“Maybe I let fall something—I do not remember—I may have said I might have a mind to see the world again, now that I am a man without ties—”

Then he became aware of the boy standing there, all ears, and he bade Eirik go out. Eirik came forward quickly and flung his chaplet about the little crucifix that hung on the wall within the bed where his mother had lain. But having done so, he had to go out.

How Brother Stefan’s long nose had sniffed out these thoughts that he harboured—that was nevertheless more than Olav could make out.

In the course of the afternoon the men had reached so far in their colloquy that Olav took the two strangers and showed them what wares he had for sale. It was not much—less than a score of goats’ pelts, three otters’ skins and a few other skins of game, some barrels of oak bark. He would have to take with him all his store of fish and herrings—his house-folk could be content with fresh fish this summer. He had also some oak logs and barrel-staves he had intended for his own use—but if he himself were absent, they would only lie unused.

Late in the evening Liv came in and asked her master to go with her to the byre; there was a cow that was to calve, but the dairy-woman had fallen so grievously sick, said Liv—and besides, it was not her work to see to the cattle.

The night was moonless, cold, and still as Olav came out of the byre again. Now he had to go and wake old Tore, ask him as a favour to watch in the byre tonight, for it was of no use to let Liv be there alone. Lazy she was and thoughtless. One would scarce have believed it, but not even while they were struggling to tend the poor beast that lay there lowing plaintively—not even in the dark and narrow byre could the girl leave him in peace. She was after him like a kitten seeking to be caressed—time after time he had almost to fling her from him so that he might use his hands freely. She had taken the idea, Olav guessed, that now she would be his leman and mistress of the house. And however he let her see that it was bootless to aspire to that dignity, it made little impression on Liv.

He was secretly ashamed before his own house-folk—they must be laughing behind his back and watching whether the girl would coax him the way she wanted in the end. He thought he saw it—Liv playing the lady here with the keys at her belt. Oh no.—He did not care to go in even with Tore, when he had roused the old man.

There was ice on the top of the water-butt as Olav plunged his arms into it and rinsed his hands. He listened and gazed out into the darkness as he bethought himself whether anything had been forgotten.

It was still now—the merry purling of little brooks on the slope was frozen into silence and there was only the faint splash and ripple of the sea beneath the cliff—and over in Kverndal the murmur of the stream. The stars seemed so few and so far away tonight—there was a slight mist in the air.

The calf was full-cheeked and long-eared—looked promising; that was so far well; he had lost three calves this spring. And not one cow-calf had he had yet.

In the northern sky above the dark back of the Bull pale flickers of northern lights came and went—like a dewy breath over the vault of heaven. They were not often seen here in the south. At home in the Upplands the lights flashed half across the sky; and when as children they used to tease them, by whistling and waving linen cloths at them, there was a crackling sound and long tongues shot down toward the earth and back to the sky. Once when they had stolen out behind the outhouses and stood there flapping one of Ingebjörg’s longest wimples, Arnvid had come upon them, and then he had beaten them. It was a great sin to do so, for it meant storm when the northern lights were disturbed.

Here in the south the lights were usually but pale and faint.—

Olav gave his shoulders a hitch in his reeking clothes—’twas still four days to washday and Sunday.

Instinctively he went quietly as he crossed the yard: the little ice pockets made such a crackling, and he was loath to break in on the low murmuring sounds that came up from below, as from the depths of the night.

Within the room a little lamp was burning at the edge of the hearth.

Olav had given the two strangers beds in the closet, and seated on the edge of Ingunn’s bed he undressed—slowly, with a pause after each garment. He rose to pinch out the wick.

A whisper came from the northern bed: “Father!”

After a moment Olav answered in a hushed voice: “Are you awake, Eirik?”

“Yes. When shall we sail, Father?”

Olav was silent. But Eirik was so used to his father’s seeming not to hear, or answering like the echo when one shouted toward the Bull—after a pause and as though across a distance.

“Father—take me with you! I shall stand you in good stead”— Eirik spoke in a loud and eager whisper—“I shall serve you as well as a full-grown man. I can do the work of an able-bodied man, ay, and more!”

“You can indeed.” Eirik could hear that his father was smiling, but then there was neither anger nor refusal in his voice.

“May I go with you, Father—to England this summer?”

“None has yet said that I go myself,” said Olav soberly.

He blew out the little flame, pinched off the burned wick, and dropped it into the oil. Then he got into bed. Something fell down and touched his neck in the darkness. It was soft and cool, reminding him of young, living skin, among the coarse, rough wool and sheepskins of his bedclothes. It was Eirik’s chaplet. Olav groped for it and hung it in its place again.