IX
Hjor-Leif saw the winter come to an end at last. He lay one night and heard the tone of the wind change. He knew the eager and implacable voice of the south-east wind. It did not surprise him then to hear a dripping indoors and out.
His heart began to beat a little as he lay there. But he lay still, did not jump from his bed, did not run to salute the spring and bid its warm wind take the bad weather from him, as in other circumstances he would have done. There was not much left of Hjor-Leif’s strength now. He did not awake with the spring. Generally he was accustomed to avoid the house when spring had first come. But this time he remained within, sick in mind, and without power to shake off the burden of winter and his bereavement. He remained sitting indoors while the young year awoke the earth from winter’s sleep, without paying attention to it. That was not like Hjor-Leif. Indeed, it was so unlike him, that his men avoided each other’s looks and did not speak about him. He got out of his bed each morning with a sigh, clothed himself wearily, and went slowly and sluggishly out to see how far the spring was advanced, and if the weather held. If it was bright he went up on the point and looked eastward over the land and over the sea. Then he went home again, dragging his feet like an old man or an invalid, and wrapped himself in his solitude and waited. It was still too early in the year for Ingolf to be coming—Ingolf and Helga.
He hardly dared to think of her name. The very thought scorched and burnt his wounded soul that by this separation which he had insisted on he had caused Helga fresh grief. His own sufferings were indeed bitterly deserved—that he had to acknowledge—but that did not make them any easier. The thought made the wilderness of his soul even more desolate. Self-caused, self-deserved, every torturing day, every sleep-forsaken night, every suffering, every whip-lash of longing, altogether self-caused, without reason and to no use. That was bad enough to think about. But it was worse with Helga—Helga who might have reason to believe that he had left her behind in cold blood, and to think that perhaps he looked forward without longing to seeing her again. The thought was so intolerable that at times it seemed as if his head would split and his heart stop beating. These and similar thoughts tortured Hjor-Leif, but he sat and let the tedious hours pass.
Outside, the spring winds raged, while he sat within. The spring’s gladness found no way to his soul. His exhausted heart could not welcome the days in its embrace and rejoice at the prospect of soon meeting Helga.
Hjor-Leif used every opportunity of bullying the serfs. He heaped on them kicks and blows whenever the fancy took him, and often without cause. He hated these serfs, who crept before him like vermin, so dog-like and abject that they did not dare to show the glances of their eyes. His fear of their combining and attacking him and his men had long ago died out of his mind to the last spark, and it seemed to him now both ridiculous and incredible that he had ever cherished such a thought. These abject animals, these crook-backed creatures! Their fault it was—all that he had had to suffer this year. And they should pay for it! To the end of their wretched days they should pay for it! Blows they should have—blows and kicks. He would fill their currish hearts with never-appeased fear. He would not kill them; they should live and suffer. In all that concerned the serfs, Hjor-Leif was implacable. He had succeeded in inspiring them with such terror that there was not a look in their eyes, nor speech in their tongue, save when they were alone and sure of not being seen or heard.
As soon as the earth was released from the frost to a spade’s depth Hjor-Leif set his serfs to plough a piece of pasture-land west of the point. They had an ox to draw the plough.
And now the serfs’ time had come. Duftak, who had many kicks and cuffs to avenge, had hatched a plan. The opportunity was ready to hand.
When Duftak and another serf went off in the morning with ox and plough, he gave the other serfs a signal. They had knives and clubs hidden here and there. Now these were produced and concealed in their rags. The serfs were ready.
As soon as Hjor-Leif’s free men had gone into their morning meal, Duftak stabbed the ox with a knife in its neck and set out running home with the other serfs close on his heels. Breathlessly Duftak burst in to Hjor-Leif, and stammered, apparently in the greatest terror: “A bear! A bear!”
The serf’s fear seemed quite genuine. Hjor-Leif seized him by the neck, shook him, and quickly learnt from him that a bear had come out of the wood and had killed the ox.
Everything happened as Duftak had foreseen. Hjor-Leif let him go, strangely enough without the usual kick, shouted to his men, and bade them follow him and look for the bear, and scatter themselves well in the thickets, so that the beast should not escape. Then he seized his ax and spear and ran.
Ah, this meant something for Hjor-Leif. His heart was again in its place, and beat gladly and quietly. The bear came as though sent by good fortune itself. His soul expanded with a great and happy sense of freedom. He sprang like a boy out of doors, and forgot in his haste to take his sword with him.
Duftak only hesitated a brief moment—then he seized the sword and ran after Hjor-Leif. He had undertaken to tackle him by himself alone, and the sword was better than his short knife.
Everything happened as Duftak had calculated—while his men dispersed in the thicket, Hjor-Leif ran to the ox. Duftak had counted on this curiosity in his master. He knew that he must see how the bear had treated the ox, before he began the pursuit. Hjor-Leif set off in long bounds, light at heart and untroubled. The old love of adventure had awakened in him. He was too much absorbed to notice that the serf was close at his heels.
Hjor-Leif reached the ox, stopped and started, bent down over it, then slowly raised himself. His thoughts stood still for a moment in surprise. What was this? The ox had been stabbed. Was the story about the bear only a lie? He turned quietly and as though stupefied, and looked round him.
Just opposite him stood Duftak, with Hjor-Leif’s sword lifted—the point quivered straight in front of his breast.
The recollection of the monk’s saying flashed through Hjor-Leif’s mind, like a momentary weakness and irresolution. Then—before he knew it—the gold-inlaid blade of the sword flashed, and he collapsed with a chill sensation between his ribs—a strange, not uncomfortable sensation, which, however, was immediately followed by a pang and a loud crash, in which earth and sky disappeared.
As Hjor-Leif sank, a lightning thought reminded him that Helga was in safety. Ah, Helga was safe! A dim consciousness that he had not suffered in vain settled like a faint smile on his large mouth. The blood poured steaming and gushing out of his neck. And so the world passed from him....
Hjor-Leif had lived, and life had done with him. He had paid the price of life, as was meet and right.
Once more the mistletoe branch had struck down the invulnerable.