“And now that I am to go, my greatest sorrow is that there is none to take up my poor work. For what is the work of one man? Oh, if there were enough; if there were many who could understand that the greatest of all is to put aside self and bring peace on earth. That the greatest joy of all is to be a poor man, going from place to place and showing others the way to free their hearts from the yoke of worldly things. But the priests—they have taken office and would keep it; they are paid for their work in money, and grasp at it; they seek a higher and a higher place in worldly things, for their heart is set on worldly gain—not with their people, not with their God. It is much to ask. I know—too much to ask of any in these days. But it is because none will give it that hatred and dissension live and grow. I do not know—forgive me that I say this—I do not know if there is any God, but I believe and hope it. If I should say I know, it would be a lie. But I do know that there is more happiness in peace than in a divided mind. I know that enmity makes the heart evil, and that friendship makes it good. And I know that our life is made richer by love and goodness; easier to bear, more natural. Where all is hatred and strife, who can find any meaning in life at all? The only thing that helps us to understand life at all is our own striving for the best in it.”
The room grew darker. As the sick man spoke his last words, the daylight faded.
“Light,” he said. “The darkness will be long enough when it comes.”
A candle was lighted and placed beside the bed. Silence filled the room, broken only by the old man’s heavy breathing. Those around him were busy each with his own thoughts. Alma sat on the sofa, and had apparently lapsed into her usual state of semi-consciousness, from which the arrival of the wanderer had roused her for a moment. It grew dark and the light was lit, but she did not heed.
Suddenly the old man whispered faintly:
“Help me off with my clothes.”
Runa and Ormarr did so; tears came to their eyes at the sight of his miserable rags. Ørlygur sat apart, his face swollen with weeping. Ketill smiled as the cold sheets touched his body.
Suddenly his expression changed to one of earnest thought. And after a little while he asked:
“If—if Alma would come and sit beside me here.”
The Danish Lady roused herself a little as they helped her to the bedside; she took the sick man’s hands in hers and stroked them. Then after a little while she sank back into helplessness again.