Ørlygur à Borg walked back toward the pulpit, stopped in front of it, and said:
“This is the House of God. But it seems that the Evil One has usurped His place. I am to be driven out from it—well and good. But before I go, let me tell what all these righteous folk are full of zeal to know.”
And pointing to the priest in the pulpit, he went on:
“There is the father of the child.”
When Alma heard the old man’s words, it was as if the inward tension of the past months had suddenly given way. Her features relaxed, she ceased to tremble, and her eyes lost their fire. She felt as if she were sinking into a sea of mist. And then to nothingness.
The light of her mind was suddenly extinguished, her soul had taken flight, back to the eternity whence it had come. Only her body remained, panting, unharmed, a living monument to that which had gone, an empty dwelling, that has not yet crumbled, though the last living thing it sheltered, the last thought, is gone.
A wave of astonishment swept through the congregation at Ørlygur’s revelation. Then a moment after all was quiet once more.
Sera Ketill was still in the pulpit, pale as a corpse. He had reckoned with every possibility save only this; no form of defence, no counter-attack, but he would have had his answer ready. But this.... It was not like his father.
It was all over now. The words that meant his destruction were spoken. And yet he was still alive. The earth had not swallowed him up, no fire had descended from heaven to consume him. He was unhurt; ruined beyond help, yet he stood there as if nothing had happened. It seemed somehow ridiculous.
Ørlygur faced his son, speaking directly to him: