A strangely beautiful morning; the earth seemed aglow with such delight of day as is only seen when its face is furrowed by autumn. The heather shone blood-red on the hillside, as if striving to show the world that its glow was that of life, and not of death. The waters of fjord and stream were calm and still as if storm and turbulence were strangers there. Even the unmown grass of the fields was smiling with dewdrops on every yellowing stalk and blade reflecting the bright rays. And over the close-cropped stretches where the grass had been cut, the dew lay in a glistening carpet. Not a sound on the stillness of the air, not so much as the cry of a sheep or the neighing of a horse.
Not till the farm hands were astir, with an opening of doors and the sound of human voices, was the spell broken, and the almost unworldly stillness gave place to the work and life of common day.
The first to open his door that morning was Ormarr à Borg. And he remained standing with bowed head close outside the house. He was not thinking of the world of nature about him, and paid no heed to the glory of the morning sun that shone on his white hair and slight, stooping figure. His features were strained, and the pallor of his face, the redness of his eyes, showed that he had not slept. He stood a little while, then folded his thin hands, with the fingers that were still those of a violinist, bowed his head, and with closed eyes and compressed lips prayed the Lord’s Prayer.
Suddenly he drew himself up, passed his hands over his face, and smiled.
“Strange,” he murmured. “Why should I have done that now? I have said that prayer aloud in church for years, and at home with the rest. But I have not said it by myself since I can remember.”
The smile left his face, and he grew serious. “What is more strange,” he continued, “is that I should feel almost ashamed of it myself after.”
He shook his head. “Are we afraid of ourselves more than of others?”
He raised his head and glanced round, seeking for something else to occupy his mind. He noticed the beauty of the day, and felt the peace of it with grateful relief.
Then he turned, walked through the passage, and softly entered the room where the dead lay.
Ørlygur was seated by the coffins, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His dog lay at his feet, asleep.