Hjor-Leif made no answer. Internally he swore that if he had the luck to find the infernal pillars it would be a joy to him to let the fire devour them.
All conversation gradually died out among the four persons who sat there, swinging on the sea, swayed by the balance of fate, each mind filled with its characteristic inner thoughts, peace or unrest, wearing pain or assured contentment—sat there in the grip of their own souls and of blind powers, while the brilliant spring day glided into a light, soft night.
The red sun-gold over the sea in the west faded and died away into other and colder colours. The world was new and strange, and charged with presentiment as always on the boundary between day and night. The four sat there, and let the day go and night come over their peaceful or irritated silence. Ingolf's little boy, Thorsten, slept quietly in his mother's bosom. All around was quiet. Peace was there for whomsoever had a mind to receive it. The brothers sat side by side, yet each in his own world. Ingolf, as always, kept his mind collected, was his natural self, and knew it. Just as he ate what nourished his body of the good things of sea and earth, so his mind absorbed whatever benefited him from the changing moods of day and night, sea and heaven and earth. Everything else remained lying untouched and harmless outside the tightly closed circle of his mind.
With Hjor-Leif it was otherwise. He had no collectedness in his mind. Every kind of experience or mood which approached him was seized by the tentacles of his restless heart. Evil and good, health and injury—his hungry nature swallowed and satiated itself with all, without any other result than merely to increase his burning desire for something—a condition or an experience—he knew no name for it. In a measure he was himself just as Ingolf was. But his self was volatile and difficult to grasp. It died away in grief and gladness, as though it were a part of them.
Thus the night passed. And when day again bordered the east, it was followed by a gentle breeze from the sea which could be used for sailing equally westward or eastward.
Hjor-Leif rose and heaved a heavy sigh in the cool morning air. His last hope: A stiff breeze from the west, which would oblige him to follow his brother, was gone. Helga and Ingolf both rose with Hjor-Leif. Helga went to him, put her arm round his neck, and pressed close to him. No prayer came from her lips, but her whole soul was a prayer.
Hjor-Leif examined his mind and found a fear there—some misty foreboding of impending disaster, which determined him to stand firm, to be hard both towards himself and towards her.
He responded to her caress, but not in the whole-hearted way which would allow him to forget his words and revoke his determination not to let her follow him. There was a distinct air of separation in his kiss and in the gentle passing of his hand over her luxuriant fair hair.
So Helga gave up her hope and submitted silently to his will, as she had always done.
Hjor-Leif silently gave Hallveig his hand in farewell. She looked firmly and inquiringly at him, and pressed his hand silently. There was something about Hjor-Leif, the man who was so unlike Ingolf, and whom she did not understand, that stirred something in her heart.