“Never twice alike,” he murmured. “What’s truth, I wonder? Can there be any truth in thoughts and feelings that change between dark and dawn? Where’s the note that lasts and does not change?”
He turned to go, when something made him pause. And, smiling indulgently at himself for his foolishness, he stooped and picked away the moss and stones with which he had closed the opening the night before. Then he patted the two rocks that had sheltered him, and went on his way with an easier mind. Who could say? Perhaps they were lonely there, and would have been sorry to feel the way barred to the passage of the wind that told so many things as it sang through the sharp-edged cleft.
He limped off, moving stiffly at first, his limbs still feeling the cold. He found the path he had left the night before in his search for a resting-place, and went on his way towards Hofsfjordur.
The sun rose higher in the heavens, and dried the dew from the rocks, warming their surface where they faced it, while the northward sides were still dark with moisture. In the shade, the moss glistened with dew. As far as eye could see, there was no growth save the brown and green of moss. But the old wanderer felt quite content; he was at home among these rock-strewn hills, so rich in their weird grouping and fantastic outlines. He was among friends here, and as he passed the massive boulders he touched them with his hand caressingly, grateful for the warmth that passed into his blood. The sun had given it, and they passed it on.
He reached Langeryg, a narrow ridge between two steep ravines, and stopped to look around him. Farther on was a meadow of pale green grass, but not a living soul was to be seen.
Slowly he went on his way, keeping carefully to the middle between the steep and dangerous precipices on either hand. A sinister place this, and of ill repute, perilous especially in mist or darkness. Even now, in the light of day, the wind moaned dismally round the sharp rocks, to the one side, that known as Death’s Cliff, though, strangely enough, no sound came from the other, that was called the Silent Cliff. There was a legend current that the two had been daughters of a king—one good, the other wicked, one dark, the other fair. And the silent chasm was the good princess who sat listening in horror to the evil doings of her sister. And it was said that if any could be found to cast himself voluntarily over the Silent Cliff, he would escape unharmed, and the ravines would close for ever.
Half-way along the track, the old man felt tempted to peer down over the edge of Death’s Cliff. Mastering a feeling of dread, he crept cautiously to the brink, and looked down, but could discern nothing in the darkness below. Suddenly a great black bird fluttered up out of the gloom, and he started back. The bird uttered a hoarse cry—and the man smiled to himself. Only a raven, that had been to visit the princess—or perhaps to see if there were any unfortunate creatures there on which to feast.
With a sigh of relief he drew back from his perilous position, and threw himself down on a patch of grass to rest. Grass was a welcome thing among these barren hills, and the sight of it gladdened him. He found himself studying each little stalk as if it were a wonder to be remembered.
And suddenly tears rose to his eyes; his lips quivered, and he murmured:
“Ay, there are many little joys in life....”