V
The ram Thor bleated loudly when he saw his master. Jon was almost too weary to move hand or foot, but he first visited every sheep, and examined his rough home under the rock, and his few remaining provisions, before he sat down to rest. By this time, the happy ponies were appeasing their hunger, Erik and his fellow-guide had pitched a white tent, and there was a fire kindled. The owner of the tent said something which Jon could not hear, but Erik presently shouted:
“The English gentleman asks you to come and take supper with us!”
Jon obeyed, even more from curiosity than hunger. The stranger had a bright, friendly face, and stretched out his hand as the boy entered the tent. “Good guide—eat!” was all he was able to say in Icelandic, but the tone of his voice meant a great deal more. There was a lamp hung to the tent-pole, an india-rubber blanket spread on the ground, and cups and plates, which shone like silver, in readiness for the meal. Jon was amazed to see Erik boiling three or four tin boxes in the kettle of water; but when they had been opened, and the contents poured into basins, such a fragrant steam rose as he had never smelled in his life. There was pea-soup, and Irish stew, and minced collops and beef, and tea, with no limit to the lumps of sugar, and sweet biscuits, and currant jelly! Never had he sat down to such a rich, such a wonderful banquet. He was almost afraid to take enough of the dishes, but the English traveller filled his plate as fast as it was emptied, patted him on the back, and repeated the words: “Good guide—eat!” Then he lighted a cigar, while Erik and the other Icelander pulled out their horns of snuff, threw back their heads, and each poured nearly a teaspoonful into his nostrils. They offered the snuff to Jon, but he refused both that and a cigar. He was warm and comfortable, to the ends of his toes, and his eyelids began to fall, in spite of all efforts to hold them up, after so much fatigue and exposure as he had endured.
In fact, his senses left him suddenly, although he seemed to be aware that somebody lifted and laid him down again—that something soft came under his head, and something warm over his body—that he was safe, and sheltered, and happy.
When he awoke it was bright day. He started up, striking his head against a white, wet canvas, and sat a moment, bewildered, trying to recall what had happened. He could scarcely believe that he had slept all night in a tent, beside the friendly Englishman; but he heard Erik talking outside, and the crackling of a fire, and the shouting of some one at a distance. The sky was clear and blue; the sheep and ponies were nibbling sociably together, and the Englishman, standing on a rock beside the river, was calling attention to a big salmon which he had just caught. Gudridsdale, just then, seemed the brightest and liveliest place in Iceland.
Jon knew that he had probably saved the party from death; but he thought nothing of that, for he had saved himself along with them. He was simply proud and overjoyed at the chance of seeing something new—of meeting with a real Englishman, and eating (as he supposed) the foreign, English food. He felt no longer shy, since he had slept a whole night beside the traveller. The two Icelandic guides were already like old friends; even the pony he had ridden seemed to recognize him. His father had told him that Latin was the language by which all educated men were able to communicate their ideas; so as the Englishman came up with his salmon for their breakfast, he said, in Latin:
“To-day is better than yesterday, sir.”
The traveller laughed, shook hands heartily, and answered in Latin, with—to Jon’s great surprise—two wrong cases in the nouns:
“Both days are better for you than for me. I have learned less at Oxford.”
But the Latin and Icelandic together were a great help to conversation, and almost before he knew what he was doing, Jon had told Mr. Lorne—so the traveller was named—all the simple story of his life, even his claim to the little valley-basin wherein they were encamped, and the giving it his sister’s name. Mr. Lorne had crossed from the little town of Akureyri, on the northern shore of Iceland, and was bound down the valley of Thiörvǎ to the Geysers, thence to Hekla, and finally to Rejkiavik, where he intended to embark for England. As Jon’s time of absence had expired, his provisions being nearly consumed, and as it was also necessary to rest a day for the sake of the traveller’s ponies, it was arranged so that all should return in company to Sigurd’s farm.
That last day in Gudridsdale was the most delightful of all. They feasted sumptuously on the traveller’s stores, and when night came the dried grass from Jon’s hollow under the rock was spread within the tent, making a soft and pleasant bed for the whole party.
Mounted on one of the ponies, Jon led the way up the long ravine, cheerily singing as he drove the full-fed sheep before him. They reached the level of the desert table-land, and he gave one more glance at the black, scattered mountains to the northward where he had passed two such adventurous days. In spite of all that he had seen and learned in that time, he felt a little sad that he had not succeeded in crossing the wilderness. When they reached the point where their way descended by a long, deep slope to the valley of the Thiörvǎ, he turned for yet another farewell view. Far off, between him and the nearest peak, there seemed to be a moving speck. He pointed it out to Erik, who, after gazing steadily a moment, said, “It is a man on horseback.”
“Perhaps another lost traveller!” exclaimed Mr. Lorne; “let us wait for him.”
It was quite safe to let the sheep and loose ponies take their way in advance; for they saw the pasture below them. In a quarter of an hour the man and horse could be clearly distinguished. The former had evidently seen them also, for he approached much more rapidly than at first.
All at once Jon cried out: “It is our pony, Heimdal! It must be my father!”
He sprang from the saddle as he spoke, and ran towards the strange horseman. The latter presently galloped up, dismounted, walked a few steps, and sat down upon a stone. But Jon’s arms were around him, and as they kissed each other, the father burst into tears.
“I thought thou wert lost, my boy,” was all he could say.
“But here I am, father!” Jon proudly exclaimed.
“And the sheep?”
“Fat and sound, every one of them.”
Sigurd rose and mounted his horse, and as they all descended the slope together Jon and Erik told him all that had happened. Mr. Lome, to whom the occurrence was explained, shook hands with him, and, pointing to Jon, said in his broken way: “Good son—little man!” Whereupon they all laughed, and Jon could not help noticing the proud and happy expression of his father’s face.
On the afternoon of the second day they reached Sigurd’s farmhouse; but the mother and Gudrid, who had kept up an anxious lookout, met them nearly a mile away. After the first joyous embrace of welcome, Sigurd whispered a few words to his wife, and she hastened back to put the guest-room in order. Mr. Lorne found it so pleasant to get under a roof again, that he ordered another halt of two days before going on to the Geysers and Hekla. No beverage ever tasted so sweet to him as the great bowl of milk which Gudrid brought as soon as he had taken his seat, and the radishes from the garden seemed a great deal better than the little jar of orange marmalade which he insisted on giving in exchange for them.
“Oh, is it indeed orange?” cried Gudrid. “Jon, Jon, now we shall know what the taste is!”
Their mother gave them a spoonful apiece, and Mr. Lorne smiled as he saw their wondering, delighted faces.
“Does it really grow on a tree?—and how high is the tree?—and what does it look like?—like a birch?—or a potato-plant?” Jon asked, in his eagerness, without waiting for the answers. It was very difficult for him to imagine what he had never seen, even in pictures, or anything resembling it. Mr. Lorne tried to explain how different are the productions of nature in warmer climates, and the children listened as if they could never hear enough of the wonderful story. At last Jon said, in his firm, quiet way, “Some day I’ll go there!”
“You will, my boy,” Mr. Lorne replied; “you have strength and courage to carry out your will.”
Jon never imagined that he had more strength or courage than any other boy, but he knew that the Englishman meant to praise him, so he shook hands as he had been taught to do on receiving a gift.
The two days went by only too quickly. The guest furnished food both for himself and the family, for he shot a score of plovers and caught half a dozen fine salmon. He was so frank and cheerful that they soon became accustomed to his presence, and were heartily sorry when Erik and the other Icelandic guide went out to drive the ponies together, and load them for the journey. Mr. Lorne called Sigurd and Jon into the guest-room, untied a buckskin pouch, and counted out fifty silver rix-dollars upon the table. “For my little guide!” he said, putting his hand on Jon’s thick curls. Father and son, in their astonishment, uttered a cry at the same time, and neither knew what to say. But, brokenly as Mr. Lorne talked, they understood him when he said that Jon had probably saved his life, that he was a brave boy and would make a good, brave man, and that if the father did not need the money for his farm expenses, he should apply it to his son’s education.
The tears were running down Sigurd’s cheeks. He took the Englishman’s hand, gave it a powerful grip, and simply said, “It shall be used for his benefit.”
Jon was so strongly moved that, without stopping to think, he did the one thing which his heart suggested. He walked up to Mr. Lorne, threw his arms around his neck, and kissed him very tenderly.
“All is ready, sir!” cried Erik, at the door. The last packages were carried out and tied upon the baggage-ponies, farewells were said once more, and the little caravan took its way down the valley. The family stood in front of the house, and watched until the ponies turned around the first cape of the hills and disappeared; then they could only sit down and talk of all the unexpected things that had happened. There was no work done upon the farm that day.