Chapter II: Book I: I (2)

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.