Duftak only hesitated a brief moment—then he seized the sword and ran after Hjor-Leif. He had undertaken to tackle him by himself alone, and the sword was better than his short knife.
Everything happened as Duftak had calculated—while his men dispersed in the thicket, Hjor-Leif ran to the ox. Duftak had counted on this curiosity in his master. He knew that he must see how the bear had treated the ox, before he began the pursuit. Hjor-Leif set off in long bounds, light at heart and untroubled. The old love of adventure had awakened in him. He was too much absorbed to notice that the serf was close at his heels.
Hjor-Leif reached the ox, stopped and started, bent down over it, then slowly raised himself. His thoughts stood still for a moment in surprise. What was this? The ox had been stabbed. Was the story about the bear only a lie? He turned quietly and as though stupefied, and looked round him.
Just opposite him stood Duftak, with Hjor-Leif's sword lifted—the point quivered straight in front of his breast.
The recollection of the monk's saying flashed through Hjor-Leif's mind, like a momentary weakness and irresolution. Then—before he knew it—the gold-inlaid blade of the sword flashed, and he collapsed with a chill sensation between his ribs—a strange, not uncomfortable sensation, which, however, was immediately followed by a pang and a loud crash, in which earth and sky disappeared.
As Hjor-Leif sank, a lightning thought reminded him that Helga was in safety. Ah, Helga was safe! A dim consciousness that he had not suffered in vain settled like a faint smile on his large mouth. The blood poured steaming and gushing out of his neck. And so the world passed from him....
Hjor-Leif had lived, and life had done with him. He had paid the price of life, as was meet and right.
Once more the mistletoe branch had struck down the invulnerable.
X