Ketill had been evil all through; no act had been so mean but he could stoop to it, no redeeming feature could be found in all his doings. He had violated all the laws of love and kinship, and trampled all that was sacred underfoot. Lying and fraud had been his chosen weapons, and his methods were as foul as his soul. Forgive him? No—it was all beyond forgiveness.
To forgive him would be almost like becoming himself an accomplice in his brother’s evil deeds; his soul would be tarnished by the mere toleration of such a memory.
The Devil’s Priest had been his brother, blood of his parents’ blood; it did not help him. It was impossible to forgive. It seemed natural and inevitable as the breath of life to curse him, hate him, and condemn him.
Even his death had been that of a coward—a fitting end. And the last attempt to win the hearts of the people after death by leaving his fortune to the poor—that, too, was a meanness entirely in keeping with the rest. It had gained him nothing, after all, for the poor accepted his gifts, but reserved the right to curse him, all the same.
No—even though his father took Ketill by the hand, and led him forward to ask his brother’s pardon, though the vision were to come a hundred times, night after night for the rest of his life—he could not forgive him.
Thus Ormarr thought, and his heart grew ever harder towards his brother. Later in the day, passing by Alma’s window, he saw her sitting there, with eyes staring emptily out into space. And his indignation rose anew; he muttered between his teeth a curse on the name of the Devil’s Priest.
The household were sitting down to the evening meal when Guest the One-eyed came crawling on hands and knees up the slope towards the house. Ørlygur, seeking solitude for the enjoyment of his thoughts and dreams, was the only one out of doors; he at once noticed the approaching figure, and hurried towards him, heartily glad at the meeting. He no longer felt awkward or shy, but promptly seized the beggar’s sack to carry up to the house himself.
“I am glad you have come,” he said, shaking hands warmly.
The old man stood up with difficulty; his legs were tottering under him. He looked earnestly at the young man with his solitary eye, evidently noting with satisfaction the unfeigned pleasure in his face.
His brain throbbed still to the words: Home to Borg! home to Borg! And he returned the young man’s greeting in a voice hardly audible.