Once across, however, the spell was broken, and Ørlygur was a boy again, filled with no more romantic fancy for the moment than an impulse to run races with his dog. He called to the animal, and they raced away, tearing along at top speed.
As he ran, Ørlygur was conscious that he was eager to get home and relate his adventure; to tell of his conversation with the One-eyed Guest, and announce the arrival of the hero.
He raced on homeward, leaving the dog far behind. The animal followed at its best, till it saw him leap the fence of the enclosure, when it gave up and lay down panting breathlessly.
Ørlygur likewise could run no more, and slackened to a walk. Noticing his foster-father approaching, he made towards him.
Ormarr Ørlygsson had seen the lad come tearing down the slope, his hat off, and his hair streaming in the wind. He knew how the boy delighted in long walks and violent outbursts of energy, but this exuberance of spirits caused him some uneasiness at times—he knew that a day would come when the natural safety-valve of youth would no longer suffice. Yet he could not suppress a smile of pleasure at sight of the handsome lad as he raced away at a speed which bade fair to tire even his horses and dogs.
Often he reflected how like the boy was to his father—the same fair hair, the same blue eyes, the same splendid build; the figure of a young god.
And he thought, with a mingling of unconscious love and conscious hate, of his brother Ketill, who had disappeared the night after that terrible scene that had caused his father’s death and lost his wife her reason. It was said that he had drowned himself—he had last been seen on the cliffs near the fjord. True, the body had never been recovered. Still, it might have been carried out to sea.
After the revelation of that day, when the facts had been made common knowledge, and seeing that Ketill had disappeared, in all likelihood never to return, Ormarr had ceased to give out Ørlygur, Ketill’s and Runa’s child, as his own. He and Runa had continued to live as man and wife, but no children had been born to them.
They lived peacefully and happily at the farm, with never an unkind word between them. At all times, whether they spoke or were silent, there was a mutual bond of perfect confidence and affection between them. Life had brought them together in a strange and merciless fashion, but the innate good sense and nobility of both had turned all to the good. They knew that they had never been lovers in the sense in which love is generally understood, yet, as the years passed, there grew up between them a happiness of each in each that filled their lives. And their mutual trust gave them a surer foundation on which to rest than any lovers’ love could give.
Ørlygur rarely gave a thought to the fact that Ormarr was not his real father. He knew it, because Ormarr had once, in the presence of Runa, told him how matters stood. No details had been given, but the facts were plainly stated: Ormarr had promised to tell him the whole story some day, if he wished. But Ørlygur perceived that the subject was a painful one, and had asked no further since.