Suddenly the dog stopped and began running round and round. Ingolf was a good way behind him. He hurried on as quickly as possible, and gave close attention to the animal, which now stood and sniffed for a time. Then it ran a little way in the direction of the wood. Oho! Here it was, then! But what now? The dog stood still, sniffed, and ran some way back. Then it paused again. What was the matter?
And see! Now it lifted its head, stood and sniffed now towards the wood, now in the opposite direction, with a slight, hasty jerk of its body. Its tail was lifted too, and stood straight out.
Now Ingolf felt certain. This was where he should enter the wood. Now there remained nothing necessary but to take off his ski and to walk.
But before he had quite got up to the dog, the latter had already started again—away from the wood. Ingolf shouted to it. It must be mistaken. It stood still as it was ordered, but did not come back. It remained standing, waiting for further directions. Ingolf called it again, but it remained standing as before. And now Ingolf heard it utter a low whine. What did it want? Ingolf shouted encouragingly to it and immediately it started off again. Ingolf followed, without yet leaving the edge of the wood. He thought the dog was still on the track, and only following it in the wrong direction. It would soon perceive its mistake and turn round.
But it was far from turning round. On the contrary, it came to a stop and remained standing by a slight elevation in the snow. There it paused and ran about, nosing here and there eagerly. It was easy to see that it had found something of great importance.
Ingolf came to a stop. He had to rally all his will power in order not to collapse.
He could not stir from the spot. Was Leif lying there? Had a tragedy happened after all? The gods he had braved had at last taken vengeance on Leif for his insolence and mockery. Ingolf felt himself struck in a vital nerve. For how could he live after that?
As he stood there it occurred to him suddenly that here his race came to an end. Leif was dear. Only he and Helga were left. He with a stain upon his honour—in a fit of temper he had let Leif ride unhindered away from him to meet obvious death—a stain he could only wash away in one way—by giving himself a sacrifice to Odin. And Helga ... yes, Helga would not survive that. So here the race would cease. All his dreams, all his purposes blown away like chaff before the wind.
Suddenly Ingolf heard the dog close by him. It stood in front of him, with its snout lifted and its ears laid back, whining up at him. At first he looked down without seeing it and without giving heed to its supplicating look; then suddenly he woke to attention. The dog certainly did not look sorrowful. It looked rather as if it had something special, and to a certain degree joyful, to announce. And its whining also seemed to signify the same.