“Look here, I’ve thought of something. Some day, when I have time, I want to climb up to the top of Borgarfjall there and build a bit of a monument on the top. It’s a fine-looking mountain, but I don’t like the outline of the top. Ought to have something there—don’t you think?”
The priest stared at him, dumb with astonishment.
“I hardly think any but a bird could get up there,” he said hesitatingly.
“Well, it’s certainly no place for silly sheep,” retorted Ørlygur, with a laugh. “Good-day to you.”
And he turned and walked away.
The priest stood looking after him in perplexity.
“Now, was that intentional rudeness,” he said to himself, “or has he lost his senses?”
It was some minutes before he could sufficiently regain his priestly dignity and composure to leave the churchyard.
The men came to fill in the grave, and the mourners flocked round to lay their wreaths on the mound that covered the remains of Guest the One-eyed and the Danish Lady.
Among them were Ormarr and his wife Runa. Snebiorg and her mother were also there, but there was no sign of Ørlygur to be seen. He had met the doctor, a man whom he liked, and was walking with him a little distance off.