In the evening, Grindhusen takes the boat and rows off. I wander along the beach, singing to myself a little, throwing stones at the water, and hauling bits of driftwood ashore. The stars are out, and there is a moon. In a couple of hours Grindhusen comes back, with a good set of bricklayer's tools in the boat. Stolen them somewhere, I think to myself. We shoulder each our load, and hide away the tools among the trees.
Then it is night, and we go each our separate way.
Grindhusen finishes his painting the following afternoon, but agrees to go on cutting wood till six o'clock to make up a full day's work. I get out Gunhild's boat and go off fishing, so as not to be there when he leaves. I catch no fish, and it is cold sitting in the boat; I look at my watch again and again. At last, about seven o'clock: he must be gone by now, I say to myself, and I row home. Grindhusen has got over to the mainland, and calls across to me from there: “Farvel!”
Something thrilled me warmly at the word; it was like a calling from my youth, from Skreia, from days a generation gone.
I row across to him and ask:
“Can you dig that well all alone?”
“No. I'll have to take another man along.”
“Take me,” I said. “Wait for me here, while I go up and settle at the house.”
Half-way up I heard Grindhusen calling again:
“I can't wait here all night. And I don't believe you meant it, anyway.”