One night towards morning Ingolf was awakened by the tramping of horses' hoofs. He had begun to be anxious lest the serfs, who had been away the best part of a month, might have perished, and, springing out of bed, dressed quickly and threw a cloak over him.
Yes, it was Vifel and Karle home at last. When he came out, they were standing outside in the half-light night and talking softly together. They had not yet taken the saddles off the horses. Their manner showed clearly that they were the bearers of evil tidings. Both turned their heads when Ingolf opened the door, but remained standing irresolute, and forgot to salute.
Ingolf stood still for a moment. Then he went up to them, greeted them quietly, and bade Karle take the saddles off the horses and go and sleep. "You had better not talk to any one," Ingolf concluded, turning to Karle. Then he laid his hand on Vifel's shoulder and led him round behind the house. There they could best stand and talk undisturbed. Vifel was so silent that stillness seemed to envelop him like an invisible vapour in the air.
When they had come to the back of the house, Ingolf let go of Vifel's shoulder and leaned against the wall of the house. His first heavy foreboding had quickly turned into a dawning certainty—a certainty which all but overpowered him. For a few interminable moments he remained standing there, leaning against the wall, and staring to the eastward, where a faint flush on the steel-blue vault of the sky announced the coming of the sun. He avoided looking at Vifel, whose expression and behaviour so inexorably revealed what had happened. He shrank from having his last despairing hope annihilated. He must have an interval before he could endure to have his fears, his all but certain foreboding, confirmed by the pitiless word.
The sun rose and was free of the clouds on the horizon before his mind had slowly reached the point that uncertainty was intolerable to him.
He cast a glance at the serf. Vifel stood and wept, silent and motionless. The tears ran in streams over his cheeks, and left light streaks behind them.
"What have you to tell?" Ingolf asked at last, with forced quietude.
"Hjor-Leif's death," stammered the serf, with chattering teeth.
There was a long pause. Ingolf had bowed his head, and stood with closed eyes and compressed lips. He wept.
At last, without raising his head or opening his eyes, he gave the serf a sign to continue.