Strange—ever since she had set foot in this place, she had felt the presence of God distinctly; a blind omnipotence, of merciless mercy—she hardly knew how to define it. God was not so distant in these surroundings as He had first appeared. The snow-white sides of the fjeld were pure and good to look upon; they might well be the abode of God. The country itself, in all its outlines, shapes, and colours, was so wild and unlike all else that it seemed impossible to regard it as inhabited by human beings only, with their petty trials and pleasures. It was impossible, here, to attach great importance to one’s own well-being or the reverse; one felt so pitifully small and weak. Even life and death seemed to lose their distinctive outline.
Alma caught herself thinking—and she smiled at the thought—that she had grown, and grown wiser since her arrival, all in the space of a day and a night. She felt now, to a degree almost beyond reason, that she was but a speck in eternity, only a ripple on the endless sea of time.
Ketill found his wife deep in thought, seated on the churchyard wall. She had not heard him approaching, and started when he touched her.
With a sudden access of tenderness, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
She made no resistance, though she resented the action inwardly. His strength and the physical charm of the man that had once attracted her were now grown repulsive.
Ketill noted that his wife looked serious. It suited her, and he stroked her hair.
“Sitting here all alone?” he asked.
“I was just looking round the place. One could sit here for years, I think, without getting tired of it. I wish I were a rock—set in a place like this for ever!”
Sera Ketill laughed. “I must say I prefer existence as a human being,” he said.