“How could you do this thing? And how could ever God permit it? How could He tolerate a hypocrite in His House? My son, I do not hate you, and yet I say: Be thou accursed until repentance and charity have filled your soul. Ay, I curse my son, not because I hate him, but because of my love for him. Accursed—be accursed until our Heavenly Father shall have let the glory of His goodness penetrate into your soul, and the darkness of the Evil One give place to light. May your soul never rest, and may it never leave its earthly dwelling, until Almighty God has given the sign of His forgiveness!”
The congregation sat in awed silence while Ørlygur was speaking. When the old man had finished, he turned to leave the church. But he tottered, and would have fallen had he not grasped at the side of a seat for support.
Ormarr hurried to his side, leaving Kata to look after Alma. Ørlygur sank helpless into his son’s arms. The congregation looked on as if spellbound; no one moved.
The old man put his hand to his heart and murmured; “I am dying. Heavenly Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”
Ormarr laid him down on the floor of the church, and stood bending over him, at a loss what next to do. The old man seemed trying to speak. Ormarr put his ear close to his father’s mouth, and caught the words:
“... home ... to Borg.”
They were the last words Ørlygur à Borg ever uttered.
Ormarr felt his father’s heart and pulse—it was all over. Lifting the body tenderly in his arms, he carried it out of the church.
Old Kata, standing by the entrance, crossed herself and muttered something about the ways of the Lord.... Then to herself she added:
“So it was his death the ravens came to tell!”