"It is not that alone," he whispered. "I do not mind so much that Leif mocks at the gods. But I grieve to think that the gods will some day take vengeance on you, Leif, for your mockery."
"When I do not believe in the gods, you cannot expect me to be afraid of their vengeance," answered Leif, with quiet defiance.
He sat with downcast eyes, and a discontented and vexed look in his face.
"You can say what you like in return," he continued. "Why may I not say what I like? I cannot bear the gods. And I cannot endure that you should believe in them either. But since you make so much of them, I will say nothing."
"Yes, you promise that now," said Helga. "You will have forgotten it tomorrow."
"Can I help being forgetful? Then I will promise again tomorrow."
For some minutes they sat silent and out of humour. Then Helga took Leif's hand. "Don't be cross, Leif. We have wished so much to see you again."
Leif raised his head suddenly. He raised himself on the cushion, made a place by his side, and looked up at Helga with a smile. All ill-humour had passed away from his face.
Soon after, all three were lying together confidentially discussing their own affairs. The hall was full of the hum of many voices and a stronger odour of beer. The fire burned yellow and bright. And the images of the gods on the carved pillars looked down as if following all that passed with a slow content, and waiting, calmly wise, for what should come.