Tears rose to Ormarr’s eyes as he spoke, and his hand trembled as he offered it. He was deeply moved, partly by memories of the past that rose up in his mind, and also by the thought that the young man’s happiness depended on the success of his, Ormarr’s, own stratagem before it was too late.
Ørlygur grasped the hand held out to him. He wept at seeing his foster-father’s emotion, and also because he felt that he was here being forced into something; he was in a way defeated. But at the same time the picture of Snebiorg rose to his mind; it seemed almost as if she were there with them. What was he to do? Sooner or later he must either prove false to her or to the promise he had silently given by his father’s death-bed. For the moment he could come to no decision—he could only weep. His helplessness pained him. It was terrible to think that he must choose between giving up his love or betray his promise.
He held Ormarr’s hand in his, and strove to speak, but could say nothing for tears.
Say something he must. And at length he stammered out:
“Not now—I cannot. Another time. But not—not this spring.”
He let go the other’s hand, and hurried away, with bowed head. But the old man stood still, looking after him with tearful eyes.
“Poor lad,” he murmured. “But—thank God, he loves her. And that will save him.”
Thoughtfully Ormarr walked back to the house.
CHAPTER IV
On leaving Ørlygur, Ormarr went in to see to the preparations for the funeral. Ørlygur went off to a corner of the enclosure where he would be out of sight of the house. There he stood, leaning against the wall, and looking out over the valley.