CHAPTER IV
The sun had vanished behind the western heights when Ørlygur at last roused himself from gazing down the valley. The figure had disappeared long since.
The name of Guest the One-eyed had always seemed to him a part of some fantastic story; now, however, it had become a reality; he had seen and spoken to the man.
He knew that this Guest was a wandering beggar, and had heard many stories current concerning him. He knew also that Guest the One-eyed had never before visited Hofsfjordur—possibly it was this fact which had led him to regard the stories as stories only, without reality. Now that he had learned that the man had apparently lived in Hofsfjordur before, under another name, it seemed strange to him—it had never struck him before that the name of Guest the One-eyed must have had some natural origin.
As with all young and simple folk who had heard of Guest the One-eyed, Ørlygur felt an affection for the singular character of report. Many were the instances on record of kindness and courtesy shown by the wanderer in his journeyings. He had lost one eye in saving a child from a burning farm; his crippled leg was the result of his having flung himself in the way of a sledge that was hurrying towards a dangerous cliff—the life he had thus saved being that of no more romantic personage than an elderly and by no means beautiful servant girl. This latter incident had been the cause of some ill-placed amusement among the peasantry, for it was known that the girl had been merely making a foolhardy attempt to win the heart of one of the labourers near by. Her rescuer, however, before leaving the farm, made it his business to see that the marriage was duly accomplished.
Ørlygur knew, also, that Guest the One-eyed had a peculiar faculty of getting over difficulties and removing misunderstandings; in more than one instance he had been the means of ending an irreconcilable feud and establishing firm friendship in its stead.
A legendary hero in real life, and gifted with wisdom far beyond that of his fellows. Yet he never used his powers for his own advantage. Nobler than those around him, he was nevertheless content to tramp the country in rags, with a beggar’s staff. In point of intelligence, he seemed fitted to be the adviser of kings; yet he chose to live alone, and to seek his rest in barns and outhouses. All of which led folk to look upon him as the personification of something beneficent—the spirit of kindliness and good-will. And Ørlygur himself had felt the same.
He felt a great desire to follow after the old man; a craving for adventure within him even suggested the idea of throwing in his lot with him, and sharing his wanderings.
But as the sun went down, he woke from his dreams and, pulling himself together, made his way rapidly towards home.
Half-way over the stream he stopped suddenly; the water seemed like a flood of gold pouring towards him, glittering with strange reflections in the evening light. And the play of colour, with the murmur of the stream, held him for a moment entranced. Was it a dream, or had he really met Guest the One-eyed in the flesh?