Her voice was hoarse and passionate as before. There was nothing to recall her former soft and gentle tone, but the hardness was gone.
"We will go as soon as we can," answered Ingolf quietly.
Helga rose impatiently. She was a little unsteady on her legs, but declined all support both from her brother and her sister-in-law.
"Let us not waste time," she said irritably, and stumbled towards the houses.
Ingolf and Hallveig followed her in silence. Hallveig took the boy on her arm again.
That same day the ship was launched. Day and night they worked with feverish haste to load it. The next day it lay ready for sea, and in the evening the weather was fair for sailing.
Ingolf wondered a little at Helga. She did not weep. She did not seek solitude. She went about among them much as usual—did her accustomed work, took charge of the boy, and helped Hallveig. Only the change in her voice and her strange, fixed look betrayed her grief—a grief which made Ingolf fear, and troubled him more than any weeping and open despair.
XI
The next day at sunrise they were there. Helga was supported by her brother to shore on the slender landing-plank. When she stood on the shore before Hjor-Leif's point and looked over towards the houses, her strength failed her for the second time. She could do no more. She leant against her brother to save herself from falling. He put his arm round her and led her to a stone where she could sit and recover her strength. There she sat down, and remained sitting, staring out over the sea, that lay resplendent in the glow of sunrise, but her eyes saw nothing. A light morning breeze played with her hair and gently caressed her pale face.