Ørlygur was silent. A strange stillness seemed to fill the room.
“I suppose you are right,” said Ørlygur at last. “There is not any one else...?”
Ormarr rose. “No, there is no one else,” he said shortly, and he lit the lamp.
Ørlygur took a candlestick with a stump of candle in, lit it, and kissed his son’s forehead.
“Good-night, Ormarr,” he said quietly. “I am going to bed now.”
As he passed Runa’s bed, the light fell on two wakeful, shining eyes. Making sure that none of the others in the room were awake, Ørlygur bent down and kissed her.
“Don’t be afraid, little Runa. Ormarr has something to say to you in the morning.”
Ormarr sat on, staring at the windows, long after his father had gone.
His own calmness surprised him. He felt as if he were playing himself as a pawn on the board of life—and yet he could play—and let himself be played—willingly enough. Neither he nor his father had considered Runa’s possible wishes in the matter. Ormarr smiled as the thought struck him.