He was still sensible and he smiled at Snorro, saying slowly, “Thou must not be sorry. It is best so.”
Most fishermen know something of the treatment 128 of a knife wound; Snorro staunched the blood-flow, as well as he was able, and then with gigantic strides went to Peter Fae’s. Margaret sat spinning beside her baby’s cradle, Peter had gone to bed, Thora dozed at the fireside.
The impatience of his knock and voice alarmed the women, but when Margaret heard it was Snorro’s voice, she quickly unfastened the door.
“Is the store burning?” she asked angrily, “that thou comest in such hot haste?”
“Thy husband has been murdered. Take thou water and brandy, and go as quick as thou canst run to the Troll’s Rock. He lies there. I am going for the doctor.”
“Why did thou come here, Michael Snorro? Ever art thou a messenger of ill. I will not go.”
“Go thou at once, or I will give thee a name thou wilt shudder to hear. I will give it to thee at kirk, or market, or wherever I meet thee.”
Snorro fled to the town, almost in uttering the words, and Thora, who had at once risen to get the water and the brandy, put them into her daughter’s hands. “There is no time now for 129 talking. I will tell thy father and send him after thee. Shall we have blood on our souls? All of us?”
“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”
“Art thou a woman? I tell thee, haste.”