedition were his own affair.
It was thus already decided on the way that Leif should go on a Viking
expedition.

As soon as they landed at Dalsfjord, Leif set to work equipping himself
for his expedition. He was somewhat late in that, and had therefore to
hurry his preparations as much as possible. He allowed himself leisure
neither for sleep nor meals. In great haste he collected all the goods
which he and Ingolf had in stock, and loaded his dragon-ship with them,
together with the other ship which he still had in reserve. This time
he had to be content with two ships; he could not well man more, and,
moreover, they had not goods for more than two.

Only a few days after his homecoming Leif sailed out again from
Dalsfjord and left Helga alone with the pine-tree scent from the
islands. Leif did not guess that the pain of separation which left in
his mind only a fleeting pang, filled Helga with burning anxiety and
unrest, which should not vanish till she had him again.

Leif sailed out over the sea and let the sea-breezes, the sense of
solitary independence, together with the expectation of dangers and
adventures, absorb his mind.

He sailed to Ireland, and traded and ravaged wherever he came. This
time Ingolf had forgotten to exact any promises of caution from him.
Leif had latterly appeared to him so altered that he simply had not
considered it necessary. Leif was therefore completely free, unfettered
by promises or considerations of any kind. And in the consciousness
that this was now the last time he was on a Viking expedition, be
displayed a daring and exuberance in his conduct which filled his men
with joy and sent several of them to Odin.

During the summer Leif acquired, more by pillaging than by commercial
genius, a very large supply of all kinds of goods, mostly valuable
cloths and metals. In the course of the summer he succeeded in catching
ten serfs--ten wiry, grimy men--who bore names like Duftak, Gerrod,
Skjoldbjarn, Haldor, Drafdrit, and the like, sour-looking men with evil
eyes, but good enough as serfs, tough at rowing as they sat chained
to the oars, and enduring in all kinds of work. Luck, which only
unwillingly forsakes the bold, followed Leif wherever he went. On one
occasion, towards the close of the summer, it nearly went ill with him.

He had landed with his men on an apparently deserted coast, which was
protected by skerries and rocky islands with strong currents between
them--a place which only Leif could think suitable for landing. He
caused his ships, loaded with the costly booty of the summer, to be
rowed in between these skerries, in order to hide them in a rocky
creek, which he had selected during a solitary excursion, while he with
his men went for a foray in the neighbourhood. For this expedition he
needed as many of his men as possible, the object being a very large
and presumably rich town. Leif left the ships in the creek with only a
few men to look over the chained serfs, whom he dared not allow to go
free as long as he was so near their native place.

With the rest of his men Leif went on shore and he be-took himself to
the wood. They were all full of great excitement and expectation. This
was to be the last great adventure of the summer, and Leif expected
a booty which might perhaps make it necessary to conquer a vessel to
carry it in. Time would show!

The wood they intended to cross covered a steep mountain-side, from the
summit down to the coast, and it was traversed by deep, rocky ravines
covered with bushes. Leif and his men had not penetrated far into
this very impassable wood when they were attacked by an armed force
far superior to their own. The people of the town must have had spies
out along the coast. They were not only outwardly but really prepared
for their coming. Leif had just shouted to his men to fight each for
himself, first and foremost to get away and save the ships, when the
enemy was on them with strident war-cries and loud clashing of weapons.
Leif had no time to see how his men fared. The people of the town had
at once seen who was the leader, and since it was the leader whom it
was the most important to strike, they flocked round him with lifted
axes and upraised swords. Leif had to sacrifice his spear to one of the
two nearest attackers; the other's head he split with his ax, but next
moment a swarm of howling Irish were pressing on him. They did not,
however, surround him, a fact which Leif, who was striking doughtily
about him with ax in one hand and sword in the other--his shield he
had thrown away--had no time to think about. They pressed him back in
between the trees.

Leif, who at the moment only thought that six was the smallest number
he could reasonably take with him to Valhalla, and was still short of
two, suddenly lost his foothold. It happened so unexpectedly that his
sword dropped from his hand, but with his ax he hooked himself fast to
a tree-root in falling, and there he hung, swinging in the air, over
the edge of a ravine. His attackers had raised a great shout of victory
when he fell. They now gathered on the edge of the ravine, stood there
and laughed at him, and made themselves merry at his plight. They
pricked at him for amusement with their spears, while in loud tones
they debated which would be the most amusing way to see him die. A
proposal that they should slowly prick the life out of him gained the
day. So they began to prick him in turn, each of them wishing to have
his share of the pleasure.

Leif was in a desperate situation. He looked down at the bottom of the
ravine, where there grew heather and bushes. He had no other resource
than to let himself fall and see if he escaped with life. He wasted
no time in reviewing the situation; he simply let go and let himself
fall. At the moment he fell he perceived that men spread themselves on
both sides of him, to find a way down to the ravine and to surround him
there if he escaped from the fall with his life and whole limbs. The
fall absorbed both his body and his thoughts. He turned two somersaults
in the air and struck against something hard; there was a singing in
his ears, and he fainted for a time.

When he came to himself again, he was lying on his back in some high
heather and staring up at the light green leaves on some scattered
stunted trees. He had a distinct consciousness of danger without at
once remembering where it threatened him, and grasped involuntarily
after his ax and spear. He grasped in vacancy, and when he discovered
that he was weaponless, the whole situation was suddenly clear to him.
In an instant he was on his legs, satisfied himself that no bones were
broken, picked up his helmet, and, involuntarily stooping to half
his height, set off, running as hastily as his somewhat stiff limbs
allowed, into the thickest part of the wood, and took the way down to
the coast.

He had already run a good way when he heard men approaching, talking
loudly, farther down the ravine. He halted and stood stiff and
motionless. Only his eyes roamed round to seek a hiding-place, but he
saw nothing resembling one anywhere. A little hollow in the ground
close to his feet might perhaps afford room for his body, but by no
means could it conceal him. With every moment that passed, while he
stood there without any chance of escape, he could more distinctly
hear his heart beating. He already imagined to himself how it would be
to have his entrails drawn out and to be led round a tree. But at the
same instant, when he was on the point of giving up and of flying up
the ravine where he was quite sure to meet other foes, his eye fell on
a large flat stone. There was salvation! Trembling over his whole body
with excitement, he raised the stone on its edge and rolled it towards
the hollow. Then he lay down, wrapped his cloak round him, shrunk
himself up as well as he could, and pushed the stone right over him.
There he lay and heard his pursuers come tramping. From their talk he
understood that they were quite sure that he still lay where he had
fallen, and feared that he had broken his neck, so that all further
amusement for them was over. All the same, they urged each other to
have a good look for him. If they found the red-haired devil, he should
be flayed alive. Leif lay there under his flat stone with a corner of
his cloak between his teeth. An irresistible convulsive fit of laughter
seized him and shook his whole body. Every moment he might be prepared
for them to raise the stone; he did not know whether it covered him
completely. But here he lay, and there they went, rejoicing at the idea
of flaying him alive. Less than that was needed to make Leif merry.

The men passed. Their voices died away gradually farther up the ravine.
Leif let some moments pass, then cautiously raised the stone. After
taking a good look round he set out, crouching as he ran, to the
harbour. He reached the shore without seeing more enemies. He stood
for a little, recovering himself in the cool air from the sea. He was
tolerably sure that they would remain so keenly on the watch that he
could hardly in full daylight get to his ship, if indeed he still had
a ship at all! It was impossible for him to know if things had gone
better with his men than with himself, or if the ships had already
fallen into the enemies' hands. It was really a nice mess that he had
got into! When would he see Helga again?

Leif let his gaze wander over the fjord, and caught sight of an island
with some stunted fir trees a little distance out. This island was
surrounded by smaller ones, and appeared to him, at that moment, very
attractive. His enemies would scarcely think of looking for him outside
the borders of the land.

Leif did not reflect very long. He hid his cloak, helmet, and whatever
might be in his way when swimming thither, piled stones up on them,
and let them lie. Then he flung himself into the waves. He swam on his
back the first part of the way in order to be able to keep an eye on
the land and to see if he was noticed. He could not see the least sign
of life on shore. He reached the island safe and sound, and crawled,
wet and weary, up its smooth, rocky side. He dragged himself under
the shelter of a stone where he could lie and let the sun bathe him;
luckily it shone brightly and warmly, in spite of the lateness of the
season. He settled himself comfortably and closed his eyes. Shortly
afterwards he fell asleep. He awoke from uneasy dreams; the light of
the setting sun fell dazzling on his face. He had, then, slept the
whole day. And what sort of a coverlet was that which he had over him?
Closer inspection showed it to be a grey cloak of coarse material.
Leif looked round him with wide-open eyes, and caught sight of a man
squatting a little distance off, and regarding him with mild, attentive
eyes.

Leif did not place much confidence in the mildness of his glance.
Involuntarily he felt around for his weapons. There were no weapons
there--now he remembered the whole affair--but the man there seemed
likewise unarmed. Also, he smiled, and for the rest was so thin and
wasted that he could hardly be dangerous. What sort of a man was he?
He looked ragged and starving. His hair and beard were tangled like a
bird's nest. There was an atmosphere of death about him. Only in his
eyes and smile was there life--a gentle and, at the same time, intense
life.

The man rose and disappeared behind a projecting rock. Leif thought
this very strange conduct, and remembered, when he was out of sight,
that he had not heard his step at all. Was he still asleep and
dreaming? Was it a living man he had seen or a ghost? No, there he
came again, whoever he was. He had bare legs, which explained why he
walked noiselessly, and, for the rest, appeared altogether wretched and
harmless. This time he came up close to Leif with some shellfish, which
he opened with a practised hand, merely with the help of a sharp-edged
stone. Leif ate a couple of the shellfish, being ravenously hungry,
and would have gladly thanked this friendly and strange man, but his
disgust was too strong for him, and he declared himself satisfied.

Then the strange man smiled anew, an indulgent smile, and ate the rest
of the shellfish himself. When he had finished, he asked Leif how he
was, if he could rise, and how he came to be lying here on his island.
Leif trumped up a long story about having fallen overboard from a ship.
"The current had seized him," he said, "and carried him hither." He
found it best at the same time to show the man quite clearly, in order
that he might make no mistake, that he not only could rise, but that he
was altogether quite sound.

The man smiled again, whether on account of his story or his slightly
threatening gestures, Leif was not sure, and asked him no more, but
rose quietly and bade Leif follow him. He led him over to the other
side of the island to the mouth of a little cave. "I live here," he
said in his gentle voice. "You are the first guest who has paid me a
visit, and the only man I have seen for many years. Assuredly God had
His special purpose in sending you hither, my brother, however that may
have happened. If you will share my cave with me for the night, you are
welcome. In the morning you can swim to the shore, if you will, and are
a strong swimmer. You can also perhaps remain here, if you prefer it."

"What are you doing here?" asked Leif, who, to his astonishment, could
discover neither the roving eye nor mistrustful behaviour of an outlaw
in this mild, quiet man. "Why do you live alone on this desert island?"

"I serve my God," answered the man gently and seriously, making the
sign of the Cross. Then Leif suddenly became aware that it was one of
the mad Irish monks whom he had before him.

From that moment he did not fear the man any more. The monks were
peaceful people, mad though they were. But there was something
mysterious about the man which caused Leif to feel by no means
comfortable in his society.

"How do you live?" Leif asked, after a long pause. The man smiled his
gentle smile, and pointed to a pot-shaped hollow in the rock, which
stood filled to the brim with sea-water. "At high tide God sends me
sometimes a little food," he said contentedly, "or I dive for shellfish
when I am hungry. There is also plenty of seaweed here. I do not need
much. Shall not God who feeds the birds also feed me?"

"How do you serve your God?" asked Leif, growing curious.

"I pray, fast, and lead a pure life," answered the monk quietly.

"Who is your God?" Leif questioned further.

"The one true God, the Trinity--God the Father, God the Son, and God
the Holy Ghost," answered the monk in his gentle voice, and again made
the sign of the Cross.

"What is His name?" Leif continued.

He had sat down on a stone step outside the mouth of the cave and fixed
his wondering eyes on the monk.

"He is called Jehovah; His Son, whose sacred name is Jesus Christ, let
Himself be born as man, and shed His blood for men, to wash away their
sins."

Leif was silent. He remembered carved and painted images he had seen of
a God they called Jesus Christ. He hung nailed to a cross, with blood
dripping from His hands and feet, from His thorn-crowned head, and from
a wound in His side. Leif had always despised this God, who, according
to the narrative, had willingly let Himself be killed and hung up upon
a cross of wood. He did not comprehend the love of such a wretched
divinity which could make a man like this monk live his life on this
desert island, merely to pray to Him and thank Him. A powerless God He
must be--much more wretched than even Odin and Thor. And yet He could
obtain such power over men.

The monk had seated himself on a stone directly opposite Leif. The last
rays of the sun fell on his back, and made his grey hair glow like a
golden glory round his head. Leif remembered having seen this gold ring
round the head, and he sat and began to feel quite strange and uneasy
in his mind.

"Shall I tell you about Jesus Christ?" asked the monk at last, in a
voice that was soft and ingratiating like a woman's.

"No," answered Leif, not without a certain fear in his soul, which
distinctly betrayed itself in his voice. "Tell me rather of something
else."

The monk sighed sorrowfully. "As you will, my brother. The Lord is
mighty, and I am but the least of His instruments. Perhaps He has
reserved the grace of delivering your soul for another and worthier
than myself. What shall I tell you, brother?"

"Tell me something about foreign lands," said Leif, who had a dim
consciousness that there could hardly be anything which this man did
not know.

"I cannot tell you about foreign lands," answered the monk gently. "I
have not seen any other country except Ireland. And I do not feel the
want of it. The wickedness of the world is great in the lands. The
Devil rules most lands where people dwell. The Lord has of His mercy
granted me this lonely island, and my only wish is to live here in
peace till He takes me to Himself in His glory."

He was silent for a while, and reflected. "But I can read to you of a
place called Paradise," he said, breaking off his meditations. Then he
rose and crept into the low mouth of the cave.

A little while after he came back with a roll in his hand. When he
opened it, Leif saw that it consisted of some pieces of skin covered
over with strange signs.

The monk sat down and began to read in a monotonous and devout voice:

"There is a place that is called Paradise. It is not in heaven nor upon
earth, but between heaven and earth, at an equal distance from both,
as it was fixed there by God. Paradise is forty miles higher than the
Flood rose at its highest. Paradise is of the same length and breadth
on all sides. There is no hill nor valley there. There comes never
frost, there falls never snow. The earth is luxuriant and fruitful
there, but there are no evil beasts nor dangers nor defects of any
kind. There is a pure well, which is called the well of life. There is
a splendid and beautiful wood called 'Radion saltus,' the leaves of
which never fade. Each of its trees is straight and round like a spar,
and so high that the top is invisible. There are all kinds of trees
which stand in complete beauty and bear all manner of blossoms and
beautifully coloured apples and fruits of all kinds. There no leaves
fall from the branches. The wood stands in the midst of Paradise. One
of the fruit trees was forbidden to Adam; in its fruit was hidden the
knowledge of good and evil. There is neither hate nor hunger, and never
is there night nor darkness, but always perpetual day. The sun shines
there seven times more strongly than in this world, for its light is
increased with the light of all the stars. There walk Angels, keeping
all things in order in joy and pleasure. Thither have the souls of good
men gone (and shall go and dwell there till Doomsday) since God opened
the place when He took thither the soul of the Thief who died upon the
cross.

"In Paradise there is a bird which is called the Phoenix. It is very
large, and wonderful is the fashion of its creation, and it is the King
of all birds. It bathes in the well of life, and then flies up on that
tree which is the highest in Paradise, and sits in the sun. Then it
shines with a light like that of the sun's rays. Its whole body gleams
like gold, its feathers are like God's angels, its breast is beautiful,
and its beak resembles its feathers. Its eyes are like crystal, and its
feet like blood. But when this beautiful bird, the Phoenix, flies from
Paradise to the land of Egypt and dwells there five weeks, all kinds of
birds gather there and sing round it in all manner of ways. Then the
men who dwell there hear that and gather round it from everywhere, and
speak as follows: 'Welcome, Phoenix, to our land! Thou shinest like red
gold; thou art the King of all the birds!' Then the people of the land
make another phoenix of wax and copper which resembles the old one as
much as possible. All the birds fall at its feet and honour it with a
glad voice. Along its back there runs a red stripe, beautiful as burnt
gold. When its fifth week is passed, the beautiful Phoenix flies again
to Paradise. All the birds fly with it, some below it, some above it,
on both sides. But when they cannot follow it any longer they return
home."

The monk paused and looked at Leif, who sat bowed opposite him with
open mouth and eyes. When the monk saw how absorbed his hearer was, he
smiled and continued:

"It happened four thousand years before the birth of Christ (one
millennium had passed) that the Phoenix had become old, and gathered
round it a great number of birds, in order to bring together a great
pile of fuel. But by God's will it happened so that the sun shone on
the pile of fuel and the sun's warmth kindled a fire in it. But the
Phoenix fell in the midst of the fire and was burned to ashes. But the
third day afterwards it rose from the dead and was young again, and
went to the Well of Life and bathed. Then its feathers grew again, as
beautiful as they had ever been. It becomes old in the course of a
thousand winters, then it burns itself again to ashes, and rises each
time young once more. But no one knows, except God alone, whether it is
a male or a female bird."

The monk stopped. The sun had gone down, and the dusk of twilight
filled the air. He could no longer see to distinguish the characters.
He rolled up his skin-scroll carefully together and tied a band round
it.

Leif had swallowed his words to the end with eager ears. At the same
time the monk's droning way of reading had had a soporific effect upon
him. When the monk was silent for a moment, Leif gave a deep yawn and
felt a strange weariness in all his limbs. The next moment he fell
asleep where he sat, with his head propped on his hands.

The monk let him sit and sleep while he uttered a long and humble
prayer to God, that it might be granted him to save this heathen's soul
from destruction and the outer darkness.

Then he awoke Leif gently, and bade him follow him into the cave and
share his straw bed and his cloak with him, for it was now cold outside.

Leif awoke and saw that it was already night, with a pale glimmer of
the moon behind black clouds. Now the time had really come. But he was
not a little curious to learn more about the monk's cave, and, besides,
it was perhaps best to let him fall asleep before he left the island.

The monk struck a light and kindled a shaving. Then he crept into
the low mouth of the cave. Leif crept after him, and the first thing
he set eyes upon was a magnificent sword with a golden hilt and gold
inlaid blade. It stood set up against the wall in the inner-most part
of the cave. It was the most beautiful sight which at the moment could
meet Leif's eyes, and it was impossible for him to avert his gaze
from the shining sword. When he noticed the monk's look fixed on him,
he compelled himself to ask, in an indifferent tone, how it was he
possessed such a valuable sword, as he was so poor and peaceful.

"That sword I inherited from my father," answered the monk gently and
as it were apologetically. "I brought it with me here so that it should
not do more harm than it has already done among men. I first intended
to throw it into the sea, but it is so splendid. I have never been able
to bring myself to do that, and it does no harm here in my cave."

He took it in his hand with obvious tenderness, and showed it to Leif.
Leif dared not touch it for fear of betraying his covetousness.

The monk stood and contemplated the sword, and said, as though
reflecting: "They who slay with the sword shall perish with the sword."

Leif believed that he was pronouncing a spell which belonged to the
sword, and smiled incredulously. Immediately afterwards he threw
himself down on the pallet of straw, as though he were weary and
sleepy, and only thought of rest.

The monk replaced the sword, put out the light, laid himself down at
Leif's side, and arranged his cloak over them both, so that his guest
had a brother's share. Leif lay wide awake, wondering whether he should
succeed in finding his men, and whether he should see his ships again.
Soon afterwards Leif heard the monk snoring, and began to twist and
turn himself, to see if that would wake him. No, the monk slept deeply
and soundly; his snoring filled the cave with the peace of sleep and
night.

Then Leif rose stealthily from the pallet, groped his way to the sword,
took hold of it, although with a little prick in his conscience,
and crept on all fours noiselessly out of the cave, followed by the
unconscious snoring of the monk. When he stood outside in the dark
night, he raised himself erect and breathed freely. He was not at all
sure whether he still had his ships and men, or whether all his men
were killed, and the ships taken possession of by the enemy. But he
again held a sword in his hand. Leif only stopped for a moment outside
the mouth of the cave. Then with long, noiseless strides he crossed
over the island and plunged into the water. He held the sword between
his teeth and swam as best he could.

Leif found his cloak and other articles of clothing where he had left
them. He had much feared lest they should be gone, and the discovery
of them have served as a guide to the enemy. He put his clothes on and
then began to listen intently in all directions. When he could not hear
any movement or noise anywhere, he set off running along the shore in
the direction of the creek where he had left his ships. The last part
of the way he crept through the wood. He reached the creek without
having come across hindrances of any kind. And out there lay his ships.
They were lying farther out than when he had left them, and to Leif it
seemed a good sign. This time he tied his cloak in a bundle on his
back, took the sword between his teeth, and, thus equipped, swam out to
the ships. He swam as noiselessly and cautiously as possible, so that
he might be able to turn quickly if it should prove that it was not his
men who were in possession of the ships.

When he got within a bowshot of the ships, his old headman gave the
alarm, and asked in a grim voice: "Who goes there?"

Leif answered with a low whistle, which they all knew, and there was
great excitement and gladness on board. He had a rope thrown to him.
Immediately afterwards he swung himself over the gunwale and stood wet
and dripping among his men, with a strange sword between his teeth.

"Leif! Leif!" they shouted, and all wanted to touch him. Leif asked
hastily how many men they had lost. It appeared that they had only
three killed and two wounded. The rest had got on board safe and sound.
Questions hailed down upon him. His men had really not expected to see
him again, and were frenzied with delight and impatient to hear what
had happened to him.

Before Leif would tell them anything, he questioned them thoroughly,
and learnt that they had intended to remain lying here for some days,
if the weather allowed, in case he should return, or hoping at least
that they might learn something of his fate in some other way.

All the men on board the dragon-ship were gathered in a cluster round
Leif, their eyes fixed on his splendid sword. Leif took off his wet
clothes and put on dry ones. Then he crept into his bearskin bag and
shook himself with a sense of satisfaction. The men took their places
round him and waited patiently to hear his story. Lying stretched on
his back among his sitting men, with the pale moonlight flickering over
his face, Leif began his narrative.

He began with his fall down the ravine. He told them how he had first
hooked himself firm with his ax, and then had been obliged to let go
of it and to drop when the men had begun to prick him. He told of his
awaking without a weapon, and of his flight. He only related briefly
the adventure with the flat stone under which he had concealed himself.
His men listened, breathless with excitement.

When Leif was about to tell of his visit to the cave he suddenly
paused. He noticed, to his surprise, that he really did not like to
tell how he had got possession of his sword. But it was precisely about
the sword that his men were most curious to hear.

"The sword?" asked the old headman in a husky voice, when he had been
silent for a while.

"Yes, now comes the most wonderful thing of all," answered Leif
reflectively. And, staring at the pale sickle of the moon, he rallied
all his inventive powers and continued: "I had at last come up out of
the ravine and was wandering in the wood. I do not know how long I ran
about without an idea where I was. But suddenly I stood at the entrance
of a great cave in the earth. I slipped into it in order to let the
darkness hide me. When I had gone a good way in, I heard a strange
sound farther on in the cave. I stole forward and caught sight, in the
dark, of a man who sat and sang. His head waggled forward and backward
and to the sides, and his song penetrated my bones and marrow. His eyes
rolled about in his head as though he were possessed. His face was
yellow and blue, and there issued a strong odour from him, for he was
not a living man, but a dead one. A little behind him hung this sword,
and it shone on the wall of the cave. As I was weaponless, my life
depended on my getting hold of the sword. I stole, therefore, farther
on, and succeeded in slipping past him without his noticing me. But,
just as I was going to seize the sword, I stumbled over a stone on the
floor of the cave, and at the same instant I had the dead man on me."

Leif was so absorbed in his story that a cold sweat burst out on his
forehead at the narrative of this imaginary fight. His men listened in
death-like silence, staring at him with wide-open eyes, and pressing
involuntarily closer to each other.

"So near to the dead I have never been," Leif continued, and took
a deep breath. "You have no idea what power there is in a dead
man's bones. He crushed me as though with claws of iron. The most
uncomfortable part was, that wherever I seized hold of him the flesh
slipped away under my grip, and I held the bare bone-pipes with my
hands. And there was a most intolerable smell which nearly suffocated
me. Moreover, the whole time he kept wheezing foam into my face." Leif
stopped with a groan, and with the back of his hand wiped the sweat
from his brow. He lay there white as a corpse, with burning eyes, in
the pale moonlight.

"At last I succeeded in getting him under me," he said in a lowered
voice, "and putting out my utmost strength I pushed him against the
stone he had sat upon, and at last I broke his back. While he lay
there, and before I had seized the sword to cut off his wretched head,
his rotten tongue continued to spit out curses. I will not repeat them,
for they were terrible. Only so much I will tell you, that he said that
there was a spell on this sword, that whosoever should kill with it
should die with it."

Leif's old headman, who during the last part of this narrative had
panted like a sick man, suddenly sprang up in great excitement. "Throw
the cursed sword overboard," he shouted in a shaky voice, with his
whole body trembling. Leif reached after the sword, and clutched its
golden hilt firmly. "No!" he answered decidedly. "I have risked too
much to gain it."

The old man broke down with a hiccoughing sob, which sent an ice-cold
shudder through the bones and marrow of Leif and all the rest.

"What did you do then with the dead man?" asked one at length, with his
teeth chattering.

"I cut his head off and laid it by his feet," Leif answered curtly, and
gave a sigh of relief. Since there was no more to tell, Leif remained
lying silent. His men continued sitting silent and motionless round him.

Leif found himself wondering that his meeting with the monk had
suddenly become so distant and unreal. Was it not something which
he had dreamt? How was it, really? Had he not been fighting with a
dead man? His body was so strangely stiff. And if not, why should he
have this smell in his nostrils? Leif no longer knew himself what to
believe. The drowsiness of sleep slurred the clearness of his thought
and confused the real with the unreal.

The old man had gradually become silent. For a while he sat motionless,
with his head wrapped in a corner of his cloak. Then he let the
corner fall and continued to sit and look at Leif. When at last he
spoke, his voice had resumed its deep, quiet tone. "In memory of your
wonderful experience and great adventure, you shall hereafter be called
'Hjor-Leif,'" he said solemnly to Leif.

Leif smiled with half-closed eyes; then they closed quite. He slept
peacefully and calmly as though he had never been engaged in fighting a
dead man.

His men remained sitting quite silent around him. They did not talk
together. They had conceived a great fear in their souls which the
moon's unearthly light considerably increased. They were simply afraid
to lie down and close their eyes and fall asleep. They could not
understand how Leif could lie there and sleep so comfortably after such
an adventure. Their admiration for him had never been greater than now.
They would like to know whether he would be afraid to encounter the
gods themselves. They had never seen fear in his eyes. It was certainly
right that he should have the sword affixed to his name and be called
Hjor-Leif.

Leif awoke of his own accord at sunrise. Then he saw his men still in
a circle round him. He broke into a loud fit of laughter when he saw
their stupid eyes and faces weary with watching.

"Beer! Beer!" he shouted, and sprang up. "Plenty of beer for all the
men! Drink now, boys!"

He cheered them up. The most slack of them he whirled round and
capsized and thumped till there was a roar of merriment around him.

When Leif had emptied a couple of jugs of beer he felt hungry and
demanded food. For a whole day and night he had had nothing except two
raw shellfish, if _that_ were not something which he had only dreamt.
At any rate, his hunger was keen and insatiable. With continually
increasing wonder his men stood round him and watched him devour a
hearty meal. He was the only one on board who had an appetite. An icy
dread instilled by the moonlight still possessed his men like bodily
nausea. Even the beer which he had given them they drank more from
obedience than from pleasure.

When Leif had made them first stir themselves and then totter a little
on their legs, he set them at the oars and bade them set to work like
the boys they were! They should only think of their wives and dearest
ones, and for the rest row as though a dead man were after them. Leif
had had enough adventures for the present. Now he wanted to get home to
Norway.




V


Helga, the faithful and anxious, was once more to see the summer die on
the fields and in the wood and Leif return home over the autumn sea.

The foggy, raw, cold autumn day became great and festive when she
caught sight of Leif's ship out on the fjord. A red flag waved from the
mast, a signal which had been agreed upon. There came Leif sailing with
her happiness on board.

Merely the fact of his being alive was like a boon from the gods. It
filled her soul with summer to feel herself warm and living in his
arms. Every time that Leif came home from an expedition, it was equally
new and incomprehensible that he lived--lived and was near her again.

Leif came home with spring and renewal of life in his soul. That was
always the case with him. The evil and dangerous unrest was gone. He
had swept it out of his soul with adventures. Leif was again Leif. His
cheerful laughter betokened his inner quiet. There was noise and bustle
wherever he moved, but there was a contented assurance in his voice and
look.

To Helga, at any rate, it seemed worth while to have endured the pain
of longing and anxiety during the summer in order to have him home
again. The eager tone of his voice alone, when he asked questions or
related incidents, made her heart swell with happiness. She could
forget both to answer and to listen, and just cast herself on his neck
because she must, because it was so delightful to weep and laugh out
her happiness with his arms round her.

Leif never returned empty-handed from an expedition. Besides the
serfs and goods which he had this time gained, he had acquired a new
name--Hjor-Leif.

Ingolf, Hallveig, and Helga were all obliged to laugh loudly the first
time they heard him called by this new name. Leif began at once to
explain eagerly, and with a little embarrassment, that it was not a
name which he had himself assumed--one of his men had bestowed it on
him of his own accord. But it was plain to see that he was proud of the
addition to his name, and did not like their laughing at it.

They questioned him with curiosity about the sword which had given
occasion for the name--a valuable sword which few remembered to have
seen the like of.

Leif answered with great seriousness that there was a ludicrous story
connected with that sword. He had told it once to his men. But it was
not a story one went spreading about. He had no intention of repeating
it. His old headman, on the other hand, was fond of relating it. He
was by no means disposed to let Leif's adventure pass into oblivion.
And he related it in such a way that one did not sleep quietly for
several nights after hearing the old man's quavering voice relate
the unheard-of terrors which Leif had experienced in the cave. He
certainly deserved to be called Hjor-Leif, especially since he himself
liked it--on that all were agreed, when they had heard of the way in
which Leif had gained his sword. And so from that day he was called
Hjor-Leif, and nothing else.

Neither Ingolf nor any one else doubted that the story was true. The
sword in itself was sufficient proof. Moreover, it was so entirely like
Leif not to be satisfied with fighting living men, but also to have to
test his strength with the dead, and to come well out of the encounter.

Hjor-Leif was, as we have said, not to be persuaded to narrate the
story himself. He was not at all fond of being reminded of it.

His other adventures, small and great, he was generally willing enough
to relate. And he took them by no means seriously. His description
of the way he hung out over the cliff, clinging to the handle of his
ax and being thrust at by sharp spear-points, might have made even a
dead man writhe with laughter, although in itself there was nothing
pleasant in the situation. The Leif who revealed himself behind such
experiences, and could relate them in such a light and completely
artless way--that was the Leif whom Ingolf loved and could not resist.
For a long time after he had heard Hjor-Leif tell of the little hollow
and the flat stone, Ingolf could have a fit of laughter merely by
thinking of it.

Hjor-Leif confided to Helga, and Helga alone, a wonderful story
regarding which he was not sure whether it was an actual experience or
a dream. Upon an island he had swum to he had met a hermit who from
some mysterious characters on some pieces of skin had deciphered a
long and wonderful account of a place which was called Paradise, and a
bird he called the Phoenix. Had Helga ever heard the name of the place
or the bird? No, Helga had not. And even though Helga in her heart
thought that there was no limit to Hjor-Leif's possible experiences,
she gave it, nevertheless, as her view that it was very likely a dream.
Hjor-Leif also thought it might be. For part of the story or dream was
that the hermit had given him shellfish to eat, and that he really had
eaten them. That could in any case not be the fact, for he cherished
the most decided dislike to raw shellfish. _That_ must at least be
something he had dreamt.

All the same, the story about the monk continued to haunt Hjor-Leif's
mind and disquiet him. For a part of the dream which he had not
confided to Helga was--that he had stolen his sword from the monk. That
was a bad dream.

When Hjor-Leif returned home from the Viking expedition of the summer,
Ingolf had already sold such of their goods and cattle as could not be
stowed on board the two ships. He had also sold his dragon-ship. He
confided in a quiet voice to his brother that he intended hereafter
to lead a perfectly peaceful life. Hjor-Leif once more remembered
his dream of the hermit on the island, and said that he also had had
enough of these expeditions. They agreed that Ingolf should purchase
from Hjor-Leif his share in the vessel, and that Hjor-Leif should then
exchange his two ships for a powerful trading-ship. Ingolf had in his
journeys seen one that might suit him. The matter was arranged, and
everything was now ready for their departure in the next spring.

It was the season when the first winter nights were powdering the earth
with frost.

And now began a lively and unquiet time for the sworn brothers.
Relatives and friends came from near and far to spend some days with
them. The whole of this last winter in Dalsfjord there was a festivity
and bustle which made them all giddy with hilarity, especially
Hjor-Leif. His irrepressible mood infected Helga. She gave herself
away and forgot everything, even her most secret troubles--she forgot
everything in the one fact that she just had Leif. They let day be day,
and night be night, and merely lived--lived in a state of blissful
intoxication, which excluded everything except absorption in the
present happiness of their souls. Often when Helga was falling asleep,
she thought, "You will not wake in the morning," and smiled happily.
Her happiness was so deep that death and life ran into one.

There was no pause in the festivities. When there was no feast being
held in the house, they and their guests and servants were invited to
week-long feasts in other houses. Among their kinsmen and friends there
were already at this time many who said that if Ingolf and Hjor-Leif
prospered in the new land, they also would sell their properties in
Norway and migrate thither. Norway was no longer what it had been.
They knew no longer whether they were free yeomen or King Harald's
lease-holders. Lately one of Harald's Jarls had murdered Atle Jarl the
Slender. Haasten held his right and inheritance by Harald's permission.
And there were many situated as he was. Every one who dared to murmur
had forfeited life and land. It would certainly be a good thing to find
a free place so far away that Harald's hard arm could not reach.

Hjor-Leif reminded Ingolf that he had long fore-told that. There was no
need to fear solitude in the new land. Before many years had passed,
the whole of the great island would be taken in possession by the best
men of Norway.

Hjor-Leif spoke contentedly and undisturbedly about the matter. He was
himself, as usual, not aware of any responsibility. Upon Ingolf the
prospects of many following them thither had a different effect. He was
quite weighed down with a sense of responsibility and anxiety. Was the
land out there in the west so good that he could justify drawing others
by his example from their inheritance and the country of their race?
And, above all: _Was_ it the gods' will that he should journey thither?
Ingolf arranged a great Yuletide sacrificial feast. And now he wished
to ascertain the will of the gods.

On the first night of the feast he cast lots. Some chips or sticks,
dipped in sacrificial blood, were tossed in a cloth, and he read off
the characters formed by the positions which the chips assumed towards
each other. Far to the left lay a chip by itself, straight up and down,
a clear character, an "I." That signified "ice," and seemed to mean
that he should travel. The next character was even clearer. Some chips
had so arranged themselves that they formed the runic character "F."
That signified "cattle"; goods and wealth. There was no fear of making
a mistake. Ingolf read off still more characters, but they were all
propitious, with the exception of a single death-rune. Well, one could
not escape death by not travelling. That came to each one on the day
assigned by the fates. Ingolf was reassured.

Winter passed, and the days increased in light and length. Then came
a spring day. It was a warm and festal spring which fell in step with
winter's mood.

The sworn brothers launched their vessel and loaded it with goods
and implements, men and cattle. Ingolf had taken the pillars of his
high-seat on board, together with all the images of the gods from the
temple.

Leif sat doubled up with laughter and watched Ingolf and his men
dragging with solemn intentness the worm-eaten and bedizened pillars of
the gods from the temple down to the ship. Was Ingolf, then, no wiser?

Helga awoke from her trance of happiness as she stood with her hand
in Hjor-Leif's and sailed out between some small islands covered with
spruce and fir, from whence a strong pine-scent was carried towards
her by a gentle breeze. Hjor-Leif felt her hand grow cold in his. He
clasped the slender fingers more closely. Had he clasped them too
closely? Her little hand began suddenly to tremble in his. He looked
into her eyes with a searching and slightly troubled look. But there
was nothing the matter. She smiled her quietest and happiest smile at
him. He kissed her, made her sit in shelter, and wrapped a skin round
her, so that she should not feel cold. Soon they were outside the
islands. The wind blew stronger and more steadily. Before the bellying
sails the two heavily loaded ships steered over a sea blue with spring.




VI


The sworn brothers' ships lay rolling violently, rocking and pitching
in the heavy swell south of Iceland. The day was calm and warm. High
light clouds were spread over the deep blue vault of heaven. The sun
poured his strong spring light in broad floods over sea and land.

That day it was fourteen days since they had sailed out from Dalsfjord.
For fourteen days they had been in the power of the wind. A storm
which tore the sails and broke the yards had driven them about over a
raging sea, which ceaselessly sent cold showers of spray over the low
gunwales. From morning till evening, from evening till morning, four
men had stood in each vessel with the two baling scoops, working for
life to keep the water out. In spite of being continually relieved
the men were at last so worn out and wasted that they could scarcely
eat, and fell asleep and rolled over wherever they sat down even for a
moment.

By continual watchfulness and clever seamanship the brothers had
succeeded in keeping their vessels together. Each stood day and night
at the rudder. Only in the short intervals when the wind turned, or
there was a short pause, did they throw themselves down to sleep for
the moment as if dead. They had no time to think of Helga and Hallveig.
Helga was careful not to be in the way. She rendered the small service
she was able to do under these circumstances as much as possible
without making herself observed. Hallveig sat with her boy in her lap
and let the wind blow and the storm rage. She kept her eyes on Ingolf
and felt safe.

The sworn brothers fought for life and death with storm and sea. The
great thing was to hold out, not to give up, not to think of anything
but what concerned the steering and the quantity of canvas they should
carry, not to be wearied, not to lose one's head--to hold out, to hold
out. It was just this unceasing struggle which kept up their courage
and spirits.

The animals were ill and starving; some of them died and had to be
thrown overboard, others lay in their last agonies, pitiable to see.
Much of their corn and other food-stores was spoilt by the dense
showers of spray. The fresh water in the casks sank regularly and
irremediably. The men went about slackly, and had to be kept going with
a hard hand. There was hardly anything on board which was not otherwise
than it should be, and giving reason for deep anxiety. But the brothers
held out.

When at last on the previous day they had seen on the extreme verge of
the northern horizon a light from the snow-covered interior of the new
land like a faint white gleam, each had thought within himself that it
was not a day too soon.

During the last twenty-four hours the storm had at last slowly quieted
down, and now they lay here, held up by a presumably only short calm,
a few hours' sail from the coast, and gazed curiously and expectantly
over the sea at the land in the blue distance.

The ships lay side by side, kept in their places by long boat-hooks,
only so far from each other as was necessary in order to prevent their
chafing and injuring their sides.

Hjor-Leif and Helga had gone on board Ingolf's vessel in order to
greet him and Hallveig and to talk over the situation. All four were
seated, Hallveig with her little boy in her arms, on the stern poop.
After the severe trial they had passed through there was a silence over
them which was difficult to break. They had not yet grown properly
accustomed to the fact that life and death did not hang on each moment
as it passed. Therefore they spoke but little. Towards the north-east
and north-west the soft lines of the slightly rising and falling
glaciers stood out behind the blue mountains that crowned this flat
land. The brothers followed the changing contours of the country with a
peculiar tenderness in their eyes. But their gaze always turned back to
the glaciers which shone sparkling white in the strong sunshine.

Hallveig and Helga also could not turn away their eyes from the
glaciers. The few words which they now and then exchanged were said
in low tones, as if they sat in a temple, and not at sea on a swaying
vessel.

Ingolf and Hjor-Leif had long sat silent side by side, inspecting the
land with keen eyes. Between a projecting point a long way to the
east, and another far to the west, there stretched a flat, unbroken
coast-line, distinctly marked by a white edge of rolling surf.

"It will be difficult to land here," concluded Leif at last, in a
slightly hard and irritated tone. "Also, it seems as if most of the
land nearest the shore is barren sand."

"There are enough landing-places by the points," Ingolf answered
quietly, "and behind the sands the land may be good and fertile, even
close up to the glaciers. We saw that on the eastern side last summer."

Ingolf was in secret rather disappointed that they had not found the
Svanefjords again. But he did not speak about it. It was not possible
to look for them now. At present, the great thing was to get on land as
quickly as possible, and almost anywhere, so that the men and animals
could have a good rest and recover.

The sworn brothers had agreed that they must settle for the summer
and the coming winter on the spot where they landed. Afterwards they
might look out for a permanent residence. Ingolf had very decided views
with regard to the choice of a dwelling-place. These views, however,
he had not yet confided to Hjor-Leif, nor to any one else. The matter
concerned the gods, and in all that concerned them his brother's
attitude was a foregone conclusion. Hjor-Leif, on his part, only
thought of finding a pleasant and fertile spot, preferably by the sea,
and protected by the mountains, where he could feel himself at home and
be comfortable.

For a long time they sat in silence, each deep in thought. Ingolf
reflected how he had best communicate his plan to Hjor-Leif. He saw
at once that it was no good to be silent about it longer. For already,
before they departed from here, it must be put into execution. He sat
and felt rather perplexed inwardly, and could not find words.

At that moment Hjor-Leif was sitting and reflecting over an experience
which he had had the previous night. He had lain asleep in his bearskin
bag while his old headman took charge of the tiller. Suddenly he
started up from sleep, having certainly dreamt of something or other he
could not remember, and as he did so he collided with a man who must
have been stooping over him. It was one of his Irish serfs, Duftak,
a man whose evil eye had followed him since he once in wrath had
stretched him on the ground with a well-deserved blow. Hjor-Leif was
not certain, but it seemed to him that the serf had thrown something
or other which he had in his hand overboard, just as he had stumbled
against him and stood opposite him. He thought he had heard a little
splash as when a hard object strikes the water. But he was by no means
certain of the matter, and neither the serf's eyes nor his behaviour
had betrayed anything. He had asked him what he was doing here, and it
seemed that he had come to look after a roll of rope which lay close
by. Hjor-Leif had had his thoughts occupied the whole day by this
occurrence. He had already observed for a long time that the serf's
eyes followed Helga wherever she went and stood, with an evil and at
the same time covetous look. He could not understand why he had not
already thrown the serf overboard, and why he did not intend to do so.
He was quite sure that it was not from fear, although there seemed
to be a peculiar understanding among his Irish serfs. It was rather
because he could not do without serfs, and because if he killed one of
them it would be safest to kill them all.

At length Leif unwillingly shook these thoughts off, and asked curtly:
"We shall sail southward, I suppose, when the wind gets up again?"

Ingolf was silent. It was certainly about an equal distance to the two
points, and he had a very great desire to seek a landing-place near the
more easterly of the two.

Instead of giving a direct answer, he began cautiously: "I have
thought, brother, that I for my part will let the gods decide where I
should settle in this new land."

Leif, whose temper at the moment was a little off its balance because
of the incident with the serf, gave a hard laugh: "How will you go
about it?"

Ingolf pointed to the pillars of his high-seat, which lay lashed
together with strong skin straps above a pile amidships.

"I will throw the pillars of my high-seat overboard. Wherever they
drift to land, I will settle."

"Even if they drift to land in the middle of the sands here?" asked
Hjor-Leif incredulously and a little scornfully.

"The gods will know how to find the place where it will be best for me
and my family to settle," answered Ingolf, undisturbed. "I lay with
confidence the choice of a dwelling in their hand."

Hjor-Leif was silent for a long time. There was a hard and pitiless
line round his large mouth. There was Ingolf again with his cursed
gods! At last he spoke, without looking at anything: "Instead, then,
of our choosing a place for ourselves where the earth is fertile and
luxuriant we are to settle wherever it pleases the wind and current to
wash up a pair of dead planks on shore."

He talked himself into a bad temper. And he wound up bitterly: "We
shall hardly be neighbours, then, brother!"

Ingolf sprang up from his place. He was on the point of giving an angry
answer when he remembered suddenly a snowy day when he and Hjor-Leif
had ridden alone over a desolate heath. He shut his lips tightly, and
stood for a while silent, leaning against the tiller. In his eyes
there was a seeking look which wandered in perplexity over the water.
The sun's glimmer dazzled his eyes. He could not find a word kind and
cautious enough to answer with. But his resolve stood immovably firm.
Suddenly he collected himself, and, calling a couple of his men, bade
them take the high-seat pillars down from the pile and lay them on the
gunwale. So he stood for a little and let his hands glide carefully
over the age-browned wood.

Hjor-Leif sat watching with a hard, evil look in his grey eyes.
Cautiously Ingolf let the pillars glide overboard. He remained
standing, and followed them with his eyes as they lay there floating on
the bright, oily water. Hjor-Leif could only see his back. There was an
air of decision and resolve about that back which irritated him still
further. Hallveig and Helga had followed the conversation, and now sat
silent and anxious, not daring to look at each other. Helga did not
at all reflect which of the two was more in the right. She was simply
troubled. In her gentle mind there rose a strange, impotent fear which
made her heart beat heavily and painfully.

Hallveig, on the other hand, was at first in her inmost heart on the
point of justifying Hjor-Leif. At the first moment it appeared to her
that one's own eyes' choice of a dwelling could always be as good as
that of blind gods, nay, really much safer. But when she had sat for a
while with her firm, open gaze fixed on Ingolf's back, a change took
place in her mind. The air of security and assurance which was about
her husband's whole person, and which his back just now so distinctly
expressed, had an unconscious effect upon her. She understood all of
a sudden that it was just this sign from the gods which was needed
in order to attach her husband's heart firmly and unbreakably to his
new home. There, where the pillars of his high-seat drifted on shore,
Ingolf would feel himself at home with all his soul and in spite of
reason. The gods' choice of the place would give his strength and
will the firm ground without which, in spite of all his strength, he
could not thrive. On a spot so chosen Ingolf would force happiness and
prosperity to dwell in the face of every imaginable difficulty. For in
alliance with his gods he was invincible.

Hallveig sat there and became assured and peaceful in mind.

She understood that it was from an unwaveringly sure and wise instinct
that Ingolf acted when he cast the pillars overboard. It was of vital
importance to him to feel himself in covenant with his gods and in
possession of their favour.

Hallveig stooped over her little boy and kissed him on the forehead,
and remained sitting for a while with bowed head, lest any should see
she had tears in her eyes.

With beating heart Ingolf stood and watched his treasured pillars
tossed by the billows, lightly, aimlessly, as though they were ordinary
pieces of driftwood. It was not without severe internal conflicts that
he had resolved to deliver his dearest possession to the power of the
sea. But here life was at stake. It was not only a matter of finding a
place where his cattle could graze and his house stand, but of finding
exactly _that_ place which the gods willed to grant him and his family.
The place where they could know he would stay for the future. The place
where his and his family's happiness and prosperity were not only under
his but under their care and responsibility.

When Ingolf had stood for a long time watching the pillars, which
gradually drifted astern in an easterly direction, his displeasure
towards his brother disappeared. He turned slowly, and, with a peculiar
smile upon his young face towards the others, went quietly and seated
himself by the side of Hjor-Leif.

"What do you think of our choosing the eastern point as a
landing-place, brother?" he asked in a quiet and friendly tone.

The question irritated Leif. There was no talk of choice; it was merely
a question where a piece of driftwood should decide their landing.

"I have already for my part chosen the west," he answered firmly, and
at the same time as quietly as he could, and not without a certain
satisfaction at the effect of his words.

But it was not only on Ingolf that Leif's answer had the effect of
a well-directed blow. Both Hallveig and Helga felt that here was
something evil and dangerous going on. Quite involuntarily Helga called
Hjor-Leif's name in a supplicating tone. She had no idea of wishing to
influence him in the least degree. She knew him, and was aware that it
was hopeless. The word fell like a prayer from her gentle and anxious
soul. In one hot wave the blood mounted to Hjor-Leif's head when he
heard Helga's voice. "You can remain with your brother, since you
prefer that to following me." The bitter words leapt from his mouth.
Helga broke down in a heavy and despairing fit of weeping. Leif sat
motionless, and apparently un-moved. But in his breast there tore and
tugged a fierce and intolerable pain which was not far from making him
powerless. It was not at all, as it now appeared, a sudden whim which
caused him not to wish to have Helga on board again. It was the scene
by night with the serf, Duftak, which from the beginning had given rise
to the thought in him that Helga would be really safer on Ingolf's
ship. Some vague and groundless presentiment or other, which made him
still more sensitive and impatient, told him that there was danger in
the journey for him and Helga. It was nothing but pure tenderness for
Helga which made him resolve that they should part before they were all
quite on shore. This time he had not thought of parting from Ingolf.
But in a moment Hjor-Leif was completely in the power of his restless
temperament which, as so often before, distorted his words and actions
and drove him to hasty resolves. To separate from the others, and seek
another landing-place, with the prospect perhaps of not seeing them
for a whole year, was for him a much greater trial than for Ingolf,
to whose equable temperament a year's separation contained nothing
unthinkable or alarming. Hjor-Leif could really not imagine how he
could hold out merely a month, much less a whole year, without them.

And if he now chose to land in another place than Ingolf, each for the
present would have to remain where he landed. But it was completely
impossible for him to expose his dependence and pain at parting. He
could neither humble himself nor subdue his spirit so far as to enable
them to discuss matters reasonably. As soon as the fateful words were
out of his mouth he was helplessly in their power.

While thoughts and feelings were rushing like violent streams through
Hjor-Leif's lacerated soul, Ingolf had already succeeded in reviewing
the matter reasonably. In separation there was the advantage that the
one who first found a landing-place could, by kindling a fire on his
point, inform the other, who perhaps would be seeking a landing-place
in vain, where he could look for one. Ingolf, with a seaman's practised
eye, had long before discovered that the coast here was difficult,
not to say impossible to land on. It confronted the open sea. The
heavy swells, which were certainly almost always prevalent here, would
shatter any ship that tried to land on the sands. It was by no means
unlikely that the character of the coast near the two points might be
equally difficult. And it was impossible to know if the coast east or
south of the points was better. Since Leif now wished it, Ingolf had
for his part nothing against their separation, for some days or for a
year, as it might happen. He therefore quietly proposed that whoever
first succeeded in landing should kindle a fire on his point as a
signal to the other. The latter could then make for that place, if he
had not found another harbour before, or in the contrary case might
answer with a fire on his point.

Hjor-Leif briefly agreed to this arrangement. It was he who had settled
that they should separate, and yet it was a severe disappointment to
him that it was now finally decided on. "I may come southward in the
spring, if I have not by that time found my pillars," said Ingolf
quietly, when the matter of the fires had been settled. "But if I
should not come, I will send you a messenger, if I have not heard from
you before."

Hjor-Leif nodded curtly. It was incomprehensible to him that Ingolf
could sit there and talk so quietly, as if nothing had happened between
them and everything was all right.

"If you find my pillars," Ingolf continued, with the same immovable
calm, "take good care of them, and let me know of the discovery as soon
as possible."

Hjor-Leif made no answer. Internally he swore that if he had the luck
to find the infernal pillars it would be a joy to him to let the fire
devour them.

All conversation gradually died out among the four persons who sat
there, swinging on the sea, swayed by the balance of fate, each mind
filled with its characteristic inner thoughts, peace or unrest, wearing
pain or assured contentment--sat there in the grip of their own souls
and of blind powers, while the brilliant spring day glided into a
light, soft night.

The red sun-gold over the sea in the west faded and died away into
other and colder colours. The world was new and strange, and charged
with presentiment as always on the boundary between day and night. The
four sat there, and let the day go and night come over their peaceful
or irritated silence. Ingolf's little boy, Thorsten, slept quietly
in his mother's bosom. All around was quiet. Peace was there for
whomsoever had a mind to receive it. The brothers sat side by side,
yet each in his own world. Ingolf, as always, kept his mind collected,
was his natural self, and knew it. Just as he ate what nourished his
body of the good things of sea and earth, so his mind absorbed whatever
benefited him from the changing moods of day and night, sea and heaven
and earth. Everything else remained lying untouched and harmless
outside the tightly closed circle of his mind.

With Hjor-Leif it was otherwise. He had no collectedness in his mind.
Every kind of experience or mood which approached him was seized by the
tentacles of his restless heart. Evil and good, health and injury--his
hungry nature swallowed and satiated itself with all, without any other
result than merely to increase his burning desire for something--a
condition or an experience--he knew no name for it. In a measure he was
himself just as Ingolf was. But his self was volatile and difficult to
grasp. It died away in grief and gladness, as though it were a part of
them.

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





