At last they came to Borg. The body of the chief was laid on a big table in the hall, and another hymn was sung. The followers were about to move off, when Ormarr turned to them and said:
“You have carried my father home, and I thank you. I know that he was always your friend, and if you will accept the friendship I offer you now, it would be as he wished. I hope to hold the place he held amongst you—that of a brother and friend. And if you have need of me in any way, you know where to find me. You must be tired and hungry now. If you will break bread under my roof now, before you return, then I take it that the good-will that was of old between Borg and its neighbours is there still.”
When he had finished speaking, he had to shake hands with all. At his suggestion the women went out to the kitchen and pantries to prepare food.
It was late, and all had been well cared for, when the guests rode away. But, before they left, the whole staff of servants and hands who had been at Borg that spring had returned, having obtained release from their later masters, and permission from Ormarr to re-enter their former service.
Alma never recovered. She wandered about like a living corpse. Old Kata nursed her as well as she could, consoling herself and others with the thought that she did not suffer. Alma was no longer conscious of joy or pain.
Sera Ketill stood in the pulpit, watching his people leave the church. He made no movement, but followed all with observant eyes.
He saw how the scene had affected his wife, and that she had sought refuge with his father. And he understood that he had lost her for ever. Then, marking the change in her expression, he suspected the truth: that she had lost her reason on hearing her husband denounced by his own father.
He listened to his father’s curse, and saw him sink to the ground and die. He heard the congregation singing hymns outside the church. Then gradually all sound died away ... the last he heard was a vague murmur—fragments of the singing borne by errant winds towards him through the open door.
Still he remained in the pulpit, leaning on his arms, as if nothing had happened. He did not think. A scornful smile seemed frozen on his lips; he suddenly realized that he was sneering, and wondered how long he had been doing so. And then it came to him painfully that he could not rest until he knew what it was all about; he must wake, and look at things and see. And suddenly it dawned upon him that he was sneering at himself. He drew himself up and laughed aloud, as if in an endeavour to break the terrible stillness of the church. He marked the harsh, uncanny sound of his own laughter. And, stepping down from the pulpit, he left the church.