“Did it not strike you as being extremely well-developed for a child newly born? It is supposed to have been born on the way up.”
Alma looked at him in astonishment.
“Do you mean that the child is not theirs?”
“The child is Runa’s. But Ormarr is not the father,” Ketill replied. “It was born in March. And Ormarr was not in Iceland the previous spring.”
Alma felt suddenly dizzy; she felt as if she must burst into tears, but sat still, outwardly calm. Something told her that though there might be something of truth in this, there was yet falsehood and mischief behind.
Bitter words rose to her lips; it was as if her husband were making her an accomplice in a deed worthy of Judas. But she dared not give vent to her feelings, and only said:
“Well, and if so, it is no concern of ours.”
“It concerns us—as being of the family—and it concerns me, as a priest.”
“What do you propose to do, then?”
“You have not heard all as yet. You do not know what people are saying throughout the parish—that the father of the child is—Ørlygur himself!”