“I am not tired of waiting,” said Ørlygur.
Dusk was falling when Bagga at last returned. As soon as her mother heard her footsteps outside, she rose and left the room. Ørlygur remained seated. Something was about to happen—something wonderful, incredible, beyond his control. He was to see her—hear her voice, perhaps—even speak to her himself. He felt unable to move. The thing must happen. And then—what then?
The widow exchanged a hasty greeting with her daughter, and told her that one was waiting to speak with her.
Bagga was overcome with confusion, a wave of warmth swept through her body, and her hands grew moist.
“Me—to speak with me—who is it, then?”
“Go in and see.”
The widow disappeared into the kitchen.
Bagga could hardly find strength to walk the few steps through into the room. When at length she entered and saw Ørlygur standing there, she stood and stared at him without a word. Ørlygur, too, was unable to speak.
She offered her hand, and he took it, but the greeting was equally awkward on both sides. At last Ørlygur plucked up courage to speak:
“Will you have my lamb?” he asked. “I have brought it with me.”