“Tord,” said the giant, pale and deeply grave, “the Saints alone know why you see wounds of ax thrusts. I slew the monk with a knife.”
Tord stood before Berg trembling and wringing his hands. “They demand you of me. They would compel me to betray you.”
“Who? The monks?”
“Yes, yes, the monks. They show me visions. They show me Unn. They show me the open, sunny ocean. They show me the camps of the fishermen, where there is dancing and merriment. I close my eyes, and yet I can see it all. 'Leave me,’ I say to them. 'My friend has committed a murder, but he is not bad. Leave me alone, and I will talk to him, that he may repent and atone. He will see the wrong he has done, and he will make a pilgrimage to the Holy Grave.’”
“And what do the monks answer?” asked Berg. “They do not want to pardon me. They want to torture me and to burn me at the stake.”
“'Shall I betray my best friend?’ I ask them. He is all that I have in the world. He saved me from the bear when its claws were already at my throat. We have suffered hunger and cold together. He covered me with his own garments while I was ill. I have brought him wood and water, I have watched over his sleep, and led his enemies off the trail. Why should they think me a man who betrays his friend? My friend will go to the priest himself, and will confess to him, and then together we will seek absolution?”
Berg listened gravely, his keen eyes searching in Tord’s face. “Go to the priest yourself, and tell him the truth. You must go back again among mankind.”
“What does it help if I go alone? The spirits of the dead follow me because of your sin. Do you not see how I tremble before you? You have lifted your hand against God himself. What crime is like unto yours? Why did you tell me about the just God? It is you yourself who compel me to betray you. Spare me this sin. Go to the priest yourself.” He sank down on his knees before Berg.
The murderer laid his hand on his head and looked at him. He measured his sin by the terror of his comrade, and it grew and grew to monstrous size. He saw himself in conflict with the Will that rules the world. Remorse entered his heart.
“Wo unto me that I did what I did,” he said. “And is not this miserable life, this life we lead here in terror, and in deprivation, is it not atonement enough? Have I not lost home and fortune? Have I not lost friends, and all the joys that make the life of a man? What more?”