They had become dark brown in the course of time, nay, almost black, and hard as stones from age. Ingolf knew well how they felt. He had once, after a long inward struggle, ventured to touch them.
And it was not strange that old age could be both felt and seen in them. For no one knew how old they were, or whether indeed they had any age at all. Whether they were of the race of gods or men was therefore doubtful. From time immemorial they had belonged to the family. They had passed by inheritance from father to eldest son since as far back as there was any tradition, probably from the earliest dawn of time. The pillar on the right of the throne represented Odin, the All-Father, the old, one-eyed, and wise. His ravens, Hugin and Mugin, sat on his shoulders and whispered wisdom and knowledge to him. The ravens told him everything, past and future. So wise was Odin that nothing found him unprepared.
Odin was the Head of the Gods, consequently the most important to have as a friend. The place on the right side of the high-seat belonged justly to him. The pillar on the left side represented Thor, the Wielder of the Hammer, the slayer of giants, the one whose goats amid thunder-claps kicked fire from heaven when he drove to battle with the giants. Proudly stood Age-Thor, with his legs planted wide apart, his arm lifted up to smite, and in the bent fingers of his mighty hand he gripped the hammer, Mjolner.
And there in the chief seat, on whose brown, worn plank only the cushions and the sitters changed, sat his father. Ay, there he sat, cheerful and comfortable between his gods.
Every evening he sat there, when he was not out journeying or visiting, with his men sitting at tables round him, a step lower down. He sat calmly, stroking with weather-tanned fingers his thick, white beard, talked wisely, or was silent. There he sat at the feast with the chief guest by his side. And when it chanced that he raised his voice, his ringing tones filled the hall, and an attentive silence prevailed as far as the outer-most seats. Though his father, Orn, did not often talk in a loud voice, yet when he did, what he said was weighty. He seemed then to Ingolf to have a certain resemblance to Thor, especially when he raised his powerful clenched fists over his shaggy head. Otherwise, when he sat silent and meditated, he reminded him most of Odin, except that he had two eyes.
In the chief seat his father was at home. There he sat, friendly and comfortable in the place of his ancestors. There had sat his grandfather, Bjornulf, who together with his brother, Roald, had been obliged to quit the old family estate in Telemarken on account of having slain a man. And there had sat also before him, his father, Romund Greippson. All high-spirited, strong men, whose names were remembered with reverence.
And some day he himself would sit there. And after him again his son, and his son's son. Generation after generation, family after family, till the earth vanished.
Whenever he thought of the time when his father would be no more, and he himself should assume the place between the throne-pillars, his cheeks flamed, and a strange, anxious shudder robbed him of strength and will-power.
It was this knowledge that he would have to assume a responsibility, and one which he had long ago sworn to sustain with honour, and which he waited to assume with a mixture of joy and suspense, that had impressed on his countenance a composure and on his whole nature and bearing an air of assurance far beyond his years. Even before his bones had fairly hardened, he had had impressed on him by his mother, whom he now only indistinctly remembered, who he was and what he should become. With his mother's milk he had imbibed the unbroken traditions of the family. Before he understood what was really involved, he had learnt to understand that his life was only partly his own. Already, for a long time past, it had become clear to him, that not only his own, but the honour of the dead and the unborn was committed to his hand. For a man without honour cast shadows on two sides. Both his ancestors and his descendants had a peremptory claim on him—the claim of honour.