Chapter XI: Book III: I (3)

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.