But he took the good days while they were there.

So he stood, morning after morning, gazing and thinking of this and that, while this dreamlike feeling of happiness surged beneath his thoughts. His fair face looked hard and angry at times, and the black pupils of his eyes grew small as pin-points. When he might expect Ingunn to be up, he went back to the house. He greeted his wife with a nod and the shadow of a smile when they met, and watched the little blush of joy that appeared on her healthy face and the calm, meek happiness that beamed in her looks and bearing.

Ingunn was so fair now, never had she been fairer. She was a little fuller than of old, and her skin was shining white; her eyes seemed larger and a deeper blue under the white coif of the wedded woman.

She moved in a gentle, subdued way—her manner had become quiet and simple; she was meek with all, but almost humble toward her husband. But all could see that she was happy, and all who had met Olav’s wife liked her.

Olav still slept but little at night. Hour after hour he lay awake without stirring, unless he moved the arm on which she lay, when it was numb. She reposed so confidingly against him in her sleep, and he breathed in the sweet hay-scent of her hair. Her whole being exhaled health, warmth, and youth—and in the pitch-darkness it seemed to Olav that the smell of old folk dwelt in the corners, overcome and driven out. He lay thus and felt the time go by, not longing for sleep to come—it was so good to lie like this and simply be aware of her presence; now at last they were safely together. He passed his hand over her shoulder and arm—it was cool and soft as silk; the coverlet had slipped down. He drew it up, bending over her with caresses, and she replied from her drowsiness with little sleepy words of endearment, like a bird twittering on its nightly perch.

But his heart was wakeful and easily scared—it started like a bird that flies up. He noticed this himself, and was on his guard lest others should see it.

One morning he stood by the fence, looking at his cows, which had been let into the stubble-field; the big bull was there. It was the only really handsome animal in his herd, massive and sturdy, black as coal, but with a pale buff stripe down its back. As he stood and watched the bull striding along, slow and heavy, he thought all at once that the pale stripe on the dark back wriggled like a snake, and for a moment it made his flesh creep. It was only for a brief instant, then he collected himself. But after that he was never quite so fond of the bull as he had been, and this feeling clung to him so long as the bull was in his possession.

While the summer weather lasted, Olav was in the habit of going down to the beach daily during the midday rest. He swam out till he could see the houses of the manor above the rocks—lay floating on his back and then swam again. Usually Björn bathed with him.

One day, when they had come out of the water and were letting the wind dry them, Olav chanced to look at Björn’s feet. They were large, but high in the instep, with strongly curved soles—the sure sign of gentle birth. He had heard it said that it could be seen at once by a man’s feet if a drop of blood from the old thralls’ stock were mingled with his. Björn’s face and limbs were tanned brown as the bark of a tree, but his body was white as milk and his hair was very fair, but much grizzled.

The question slipped out of Olav’s mouth: “Are you akin to us Hestvik men, Björn?”

“No,” said Björn curtly. “The devil! Know you not who are your own kindred, man?”

Olav was rather embarrassed and said: “I grew up far from my own people. There may be branches of which one has scarce heard.”

“You thought maybe I was one of these wild shoots that have grown up after that Foulbeard,” said Björn gruffly. “Nay, I am true-begotten, and so were my forefathers for seven generations. I have never heard that there were bastards in our stock!”

Olav bit his lip. He was angry—but then he had himself provoked the man. So he said nothing.

“But there is one fault in us,” Björn went on; “’tis as though the axe leaps up of itself in our hands when we are goaded—if you will call that a fault. And short is the joy that comes of a stroke—unless the hand that strikes have gold within its reach.”

Olav was silent.

Björn laughed and said: “I slew my neighbour, when we fell out over some thongs. What think you of that, Master Olav?”

“Methinks they must have been costly thongs.