And with a sigh he thought of how he had changed not for the better, but for the worse. He was a coward.
And, looking down into the grave, he spoke aloud:
“I am growing less and less worthy to be called your son.”
And to himself he continued:
“Why do you not help me? Why do you not stand by me when you see me so weak? Or is it your will that I should not be aided in this?”
Suddenly he remembered how his father on his death-bed had blessed his union with Snebiorg, and a wave of joy flowed through his heart.
“Father—father!” he cried, with tears in his voice. “Is that your will? But what of my promise?...”
His joy turned to grief at the thought. And so, at issue with himself, he stood looking down into the grave.
The priest came up.
“What does he want now, I wonder?” thought Ørlygur, watching the approaching figure with indifferent eyes. The whole air and bearing of this well-fed, self-satisfied priest were intolerable to him. It was worst of all when he spoke, with dead words and traditional phrases that meant nothing.