Ingolf, who sat as though of a piece with his horse, and moving neither arm nor foot, glanced at him sideways, and a faint smile passed over his firm mouth.
"You ride like a fluttering chicken, Leif!" he shouted to him as they rode on. Leif looked quickly at him and was not at a loss for an answer. "And you sit your horse like an old idol, cousin!"
The horses' frost-powdered heads stretched forward as they ran. Yellow flakes of foam flew now and then from their mouths; their warm breath rose like clouds of vapour from the quivering nostrils. The snow and the splinters of ice which they kicked up flew about the ears of the riders. Leif enjoyed travelling without restraint, and his delight found vent now and then in a ringing shout. Ingolf, on the other hand, rode in a mood of deep displeasure; but it seemed as if he could not give vent to it at once, for he, also, had become partly intoxicated with the wild ride. The rapid beat of the rough-shod hoofs against the hard, frozen snow sounded pleasantly in their ears. And the strength of the mighty muscles which were supporting them thrilled the young riders with a glorious sensation of invincibility, capacity for anything, and divine exultation which made their hearts light and filled their heads with blissful excitement.
The sun, preparing to glide down the golden slopes of cloud, cast long and fantastic shadows of the horses and riders over the glittering plain of snow. Leif suddenly became aware of the rushing shadows, and burst into laughter. He shouted to Ingolf, and pointed to the shadows, suddenly anxious to make Ingolf also amused at them. Ingolf must laugh also. But Leif's mirth was too violent, too overpowering. He laughed out all the laughter that there was at once, and left nothing for Ingolf. Leif's uncontrolled glee blocked up all the feeling of amusement in Ingolf, and directly evoked his dawning displeasure. He no longer gave himself up to the mere pleasure of riding. His fits of forgetfulness never lasted very long; thought and reason resumed their power over him.
There rode Leif, and was happy! Did he not see that a storm was brewing? Did he not know that it was impossible for them to get home that night? Did he not reflect that if a regular snowstorm came on they might easily go astray on the heath? No, he saw nothing, knew nothing, thought nothing! He simply rode and was happy. And yet it was all his own fault.
As they rode on side by side, a sullen, smouldering anger penetrated deeper and deeper into Ingolf's mind. He had great mental stability, which is always something to hold fast to. He tried to struggle against his feelings; he would not ride here and become gradually furious with Leif. But the process in his mind had already gone so far that he was powerless to control it. What happened afterwards was in spite of his will and better conscience. Leif's ecstasy also blew up the smouldering embers of wrath in his mind like a pair of bellows. Leif's joyful shout caused flames to flare up within him. Why should Leif just now become so senseless, so idiotically happy? Why? Why? There were innumerable "whys?" to answer when Leif was in question. Why should Leif be always occasioning difficulties and vexations for him? Why should he be allowed to transfer all responsibility from himself to him? What was the sense of his alone having to bear inconveniences for them both just because Leif did not choose to be inconvenienced? His only fault, after all, had been that he had always been, and still was, too yielding towards Leif.
Leif, who rode there so merrily, without thinking of his broken promise or the gathering storm—did he not remember the gash from Holmsten's knife which he carried in his coat as he rode? Did he not remember that it was solely due to Ingolf's presence of mind and powerful grip that the knife had not been buried in him up to the handle?
Ingolf was angry now. His perception was distorted by evil powers. He only saw Leif's weaknesses and failings, and they were many. Ingolf held a reckoning, and was angry.
Such was Leif! A child, a stupid boy! A forgetful and ungrateful beast! Not once in friendly games with Atle's sons had he behaved properly. Although Holmsten was two years older than he, he could not endure to give place to him in any matter. Times without number they had attacked each other like fiery wolf cubs. Times without number he and Haasten had reconciled them. Each time Leif had promised it should be the last time; next time he would be careful not to let his temper run away with him. But Leif's promises were like flying snow in a storm. Such was Leif, the great humbug, unreliable and unintelligible. Why should he, because Holmsten at parting had given him the knife he had nearly killed him with—why should he for that reason unclasp his most valuable money-belt, and with his own hands clasp it round Holmsten? Weaker characters could do that! Next time they met they would, all the same, attack each other like fiery wolf-cubs. That would certainly end some day with serious enmity between the two; and that would mean a feud with Atle's sons. It might well happen that Leif would yet entangle him in murder and bloodshed. Some day they would certainly have to quit Dalsfjord, as their grand-fathers in their time had been obliged to quit Telemarken.
Thus Ingolf's thoughts were forced to run on possible division of the family, murder, and exile.