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.