There was still a glimmer of hope in his heart that there, among the poorest, he might find one single heart to bless Ketill the priest for what he had given.
“There are no poor here now,” was the reply.
“Are all in Hofsfjordur grown rich?”
“There is a poor widow living out at Bolli, a lonely place at the foot of the hills. But ’tis her own fault that she lives as poorly as she does. She might have taken the help that was offered her. But it was the Devil Priest’s money, and she would not take it.”
“The Devil Priest?”
“Sera Ketill was his name. But we call him the Devil Priest.”
“Good-bye,” said Guest the One-eyed.
“Peace go with you.”
On his way out from the trading station, he passed by a shed from which came the sound of voices within. The door stood half-open, and, looking in, he saw in the half-dark four strange figures—three men and a woman, ragged and wild-looking; evidently these were vagabonds like himself.
The woman was shouting a ribald song; one of the men sat crouched on the floor rocking with laughter. The other two men were fighting, the stronger chuckling at each successful blow, while the other fought in silence, waiting his chance.