Even if he gave up his plans now, it would not help him. He could never win her back again, of that he was sure.
With his father, too, it was equally hopeless. Ørlygur would never trust him again, whatever he might do; and it was not to Ketill’s taste to humble himself to no avail.
No! If he gave up now, he would be utterly alone thenceforward. The people would desert him, for his preaching would no longer have any definite aim; his doctrine would lack its dominant purpose. He would be alone, forsaken by all, without a friend among his flock, his kin, or even in himself; alienated even from his God. A creature to be despised, or pitied; a thing of no account, unworthy either of hatred or affection. Intolerable!
No; if he were to be alone, he would at least have power. If he could not win the trust and affection of his people, he would at least command their obedience and outward respect. No one should have the right to accuse him of weakness.
Such were his conflicting thoughts as the days went on. Ketill was thoroughly wearied of inaction; he longed for the moment when he could act, as a child longs for its birthday. Again and again he pictured to himself the events of that day, conjuring up visions of his triumph; his one desire now was for it to come, and make an end of the waiting.
Also, he began to feel less sure of himself; to fear lest at the critical moment his nerve might fail him.
Once he had declared himself, however, there could be no question of withdrawal; all doubt and wavering would disappear; there he would stand, erect and strong, the victor in a struggle that he had vowed to win or die.
He was not blind to the danger of any weakness on his own part; irresolution would be fatal. But once he could take the decisive step, leaving himself no possibility of retreat, all would be well.
Victory was certain—for he was fighting without mercy, as injustice ever does.