START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GUEST THE ONE-EYED*** E-text prepared by Richard Tonsing, ellinora, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/guestoneeyed00gunniala Transcriberâs note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). GUEST THE ONE-EYED * * * * * * _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ THE SWORN BROTHERS A tale of the early days of Iceland by the most noted of living Icelandic novelists. âTo read it is like being struck in the face on a sultry day with a breeze fresh from the glaciated mountains of the Viking North.â â_The Bookman._ âGunnarsson has made his characters so genuine, so red-blooded and so masculine that they stand out like living men.â â_News-Tribune, Detroit._ _NEW YORK: ALFRED A. KNOPF_ * * * * * * GUEST THE ONE-EYED Translated from the Danish of GUNNAR GUNNARSSON by W. W. Worster [Illustration] New York Alfred Â· A Â· Knopf 1922 Copyright, 1915, by Gunnar Gunnarsson Copyright, 1922, by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. [Original title: AF BORGSLÃGTENS HISTORIE] Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y. Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y. Manufactured in the United States of America ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS BOOK I ORMARR ÃRLYGSSON 9 BOOK II THE DANISH LADY AT HOF 107 BOOK III GUEST THE ONE-EYED 189 BOOK IV THE YOUNG EAGLE 273 BOOK I ORMARR ÃRLYGSSON CHAPTER I Snow, snow, snow! Below and aboveâhere, there, and everywhere! Up to his knees in snow, Pall Ã Seyru struggled across the wind-swept heights. The snow whirled down in great downy flakes, making it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Stooping, with heavy, weary steps, he tramped on, an empty sack slung across his shoulders. He had come from the trading station, and was on his way home to his own hut in the mountains; the store-keeper had refused to grant him further credit, and in consequence, he had chosen to return by this lonely track across the hills, where he was sure of meeting no one on his way. It was hard to come home at Christmas-time with empty hands to empty pots and hungry mouths. His only comfort was the snow. It fell so thickly as to shut out all around, and seemed to numb even the poor peasantâs despair within the dismal prison of his mind. Now and again he heard a soundâthe whir and cackle of ptarmigan flying overhead. Suddenly a gust of wind sent the snow flying over the ground. Anotherâand then gust followed gust, growing at last to a veritable hurricane, that swept the very snow-clouds from the sky. And as if by magic, a vast plain of snow lay open to his eyes. All Hofsfjordur was suddenly visible. Pall turned, and saw the last of the clouds sweep down into the dark blue-green of the sea. To the south-east, the peaks of the Hof Mountains rose out of the water, and over the eastern landscape towered a long range of rocky mountains that gradually merged into the great south-western plateau. His eye rested for a moment on the vicarage farm of Hofâa few straggling buildings clinging to the mountain-side, among which the black church itself loomed out, right at the mouth of the fjord. The houses of the trading station he could not see; they lay beyond, on the northern shore of the fjord, safely sheltered behind the rocky walls of the islets that offered such fine harbourageâto any ship that managed to reach so far. The parish itself lay between him and the Hof Mountains. A valley two miles farther up was divided into two narrow dales by the Borgasfjall, a steep and rocky height. The rivulets from the two valleysânow but streaks of smooth iceâmet lower down, making part of the valley into a peninsula. The southern stream was named Hofsa, and its valley Hofsardalur; the northernmost Borgara, and its valley Borgardalur; but the rivulets, from their confluence to the outflow into Hofsfjordur, still went by the name of Borgara, and the broad valley was called Borgardalur. To the north, on the farther side of a narrow valley, likewise belonging to the parish, were the faint outlines of broad, slowly rising hillsâthe Dark Mountains. The ridge where Pall now stood was Borgarhals, and ran for a long way between Borgardalur and Nordurdalen, in the heart of the mountains, leading to the little glen where his cottage lay, close to a brook, and not far from the lake. There were trout in the water there, to be taken by net in summer, and in winter by fishing with lines through holes in the ice. Wild geese, swans, and ducks were there in plenty, from early spring to late autumn. But Pallâs thoughts had wandered far from all this, settling, as did his glance, on a row of stately gables that rose above a low hill in the centre of the peninsula, formed by the waters of Borgara and Hofsa. From three of the chimneys a kindly smoke ascended. The storm had abated, and folk were beginning to move about here and there among the outbuildings round the large walled farmyard. Already flocks of sheep were on their way to the winter pasture at the foot of the hills, where some dwarfed growth was still to be found. This was Borg, the home of Ãrlygur the Rich, as he was called. It was by no means uncommon for folk to speak of him as âthe King,â for he ruled over scores of servants, and owned hundreds of cattle and horses and thousands of sheep. Suddenly Pallâs cheeks flushed with a happy thought. It had crossed his mind that he might call at Borg. All knew that Ãrlygur the Rich never sent a poor man empty away. But then he realized that today was not the first time the thought had come to him. No, better to give it up; he had turned for help to Borg too many times before; he could not well ask again. With bowed head, and face grey as before, he dragged himself along the almost impassable track; he was exhausted; his limbs seemed heavy as if in chains. From early morning to about ten oâclock, while the storm raged, the farm hands and servants of Borg gathered in the womenâs hall upstairs. The men had come from their quarters, and sat about on the beds waiting for the storm to abate before starting out to their work. The cowman alone was forced to brave the elements and tend his cattle. Ãrlygur had opened the door to his own room. He sat with his two-year-old son Ketill on his knees, and talked quietly with his men, exchanging views, or giving them advice about the work of the place. He always treated them as his equals. The men sat with their breakfast-plates on their knees, eating as they talked. Some of the womenfolk went to and fro with food or heavy outdoor clothing; others were darning socks or mending shoes. Ormarr, who was nearing his fourteenth year, sat in his fatherâs room, on the edge of the bed, facing Ãrlygur. It was in his mind that things were beginning to be like they had been before his motherâs death, two years ago. He sat with his hands on his knees, swinging his legs by way of accompaniment to his thoughts. Never before had he missed his mother so sorely as this morning, when every one else seemed to have forgotten her; never before had he felt her loss so keenly. He sighed, checked the swinging of his legs, and sat motionless for a while. Tears rose to his eyes. He felt he must go out, or he would be crying openly in a minute, and disturb the comfort of the rest. For a moment he sat pondering where to go, then he remembered that the cowman would by now have finished work in the shed, and taking down an old violin from a rack, he left the room. Reaching the cowshed, he sat down in his accustomed place, on a board between two empty chests, and commenced tuning his instrument. It was an old thing that had been in the family for generations, but no one could remember having heard it played. Then, seven years before, Ormarr had been taught the rudiments of music by a wandering fiddler, an adventurous soul, who tramped the country with his fiddle slung over his shoulder in a calfskin bag. Since then, Ormarr had given all his spare time to the music. His father had marked with grief how this one interest had gradually swallowed up all else; the boy cared nothing for the management of the estate, or indeed for any other work. Possibly it was this which had led Ãrlygur, in spite of the doctorâs advice, to wish for another son. And his wife had sacrificed her life in giving him what he wished. Hard and self-willed as he was in many ways, Ãrlygur had yet a profound belief in the right of every human being to determine his own life, to follow his own nature and develop his gifts as long as it involved no actual harm to others. And he made no attempt to coerce the boy; Ormarr had his way. * * * * * About ten oâclock, when the snow had ceased, Ormarr slung his gun across his shoulder and walked off toward Borgarhals to shoot ptarmigan. On the way, he met Einar Ã Gili, a troublesome fellow, who, in defiance of the general feeling, had so little respect for the uncrowned king of Borg that he had several times thrashed his son Ormarr without the slightest provocation. It was the more unpardonable, since Einar was about ten years older, and strong as a giant. And now, at sight of him, Ormarrâs fingers fumbled in passionate helplessness at the trigger of his gun. Einar hailed him, to all appearance innocent as could be. âHey, Ormarr, out shooting? Letâs go together?â Ormarr had no desire to go out shooting with Einar, but was curious to know why the other had suggested it. âThen we can see whoâs the best shot.â This was irresistible. Einar was a proverbially bad shot with a gun, and Ormarr knew it. He made no protest, and they went on together. Every time he fired, Ormarr brought down two or three birds. Einar got at the most one bird at a shot, and often sent the birds fluttering away with broken wings. Nevertheless, Einar picked up all the birds that fell, and stuffed them into his own bag. Ormarr demanded his share. âOh, youâve no bag, and thereâs no sense wasting time tying your birds together at every shot. Wait till weâve done.â Ormarr had his suspicions, but said nothing. After a while they came to a good-sized rock, with two paths round. Ormarr knew that the paths to the south was the longer. âLetâs go round and meet on the other side. Iâll go this way,â he said, taking the northern path. And Einar agreed. When they met, neither had any more birds to show. âBut you fired, I heard you,â said Einar. âI missed,â said Ormarr shortly. Einar laughed, but he took no notice. âLook, thereâs one sitting on that rock,â said Ormarr suddenly, pointing to a boulder some hundred yards away. âIâll take him.â âNo hurry,â said Einar; âIâll bag that one myself. We neednât go on any longerâIâm going home now.â âHow many have we got?â âOh, twenty.â âGood, then give me mine.â âAh, yesânext time we meet! Iâm off. My love to the cattle at home.â Somewhat to his disappointment, Ormarr did not seem to be greatly annoyed, but merely walked off, calling quietly over his shoulder: âMind you donât miss that bird, Mr. Clever-with-your-gun.â Einar turned round angrily. âDonât shout like thatâyouâll scare it away. Thatâs my twenty-first.â âAll right. Itâs too frightened of you to move. Go and see.â Einar took careful aimâhis hand shook a little, but only because he was inwardly chuckling over the trick he had played Ormarr, and the thought of telling what he had done. Though, indeed, he might get little credit for it all; people were rather apt to side with the lordly folk from Borg. Still, it was good to have fooled that brat Ormarr again. The bird was sitting close on the rock. Einar fired, and, raising his gun, saw that the bird was still in the same position. Seeing no feathers fly, he thought he must have missed, and loaded again. Then creeping cautiously forward, he rested his gun on a stone, and fired again. The ptarmigan did not move. Einar felt sure his shot must have taken effect. He went right up to it. The bird was dead enough, but what was more, it was cold. And lifting it, he saw a piece of paper tied to one of its legs, with a few words in pencil. âClever shot, arenât you? Thanks for a pleasant dayâs sport.âOrmarr.â âCurse the little jackanapes!â Einar never told any one after all how he had scored off Ormarr that day. * * * * * Ormarr hurried along up hill and down, firing and reloading rapidly, scarcely seeming to take aim at all, but never missing his bird. His narrow sunburnt face was flushed with exertion, and drops of perspiration trickled down from his forehead. His eyes searched eagerly about for game, and in a very short time he had a bag of twenty-seven. Then suddenly, coming round the corner of a rock, he stood face to face with Pall Ã Seyru. Pall tried to avoid him, but Ormarr called him back. He sat down, wiped the perspiration from his face, and smiled as Pall came up. âPuhâIâm warm enough, for all itâs fifteen degrees of frost. You look half frozen.â Pall muttered something, and tried to hide his empty sack, which had the effect of drawing Ormarrâs attention to it. âWhatâs thatâgoing back home with an empty bag? Wonât Bjarni let you have things any more?â âIâm in debt there already. And I couldnât promise to pay before next autumn.â âBut at Christmas-timeâand youâre not a rich man.â âThat makes but little difference in his books.â âHoâwho says thatâyou?â ââTwas Bjarni said so.â âAnd you had to go and ask himâbeg of himâlike that?â âOur cow didnât calve, and weâve no milk. And thereâs no food in the place beyond.â âHâm. What were you going this way round for? âTisnât any short way home.â âI didnât want to meet anyone.â âAnd going back empty-handed? Why didnât you come to us?â âIâve been a burden to many this long timeâto your folk more than any. And Iâll not ask for help from the parish.â Something in the manâs face made Ormarr catch his breath. The blood left his cheeks, and in a hushed voice he asked: âYou meanâyouâd....â Pall nodded. âYes. Thereâs times when it seems better than living on this way.â Ormarr sprang to his feet. âPall ... here, take these birdsâjust from me. And come home and talk to father. You must. Heâll be just as glad to do anything as you could be for it. As for Bjarni, heâs a cur. You can tell him so from me next time you see him.â Pall was silenced, and tears rose to his eyes. Ormarr understood, and said no more. They divided the birds into two lots, though Ormarr would gladly have carried the whole, and in silence they started off down the slope. * * * * * Ormarr slept in a bed next to his fatherâs. It had been his motherâs bed. When the light was put out that night, Ormarr had not yet found courage to tell what he had been thinking of since his meeting with Pall that day. Nor did he know what had passed between his father and Pall. Half an hour later, perceiving that his father was still awake, he managed to whisper, softly and unsteadily: âFather!â It was as if Ãrlygur had been waiting for this. He rose, and seated himself at the boyâs bedside. ââTwas well you met Pall this morning, lad. His wife and two little children were waiting for him to come home.â The words gave Ormarr the courage he had lacked. âFather, may I give him Blesa? His cow wonât calve for six weeks, and theyâve no milk.â âIâve promised Pall to send him Skjalda, and a few loads of hay the first fine day the roads are passable. And I am going to take little Gudrun to live hereâtheyâve enough to do as it is.â Ormarrâs heart was full of thankfulness to his father for his kindness to Pall. But he was shy of speaking; words might say less than he meant. And there must be no misunderstanding between his father and himselfâthis thought was always in Ormarrâs mind, for he loved his father deeply. Now in the darkness of the room, he could hardly distinguish his features, but in his mindâs eye he saw him clearly, sitting there on the bedside. He knew every line in the calm, composed face, finely framed in the dark hair and brown beard. Often he had been told that there was not a handsomer man to be found than his father. He had the physique of an athlete, and Ormarr knew his every movement and attitude. He strove now to breathe all his love towards the loved figure, vaguely seen in reality, yet clear as ever to his mind. He felt that his father could not fail to perceive the mute expression of his loving gratitude. For a while both were silent. Then Ãrlygur rose, and smoothing his sonâs hair, he said: âYou know, Ormarr, that all I possess will in time belong to you and your brother. Then you will be able to give away more than trifles. At present, you have little to use in charity, but what you have, you may do with as you please. Remember that it is our duty to help those who are poorer wherever we can. And when you hear of any one that needs a helping hand, always come to me. Wealth is not lost by charity. And now good-nightâit is time we were asleep.â He went back to his bed, and a moment after, spoke again. âOrmarr, you remember how generous your mother always was. You seem to grow more like her every day. I think she would have been very happy tonight.â Ormarr burst into tears, hiding his face in the pillow to make no sound. And after a little while, he fell asleep. When he awoke next morning, he felt for the first time since his motherâs death as if she were invisibly present among themâas a link between his father and himself. And he was filled with a proud sense of having entered into a secret covenant with his father; it gave him a feeling of manhood, of responsibility. CHAPTER II Bjarni Jonsson, the trader, and Daniel Sveisson, the parish priest,âSera Daniel, as he was called,âsat drinking in Bjarni Jonssonâs front parlour. They were seated by the window, looking out over the fjord. The sun was setting, and the shadow of the house was flung far out over the smooth sea. The smoke from the chimney had already reached the rocky haunt of the eider duck. The cliff was the home of immense flocks of many-coloured birds, for it was spring, and the breeding season was at its height. Numbers of gorgeous drakes were swimming round the rock, and amongst them a few plump and comely eider duck, taking an hourâs rest from their duties before sunset, leaving the nest and eggs to the care of the father birds. Sera Daniel enjoyed the view, for he was looking out over his property. The eider-duck cliffs, even those farther out, were by ancient custom regarded as belonging to the living. And they brought him in a very nice little sum. He puffed away at his long pipe in silence. Bjarni noticed his contented air, and was not pleased. Surely it would be more reasonable that the revenue from the eider-duck cliffs should come to him, Bjarni, as owner of the shore lands. But priests were all alike, a greedy lot! For ages past they had been petted and spoiled with all sorts of unjust privileges and unreasonable perquisites. And what did they do for it all? Nothing in the least degree useful, nor ever hadâunless it were something useful to grow fat themselves in a comfortable cure. Such was Bjarniâs train of thought. And he meant it all quite earnestly. But he said nothing, for, outwardly, he and Sera Daniel were the best of friendsâdrank their grog together, and played cards in all good fellowship. At the moment, they were only waiting for the doctor to come and take a hand. No, in his inmost heart Bjarni detested the priest; the portly figure of the man was a continual eyesore to him. Sera Daniel was a man of imposing presence, there was dignity and calm authority in his carriage and bearing, and Bjarni, having no such attributes himself, found herein further cause for jealousy. It would be hard to find a less imposing specimen of the human male than Bjarni Jonsson, trader, of Hofsfjordur. Outwardly, he resembled more an ill-nourished errand boy than anything else. His face was grey and angular, the top of his head was covered with a growth of colourless hair, and his pale blue eyes were as a rule void of expression, for the reason that he was in constant fear of betraying his ever-present jealousy of every one and everything round him. And the struggle had marked his face, his eyes, every movement of his puny, stunted body, with a stamp of servile cunning. His clothes hung about him like the rags of a scarecrow in the field, the draggled moustache that hid most of his mouth added to the general impression of meanness and insincerity. At a first glance, Sera Daniel presented a complete contrast. His burly, well-fed body seemed to exhale an atmosphere of cordialityââan ecclesiastical cheerfulness which gave his whole bearing something of the stamp of the prelate. His fair hair carefully brushed back from the broad, arched forehead, the blue, beaming eyes, the frank expression of his clean-shaven face, which, however, never for a moment relapsed from the bright, superior, yet mild professional mask of dignity, of healthy godliness attained through inward strife and by the grace of Heaven; the placid, yet telling gestures of his somewhat large, plump hands; the sonorous voice with its echo of sanctity; and last, not least, his faultless black attireâin short, his whole outward appearance seemed to combine human forbearance and lofty understanding with the rare power of living a full and yet exemplary life, kindly chastening himself as well as othersâall the qualities that go to the making of a true servant of the Lord. But the simple, canny folk among whom he lived, and from whom he himself was sprung, had not been long in penetrating beneath these externals. They realized that he played his part well, and with a suitable mask, which they tolerated, even respecting him for the sameâat any rate, in his presence, or when young people were about. But the elders among themselves were not afraid of unmasking Sera Daniel with a sly wink, as it were, in a manner of which he would certainly not have approved, nor found consistent with the respect due to their spiritual guide. Men played their parts well in the parish of Hofsfjordur. And in the opinion of his parishioners, Sera Daniel was not the only one who played a part at variance with the character behind the mask, though Sera Daniel himself might have believed so. There was one family, or more exactly, a single figure, that did not fit in with the cast of the local comedy. A keen observer could not have failed to notice that the life of the community centred round this one man: a dominant figure among the rest, who knew how to shape their views according to his will. And he was a source of much annoyance to the actors proper, more especially those who had cast themselves for leading rÃ´les. That man was Ãrlygur Ã Borg. Ãrlygur was in his forty-second year. From early youth he had been the natural leader among his fellows; first and foremost, of course, as only son and heir to Borg, but also by virtue of his personality, which was excellently suited to bear the rank and wealth and responsibility inherited from his forebears, who had, as far back as the memory of man, been the self-appointed and generally respected leaders of the community. Ãrlygur Ã Borg, apart from being the greatest landowner in the district, was also chairman of the local council, and led the singing in churchâin short, all that an Icelander combining wealth with intellect and personality could attain. Moreoverâand this was perhaps the corner-stone in the edifice of his absolute authorityâhe was a conscientious adviser, an untiring and disinterested helper of the poor, and an experienced and successful, albeit unlicensed, veterinary surgeon. In this last capacity he was consulted not only by the district, but also by many from other counties, who were glad of his unfeed advice and skilful aid. It was generally recognized that Ãrlygur Ã Borg was ever ready to serve and assist any one, however humble, provided they accepted him as a ruler. He never tolerated any attempt to place others on a footing of equality with himself, or any violation of his privileges, however slight. To those who submitted to his sway, he was a mild and gracious god; to those who forgot the deference he demanded, he was a merciless tyrant, swooping down on them in defiance of all generally accepted notions of justiceâthough he would forget and forgive readily enough when it was over. The peasants did not mind this. To them, Ãrlygur Ã Borg was a kind of human Providenceâno less inevitable, and probably more pleasant, than the divine. They knew, of course, that there was a King who ruled over all, including the King of Borg. But they were nevertheless inclined to place both on the same level. In the event of conflict arising, doubtless Ãrlygur Ã Borg would be a match for the otherâeven to gaining for himself the armlet of sovereign power, as Halldor Snorrason had done in the fight with Harold Hardrada. Ãrlygur was equal to that at least. Their faith in him amounted almost to a religion. They felt themselves, under his protection, secure and well provided for. Some few there were, however, who did not approve of the unlimited power generally conceded to Ãrlygur Ã Borg, and disliked what they considered his unjustifiable assumption of superiority. This spring, there were at least three such discontented souls within the parish. Two of them we have met alreadyâSera Daniel and the trader, drinking their grog in the parlour looking over the sea. And the third of the rebels was the doctor, whom they were expecting to join them in a hand at cards. The priest and the trader, when alone together, spoke but little. They had no interests in common. Their intellectual sphere was very limited, and both had the same characteristic of the narrow-minded: concentrating every atom of thought and will each on his own well-being. Consequently, all talk between the two was obviously insincere; so much so, that even these two not very sensitive beings realized the fact, and instinctively shrank from any intimacy of conversation. On this occasion, as ill-luck would have it, the doctor kept them waiting longer than usual, and Bjarni, as host, could not well sit all the time without a word. At last, by way of saying something, he asked how the wool was getting on. âDry and packed three days ago,â answered Sera Daniel. Bjarniâs eyes flashed, and a smile flickered for a moment over his wooden face. Sera Daniel read that smile, and marked the scorn of it. But as the scorn, he knew, applied no less to the smiler than to himself he refrained, on principle, from taking offence. Bjarni looked him straight in the face, and their eyes met. Then suddenly both realized that this innocent and haphazard attempt at casual conversation had opened up common ground between them, an unexpected community of interest where each had only thought to find the altogether unwished-for company of the other. Bjarni did not quite know how to improve the opportunity at first. He decided on a gambit of innocent raillery. âYes, weâre ready to weigh it now, I suppose ... that is, of course....â Sera Daniel looked searchingly at him, unwilling as yet to take any definite step himself. âWhat are you paying this season?â âSixty-five for best white, forty-two for black and mixed.â Sera Daniel glanced at him with a curious smile. âIs thatâahâthe ordinary price, or what you are paying Ãrlygur Ã Borg?â The traderâs face flushed violently; the hand holding the glass trembled a little. Without waiting for an answer, Sera Daniel made another shot. âOr perhaps you are thinking of paying the same price to allâfor once?â Bjarni eyed him awhile in silence. He seemed to be turning over something in his mind. The priest felt the glance, and knew what lay behind it, but evinced no discomfiture. On the contrary, he met the traderâs eyes with a smile of irritating calm. At last Bjarni spoke. âYes,â he said slowly, âif you can let me have your wool tomorrow morning.â * * * * * That same night Ormarr sat on the slope of the hill looking down to Hofsaâjust above the spot where the wool from Borg was washed every spring. He was keeping watch over the clip. Large quantities were already dry and stowed in bags; the grassy slopes were dotted with little white piles of that which had still to be spread, waiting till the morning sun had drawn the dew. Silently, filled with emotion, Ormarr gazed at the beauty and peace of the spring night. The sky was clear and blue, and bright as day. Below him flowed the crystal rivulets, and farther off, above green mountain slopes veiled in the glistening web of dew, rose stark grey cliffs, furrowed by glimmering waters, higher up again, the luminous white of the snow peaks, tinted all the night through with the gold of dancing sun rays. From his childhood Ormarr had claimed the privilege of keeping guard during the spring nights. In the earlier part of the season, he took his post on the freshly growing pasture lands, keeping the sheep and horses from straying in to nibble off the first blades of the young grass. Later, when the sheep were shorn and driven up to the mountains, he mounted guard over the wool, keeping a keen look-out for prowling vagabonds, and covering up the heaps with tarpaulin in case of sudden rain. To him, the vigils of these quiet nights were as hours of devotion. During the lonely watches, he bared his soul in worship of the majesty of nature, free of the restraint he always felt in the presence of others. He drank in the fresh night air, with its sweetness of spring, like a precious draught. And at times, the depth of his feeling brought great tears to his eyes. Alone, he could allow himself to some extent thus to give way to emotion, yet even then not without a certain sense of shame. Tonight he was sadder than ever. It would be fine tomorrow, the last of the wool would dry during the day, in time to be fetched away before evening. That meant it was his last nightâs watch this spring. His eyes took leave of the wild duck swimming in the stream near their nests, that he had cared for and protected; several times he had waded out to see how they fared. He looked the hillside up and down, bidding good-bye to the buttercups and dandelionsâevery morning he had watched their opening, a solitary witness, as they unfolded at the gracious bidding of the sun. He noted, too, the great clusters of tiny-flowered forget-me-nots that grew everywhere around. At five oâclock he rose to go. From one of the chimneys smoke was already rising, thin and clear as from a censer; old Ossa had hung the big kettle over the fire for early coffee. A big plate of new bread would be waiting for him, with butter, meat, cheese, and a steaming cup of coffeeâa delicious meal. From force of habit he glanced round before moving off; counted the chimneys from which smoke was rising, and looked about for any other signs of life. Then suddenly he realized that something unusual was going on. With trembling hands he adjusted the telescope he always carried, and looked towards the spot. A moment later he lowered the glass and stared in bewilderment towards the fjord. In a flash he realized what was happening, and set off home at full speed. Heedless of Ossa and the meal she had already waiting for him, he dashed up to his fatherâs room, not even stopping, as was his wont, to caress the fair curly head of tiny Gudrun, the three-year-old daughter of Pall Ã Seyru, whom Ãrlygur had adopted. Ormarr loved the child. He did not stop till he reached his fatherâs bed. When Ãrlygur opened his eyes, he saw Ormarr standing before him, very pale, and breathless with his speed. The sight startled even the King of Borg out of his habitual calm; he sat up with a start. Realizing instinctively that something was wrong, he reached out for his clothes at once. âWhat is it, my son?â âFather ... Sera Daniel ... carting his wool in already to the station....â Ãrlygur was already getting into his clothes. He stopped motionless for a second; then a faint smile passed over his face, and he seemed to be thinking. In less than a minute he had made up his mind. âThe horses!â Ormarr did not wait for any further order. He hurried out of the room, snatched up a bridle, and ran out calling: âGryla, KÃ¸put, Kondut!â Barking and delighted, the farm dogs clustered round him, and followed him out into the paddock, where he caught his fatherâs horse and vaulted into the saddle. Ten minutes later, forty horses were stamping and neighing ready for work. Swiftly they were brought round, the pack-saddle put on, and loaded up with the finished wool. Ormarr had overheard his fatherâs brief, sharp orders to the foreman, a man he could trust. He had kept close at hand all the time, listening eagerly to what was said. At last, when all was ready for the start, he looked up earnestly. âFatherâmay I?â Ãrlygur Ã Borg looked at his son in surprise. âYou? Nay, lad, Iâm afraid that would hardly do.â But his voice was not so decided, harsh almost, as it was wont to be when he refused a request. He even glanced inquiringly, as it were, at the foreman, who smiled back merrily in return. That seemed to settle it. Ormarrâs eyes were bright with anticipation. Ãrlygur laid one hand on his sonâs shoulderânot patting his head or cheek as he generally didâand said: âGood. You can do the talking. You heard what is to be said and doneâyou are sure you understand?â Ormarr did not give himself time to answer. But his leap into the saddle was enough; evidently he had grasped the spirit of his fatherâs commands. They did not take the usual route to the trading station; anything moving along that road would be visible from below for the greater part of the way. And they were to come unexpectedly. Therefore they took the road across Borgarhals and Nordurdal, so as to reach the station before any knew of their coming. * * * * * It was the unwritten law of the district that no wool should be brought to the station before the King of Borg had sent in his. The custom dated back further than any could remember, it was part of the traditional precedence generally conceded to the masters of Borg. At first, it had sprung from a natural desire among the people to show their respect for their chieftain and benefactor. Then, when it had grown to be a time-honoured custom, the men of Borg had taken care to have it maintained, regarding any violation as a personal affront, a challengeâand none had ever known such challenge to remain unpunished. There was, moreover, another custom in connection with the sales of woolâto wit, that Ãrlygur Ã Borg fixed his own price for his, while the others who had wool to sell had to be satisfied with what the trader chose to pay them. Ãrlygur took no heed of ruling market prices, but based his figures on the prices he had to pay during the past year for goods he himself had bought from the trader. No one grumbled at the arrangement. Ãrlygur always paid cash for what he ordered, while every one else found it necessary to take goods on credit; all had an account, great or small, with Bjarni, and were in consequence dependent on his good-will. They knew, that in the event of Bjarniâs good-will failing, there was always Ãrlygur, ever ready to help whoever asked. Truth to tell, Bjarni, the trader, was not a little nervous when Sera Daniel arrived with his wool early in the morning. He did his best, however, to conceal his uneasiness, but the false jocularity with which he strove to hide it was belied by the anxious glances wherewith he scanned every now and then the road from Borg. The weighing in was done in the big warehouse. Sera Daniel was smiling and confident as usual, though his eyes showed signs of having slept ill the night before. âWell, Sera Daniel,â said Bjarni, who was watching the weighing with mock earnestness, âthis is a bold stroke of yours indeed.â He glanced hurriedly in the direction of Borg as he spoke. âFrankly I was not at all sure that you would have ventured, when it came to the point. Anyhow, I fancy this marks the end of âthe Kingâsâ supremacy.â The doctor came up, yawning, and rubbing his eyes. âAhaâthis looks nice,â he observed. And then, referring to Bjarniâs last remark, he went on: âAnd itâs high time we did start acting for ourselves. Rebellion, eh? I tell you what, Iâll stand drinks all round when youâve finished here.â There was great commotion at the station; folk hung about in crowds outside the stockroom. A few only dared to enter; the rest preferred to wait and see what happened. They were not without a certain satisfaction at the act of rebellion, albeit aware that it was their duty to feel indignant. There was a general atmosphere of excitementâwhat would happen next? âAnd this year the price of wool is the same to all,â said Bjarni exultantly to the doctor. âIf he doesnât care to deal with me, he can go to Jon Borgari.â The doctor laughed loudly, and Sera Daniel smiled approval. Jon Borgari was a man of sixty, who had set up on his own account in a small way, some five years back. On payment of fifty Kroner, he had acquired a licence to trade. His store was a mean little place, his whole stock-in-trade hardly amounted to more than one of Ãrlygurâs ordinary purchases from Bjarni. He had found it impossible to do any considerable business, as the peasants were all in debt to Bjarni already, and could not transfer their custom elsewhere. Jon was considerably older than Bjarni, but the latterâs business was of longer standing. Bjarni had moved to Hofsfjordur twelve years before, and partly, at least, by his industry and smartness, he had compelled an old-established house in the place, a branch of a foreign firm, to close down. This he could never have done had it not been for the patronage of Ãrlygur Ã Borg. It was commonly supposed that Jon Borgari had saved a good sum in his timeâand the idea was further supported by his recent marriage to a maiden of eighteen, who had accepted him in preference to many eager suitors of the younger generation. But no one ever dreamed of considering Jon Borgari as a possible âpurveyor to the King.â Bjarniâs warehousemen were busy weighing in the priestâs consignment. There was still no sign of life on the road from Borg. And gradually even Bjarni himself began to forget his fears. Then suddenly the blow fell. Ormarr with his five men, and the laden horses, came galloping up: Ãrlygur Ã Borg had sent his wool. Bjarni was struck with amazement; for a moment he could not grasp the situation. Sera Daniel retired prudently to the back of the room. The doctor joined him, with an expression of pleasant anticipation on his puffy face. This was going to be amusing. And, fortunately, he himself had nothing to do with the affair. When the first shock had passed off, Bjarni realized with a feeling of relief that Ãrlygur himself had stayed at home. To the onlooker this was a wonder in itself. Never before had Ãrlygur Ã Borg sent in his wool without accompanying it in person. For a moment all sorts of wild conjectures passed through Bjarniâs brain. And thenâhe committed the fatal error of coming to the conclusion which best suited himself; Ãrlygur must have stayed away in order to avoid being present at his own defeat, in the setting aside of ancient custom. Ormarr did not dismount. He rode straight up to the trader, and said: âMy father has given orders that his wool is to be weighed in at once.â He spoke without the slightest trace of emotion; as if it were a matter of course that the trader should stop the weighing of any one elseâs wool and attend to Ãrlygurâs forthwith. Bjarni again indulged in an erroneous inference: Ãrlygur Ã Borg had stayed away because he feared his demands might be refused. And if âthe Kingâ himself thought that possibleâwhy, then, it could be done! A wave of joy swept over Bjarni. He felt as if he had already won a decisive battle against heavy odds. And his reply was given in a tone more overbearing than usualâthough he regretted it the moment he had spoken. âWe canât very well stop weighing in this lot now. What do you say, Sera Daniel?â Sera Daniel said nothing at all. His friend Bjarni would have to carry the matter through without assistance. Bjarni turned to Ormarr once moreâthe boy was still in the saddleâand adopting a fatherly tone, went on: âBut it wonât take very long, you know. If you start unloading the horses now, and get the bales undone, while weâre finishing this, there wonât be much time lost.â But before any one could say more, a new development occurred. Ãrlygur Ã Borg, on his snorting, fiery mount, Sleipnir, dashed into the stockroom. His entry came like a thunder-clap. The onlookers, who had kept their distance up to now, drew closer in, holding their breath. No one, not even Ãrlygurâs own men, with the exception of Ormarr, had expected this. Bjarni, Sera Daniel, and the doctor greeted him in servile fashion; he answered with an impatient gesture, as of a sovereign in ungracious mood towards importunate underlings. Then riding up to Ormarr, he asked quietly: âWhat are you waiting for?â âThey are weighing in Sera Danielâs wool.â âHas Bjarni refused to take over mine at once?â âYes. He asked us to unload and wait.â âGood. We will take it back to Borg.â Then, having given his orders, Ãrlygur rode up to Bjarni, pressing him so close that the foam from his horse bespattered the trader, forcing him to retreat step by step. âNow mark you this, Bjarni Jonsson. You can hire horses yourself to fetch that wool from Borg. But do not come until you are prepared to pay a heavy price. I warn you, my wool this year will not be cheap.â Then, without a word of farewell, he turned his back on the speechless and astonished trio, and with a cheery smile to the crowd, rode homeward, followed by his men. That day messengers were sent out from Borg to all the farmers round, to say that Ãrlygur Ã Borg was willing to buy wool for cash, at the same prices as offered by the trader. Next morning, he sent off one of his men with a letter and a saddle-horse to Jon Borgari. Jon read the letter, mounted at once, and rode back to Borg, where he was closeted with Ãrlygur for some time. When he left the place, he looked as if ten years had fallen from his shoulders. The farmers understood that Ãrlygurâs offer to buy their wool for cash was equivalent to a commandâthey must choose between him and the trader. And they did not hesitate a moment. Ãrlygur paid them in gold and silver. Then, with his help, they wrote out the lists of the goods they required, the lists being subsequently handed to Jon Borgari. Jon was now Ãrlygurâs ally, and in a very short time his unpretending little store was threatening the trade of Bjarni Jonssonâs own. Bjarni Jonssonâs trick had recoiled upon himself. He got Sera Danielâs woolâbut not a pound from any one beside. CHAPTER III One burning hot afternoon, late in the summer, Ormarr was sitting up on the edge of a high ridge of Borgarfjall, to the west of Borg. A great flock of sheep grazed on the plateau below. Ormarr, as shepherd, found his task light. It was just after lambing-time, and for the first two or three days the sheep had been difficult to handle. Full of anxiety, and bleating piteously, they rushed about in all directions, vainly seeking their offspring. Now, however, they had more or less accustomed themselves to the new state of things, and kept fairly well together, so that Ormarr was free to devote most of his time to his favourite pursuits: playing the violin, and dreaming. He made a curious picture, this fourteen-year-old peasant lad, as he sat there, clad in rough homespun, his clothes fitting clumsily, and hiding the lithe beauty of his frame. The clear-cut face, the strong chin resting on the violin, and the lean hand with its supple fingers running over the strings, contrasted strangely with the everyday coat, darned and patched in many places. Often he fell into a reverie, his dark eyes gazing on the distant mountains, the fingers relaxing, and the slender brown hand with the bow resting on his knee. The face, too thin for a boy of his age, bore a grave and thoughtful expression, with a touch of melancholy. The black masses of curling, unruly hair, and the faint coppery tinge in the skin, suggested Celtic descent. Yet despite the trace of something foreign in his appearance, he was at heart a true child of his country. The wistful, dreamy thoughts that burned in his dark, passionate eyes, betrayed that rich and abundant imagination peculiar to the sons of Iceland, fostered by the great solitude and desolate yet fertile grandeur of the land itself. So deeply is the sense of that grandeur rooted in their hearts, that even those who have roamed the world over, and lived most of their lives in milder and richer climes, will yet declare that Iceland is the most beautiful of all. Another typical trait in Ormarrâs nature was the melancholy that consumed his soulâa product of youthful self-absorption without the corresponding experience. His descent from the ancient and noble race of Borg was apparent in his chariness of words, in his credulity,âit was a thing inconceivable, that he or any of his should tell a falsehood,âin his self-reliance, and strong belief that he was in the right, as long as he followed the dictates of his own conscience. Young as he was, every look, every feature, betrayed the born chieftain in him. This was evident most of all in his musicâwhich consisted mainly of dreams and fantasies he had himself composed. From the first day he had learned to hold the instrument, he had thrown into his music a burning interest and an overwhelming love. It gave him the only possible outlet for the longing that filled him. Loneliness and despair sobbed in the sweet and passionate strains; the strings vibrated with a
{'title': 'Guest the One-Eyed by Gunnar Gunnarsson', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}