Berg looked at the boy again. He sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, pushing back the heavy tangled hair that hung over his eyes. His face had become pale and refined through his illness. His eyes still sparkled in fever. He smiled to himself at the pictures called up by his fancy—pictures of the great hall and of the silver urns, of the richly clad guests, and of Berg, the Giant, lording it in the place of honor. The peasant knew that even in the days of his glory no one had ever looked at him with eyes so shining in admiration, so glowing in reverence, as this boy did now, as he sat by the fire in his worn leather jacket. He was touched, and yet displeased. This common thief had no right to admire him.
“Were there no banquets in your home?” he asked.
Tord laughed: “Out there on the rocks where father and mother live? Father plunders the wrecks and mother is a witch. When the weather is stormy she rides out to meet the ships on a seal’s back, and those who are washed overboard from the wrecks belong to her.”
“What does she do with them?” asked Berg.
“Oh, a witch always needs corpses. She makes salves of them, or perhaps she eats them. On moonlit nights she sits out in the wildest surf and looks for the eyes and fingers of drowned children.”
“That is horrible!” said Berg.
The boy answered with calm confidence: “It would be for others, but not for a witch. She can’t help it.”
This was an altogether new manner of looking at life for Berg. “Then thieves have to steal, as witches have to make magic?” he questioned sharply.
“Why, yes,” answered the boy. “Every one has to do the thing he was born for.” But a smile of shy cunning curled his lips, as he added: “There are thieves who have never stolen.”
“What do you mean by that?” spoke Berg.