Ketill sprang up suddenly, and came towards her, but she appeared not to notice, and went on:
“Ormarr and his wife are getting on nicely. They are in Naples, and expect to be home early in June.”
“Did you read the letter?” asked Ketill, with a careless air.
“No. Ørlygur told me what was in it.”
Alma was watching her husband’s face, and could not fail to mark the smile with which he greeted her last remark. Evidently, he had got hold of the letter himself somehow, and found in it something that Ørlygur would not willingly have known.
With bowed head, she left the room, and went to her bedroom, threw herself on the bed, and burst into tears.
Her husband was a thief—a priest, and a thief.
What a cruel burden was this Heaven had laid upon her. What would this man’s child be? Oh that the Lord would take it before ever it woke to life!
Alma wept long and bitterly, falling at last into a heavy sleep. It lasted but a little while, however, and she awoke in high fever.
She was put to bed, and a doctor sent for. But before he could reach her, the trouble was over—Alma had given her child to the world—stillborn.