After a little Guest the One-eyed regained his self-control, and, looking up at them, he said quietly:
“Friends, do not hate him; believe that he is not worse than others. Only, the way to his heart is longer and harder to find.”
“I have far to go,” he said, after a pause. “Good-bye.”
“God’s blessing,” murmured the others as he left.
He stood for a moment outside the shed, uncertain which way to turn. He would have liked to go to Hof, to the vicarage on the other side of the fjord, but it was too far to walk. This was his last day, and already a good part of it was gone, though he had lost no time.
He hobbled down to the beach to see if there might chance to be a boat going across. Just as he neared the slope, he perceived a little group of people gathered round something he could not see. Close by, a small rowing-boat was drawn up on the sand. Going closer, he saw a man bending over a heap of clothes. Presently the man rose up, and said:
“He is dead.”
Those near bared their heads and made the sign of the cross.
Guest the One-eyed needed but a glance at the ragged heap to recognize it—it was the body of the Bishop.
“And only a moment since I was with him,” he said.