“We were too late,” said a fisherman. “Saw him throw himself into the sea, and hurried after. But he held on to some weed down below—look, there’s some of it in his hand still.”
And, true enough, the dead hand clutched a tangle of weed.
“So he is gone already to stand before the Lord,” he murmured. “Poor soul—God grant him peace.” And he made the sign of the cross above the body.
The men were running the boat out. He went up to them and asked:
“Are there many going across?”
“Only myself,” answered a young man. “I am working at the vicarage, and going back there now.”
“Will you take me with you to the other side of the fjord?”
“Gladly,” answered the young man, and flushed with pleasure.
The day was fine now, but clouds were racing across the sky. Rain and hail had ceased, only the shadows of the clouds darkened the water as they passed.
Guest the One-eyed sat still, gazing around him as the boat shot out into the fjord. His eyes took in the landscape; there, nestling in the valley, lay the homestead of Borg.