“No,” said Jason.

  “Who is it?” said Sunlocks.

  “A friend,” said Jason.

  Sunlocks twisted about as though his blind eyes could see. “Whose voice was that?” he said, with a tremor in his own.

  “A brother’s,” said Jason.

  Sunlocks rose to his feet. “Jason?” he cried,

  “Yes, Jason.”

  “Come to me! Come! Where are you? Let me touch you,” cried Sunlocks, stretching out both his hands.

  Then they fell into each other’s arms, and laughed and wept for joy. After a while Jason said, —

  “Sunlocks, I have brought you a message.”

  “Not from her, Jason? — no.”

  “No, not from her — from dear old Adam Fairbrother,” said Jason.

  “Were is he?”

  “At Husavik.”

  “Why did you not bring him with you?”

  “He could not come.”

  “Jason, is he ill?”

  “He has crossed the desert to see you, but he can go no further.”

  “Jason, tell me, is he dying?”

  “The good old man is calling on you night and day, ‘Sunlocks!’ he is crying. ‘Sunlocks! my boy, my son. Sunlocks! Sunlocks!’”

  “My dear father, my other father, God bless him!”

  “He says he has crossed the seas to find you, and cannot die without seeing you again. And though he knows you are here, yet in his pain and trouble he forgets it, and cries, ‘Come to me, my son, my Sunlocks.’”

  “Now, this is the hardest lot of all,” said Sunlocks, and he cast himself down on his chair. “Oh, these blind eyes! Oh, this cruel prison! Oh, for one day of freedom! Only one day, one poor simple day!”

  And so he wept, and bemoaned his bitter fate.

  Jason stood over him with many pains and misgivings at sight of the distress he had created. And if the eye of heaven saw Jason there, surely the suffering in his face atoned for the lie on his tongue.

  “Hush, Sunlocks, hush!” he said, in a tremulous whisper. “You can have the day you wish for; and if you cannot see, there are others to lead you. Yes, it is true, it is true, for I have settled it. It is all arranged, and you are to leave this place to-morrow.”

  Hearing this, Michael Sunlocks made first a cry of delight, and then said after a moment, “But what of this poor old priest?”

  “He is a good man, and willing to let you go,” said Jason.

  “But he has had warning that I may be wanted at any time,” said Sunlocks, “and though his house is a prison, he has made it a home, and I would not do him a wrong to save my life.”

  “He knows that,” said Jason, “and he says that you will come back to him though death itself should be waiting to receive you.”

  “He is right,” said Sunlocks; “and no disaster save this one could take me from him to his peril. The good old soul! Come, let me thank him.” And with that he was making for the door.

  But Jason stepped between, and said, “Nay, it isn’t fair to the good priest that we should make him a party to our enterprise. I have told him all that he need know, and he is content. Now, let him be ignorant of what we are doing until it is done. Then if anything happens it will appear that you have escaped.”

  “But I am coming back,” said Sunlocks.

  “Yes, yes,” said Jason, “but listen. To-morrow morning, two hours before daybreak, you will go down to the bay. There is a small boat lying by the little jetty, and a fishing smack at anchor about a biscuit-throw farther out. The good woman who is housekeeper here will lead you — —”

  “Why she?” interrupted Sunlocks.

  Jason paused, and said, “Have you anything against her?”

  “No indeed,” said Sunlocks. “A good, true woman. One who lately lost her husband, and at the same time all the cheer and hope of life. Simple and sweet, and silent, and with a voice that recalls another who was once very near and dear to me.”

  “Is she not so still?” said Jason.

  “God knows. I scarce can tell. Sometimes I think she is dearer to me than ever, and now that I am blind I seem to see her near me always. It is only a dream, a foolish dream.”

  “But what if the dream came true?” said Jason.

  “That cannot be,” said Sunlocks. “Yet where is she? What has become of her? Is she with her father? What is she doing?”

  “You shall soon know now,” said Jason. “Only ask to-morrow and this good woman will take you to her.”

  “But why not you yourself, Jason?” said Sunlocks.

  “Because I am to stay here until you return,” said Jason.

  “What?” cried Sunlocks. “You are to stay here?”

  “Yes,” said Jason.

  “As bondman to the law instead of me? Is that it? Speak!” cried Sunlocks.

  “And why not?” said Jason, calmly.

  There was silence for a moment. Sunlocks felt about with his helpless hands until he touched Jason and then he fell sobbing upon his neck.

  “Jason, Jason,” he cried, “this is more than a brother’s love. Ah, you do not know the risk you would run; but I know it, and I must not keep it from you. Any day, any hour, a despatch may come to the ship outside to order that I should be shot. Suppose I were to go to the dear soul who calls for me, and the despatch came in my absence — where would you be then?”

  “I should be here,” said Jason, simply.

  “My lad, my brave lad,” cried Sunlocks, “what are you saying? If you cannot think for yourself, then think for me. If what I have said were to occur, should I ever know another moment’s happiness? No, never, never, though I regained my sight, as they say I may, and my place and my friends — all save one — and lived a hundred years.”

  Jason started at that thought, but there was no one to look upon his face under the force of it, and he wriggled with it and threw it off.

  “But you will come back,” he said. “If the despatch comes while you are away, I will say that you are coming, and you will come.”

  “I may never come back,” said Sunlocks. “Only think, my lad. This is winter, and we are on the verge of the Arctic seas, with five and thirty miles of water dividing us from the mainland. He would be a bold man who would count for a day on whether in which a little fishing smack could live. And a storm might come up and keep me back.”

  “The same storm that would keep you back,” said Jason, “would keep back the despatch. But why hunt after these chances? Have you any reason to fear that the despatch will come to-day, or to-morrow, or the next day? No, you have none. Then go, and for form’s sake — just that, no more, no less — let me wait here until you return.”

  There was another moment’s silence, and then Sunlocks said, “Is that the condition of my going?”

  “Yes,” said Jason.

  “Did this old priest impose it?” asked Sunlocks.

  Jason hesitated a moment, and answered, “Yes.”

  “Then I won’t go,” said Sunlocks, stoutly.

  “If you don’t,” said Jason, “you will break poor old Adam’s heart, for I myself will tell him that you might have come to him, and would not.”

  “Will you tell him why I would not?” said Sunlocks.

  “No,” said Jason.

  There was a pause, and then Jason said, very tenderly, “Will you go, Sunlocks?”

  And Sunlocks answered, “Yes.”

  V.

  Jason slept on the form over against the narrow wooden bed of Michael Sunlocks. He lay down at midnight, and awoke four hours later. Then he stepped to the door and looked out. The night was calm and beautiful; the moon was shining, and the little world of Grimsey slept white and quiet under its coverlet of snow. Snow on the roof, snow in the valley, snow on the mountains so clear against the sky and the stars; no wind, no breeze, no sound on earth and in air save the steady chime of the sea below.

  It was too early yet, and Jason went back into the house. He did not lie down again lest he should oversleep himself, but sat on his form and waited. All was silent in the home of the priest. Jason could hear nothing but the steady breathing of Sunlocks as he slept.

  After awhile it began to snow, and then the moon went out, and the night became very dark.

  “Now is the time,” thought Jason, and after hanging a sheepskin over the little skin-covered window, he lit a candle and awakened Sunlocks.

  Sunlocks rose and dressed himself without much speaking, and sometimes he sighed like a down-hearted man. But Jason rattled on with idle talk, and kindled a fire and made some coffee. And when this was done he stumbled his way through the long passages of the Iceland house until he came upon Greeba’s room, and there he knocked softly, and she answered him.

  She was ready, for she had not been to bed, and about her shoulders and across her breast was a sling of sheepskin, wherein she meant to carry her little Michael as he slept.

  “All is ready,” he whispered. “He says he may recover his sight. Can it be true?”

  “Yes, the apothecary from Husavik said so,” she answered.

  “Then have no fear. Tell him who you are, for he loves you still.”

  And, hearing that, Greeba began to cry for joy, and to thank God that the days of her waiting were over at last.

  “Two years I have lived alone,” she said, “in the solitude of a loveless life and the death of a heartless home. My love has been silent all this weary, weary time, but it is to be silent no longer. At last! At last! My hour has come at last! My husband will forgive me for the deception I have practiced upon him. How can he hate me for loving him to all lengths and ends of love? Oh, that the blessed spirit that counts the throbbings of the heart would but count my life from to-day — to-day, to-day, to-day — wiping out all that is past, and leaving only the white page of what is to come.”

  Then from crying she fell to laughing, as softly and as gently, as if her heart grudged her voice the joy of it. She was like a child who is to wear a new feather on the morrow, and is counting the minutes until that morrow comes, too impatient to rest, and afraid to sleep lest she should awake too late. And Jason stood aside and heard both her weeping and her laughter.

  He went back to Sunlocks, and found him yet more sad than before.

  “Only to think,” said Sunlocks, “that you, whom I thought my worst enemy, you that once followed me to slay me, should be the man of all men to risk your life for me.”

  “Yes, life is a fine lottery, isn’t it?” said Jason, and he laughed.

  “How the Almighty God tears our little passions to tatters,” said Sunlocks, “and works His own ends in spite of them.”

  When all was ready, Jason blew out the candle, and led Sunlocks to the porch. Greeba was there, with little Michael breathing softly from the sling at her breast.

  Jason opened the door. “It’s very dark,” he whispered, “and it is still two hours before the dawn. Sunlocks, if you had your sight already, you could not see one step before you. So give your hand to this good woman, and whatever happens hereafter never, never let it go.”

  And with that he joined their hands.

  “Does she know my way?” said Sunlocks.

  “She knows the way for both of you,” said Jason. “And now go. Down at the jetty you will find two men waiting for you. Stop! Have you any money?”

  “Yes,” said Greeba.

  “Give some to the men,” said Jason. “Good-bye. I promised them a hundred kroner. Good-bye! Tell them to drop down the bay as silently as they can. Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye!”

  “Come,” said Greeba, and she drew at the hand of Sunlocks.

  “Good-bye! Good-bye!” said Jason.

  But Sunlocks held back a moment, and then in a voice that faltered and broke he said, “Jason — kiss me.”

  At the next moment they were gone into the darkness and the falling snow — Sunlocks and Greeba, hand in hand, and their child asleep at its mother’s bosom.

  Jason stood a long hour at the open door, and listened. He heard the footsteps die away; he heard the creak of the crazy wooden jetty; he heard the light plash of the oars as the boat moved off; he heard the clank of the chain as the anchor was lifted; he heard the oars again as the little smack moved down the bay, and not another sound came to his ear through the silence of the night.

  He looked across the headland to where the sloop of war lay outside, and he saw her lights, and their two white waterways, like pillars of silver, over the sea. All was quiet about her.

  Still he stood and listened until the last faint sound of the oars had gone. By this time a woolly light had begun to creep over the mountain tops, and a light breeze came down from them.

  “It is the dawn,” thought Jason. “They are safe.”

  He went back into the house, pulled down the sheepskin from the window, and lit the candle again. After a search he found paper and pens and wax in a cupboard and sat down to write. His hand was hard, he had never been to school, and he could barely form the letters and spell the words. This was what he wrote:

  “Whatever you hear, fear not for me. I have escaped, and am safe. But don’t expect to see me. I can never rejoin you, for I dare not be seen. And you are going back to your beautiful island, but dear old Iceland is the only place for me. Greeba, good-bye; I shall never lose heart. Sunlocks, she has loved you, you only, all the days of her life. Good-bye. I am well and happy. God bless you both.”

  Having written and sealed this letter, he marked it with a cross for superscription, touched it with his lips, laid it back on the table and put a key on top of it. Then he rested his head on his hands, and for some minutes afterwards he was lost to himself in thought. “They would tell him to lie down,” he thought, “and now he must be asleep. When he awakes he will be out at sea, far out, and all sail set. Before long he will find that he has been betrayed, and demand to be brought back. But they will not heed his anger, for she will have talked with them. Next week or the week after they will put in at Shetlands, and there he will get my letter. Then his face will brighten with joy, and he will cry, ‘To home! To Home!’ And then — even then — why not? — his sight will come back to him, and he will open his eyes and find his dream come true, and her own dear face looking up at him. At that he will cry, ‘Greeba, Greeba, my Greeba,’ and she will fall into his arms and he will pluck her to his breast. Then the wind will come sweeping down from the North Sea, and belly out the sail until it sings and the ropes crack and the blocks creak. And the good ship will fly along the waters like a bird to the home of the sun. Home! Home! England! England, and the little green island of her sea!”

  “God bless them both,” he said aloud, in a voice like a sob, but he leapt to his feet, unable to bear the flow of his thoughts. He put back the paper and pens into the cupboard, and while he was doing so he came upon a bottle of brenni-vin. He took it out and laughed, and drew the cork to take a draught. But he put it down on the table untouched. “Not yet,” he said to himself, and then he stepped to the door and opened it.

  The snow had ceased to fall and the day was breaking. Great shivering waifs of vapor crept along the mountain sides, and the valley was veiled in mist. But the sea was clear and peaceful, and the sloop of war lay on its dark bosom as before.

  “Now for the signal,” thought Jason.

  In less than a minute afterwards the flag was floating from the flag-staff, and Jason stood waiting for the ship’s answer. It came in due course, a clear-toned bell that rang out over the quiet waters and echoed across the land.

  “It’s done,” thought Jason, and he went back into the house. Lifting up the brenni-vin, he took a long draught of it, and laughed as he did so. Then a longer draught, and laughed yet louder. Still another draught, and another, and another, until the bottle was emptied, and he flung it on the floor.

  After that he picked up the key and the letter, and shambled out into the passage, laughing as he went.

  “Where are you now, old mole?” he shouted, and again he shouted, until the little house rang with his thick voice and his peals of wild laughter.

  The old priest came out of his room in his nightshirt with a lighted candle in his hand.

  “God bless me, what’s this?” said the old man.

  “What’s this? Why, your bondman, your bondman, and the key, the key,” shouted Jason, and he laughed once more. “Did you think you would never see it again? Did you think I would run away and leave you? Not I, old mole, not I.”

  “Has he gone?” said the priest, glancing fearfully into the room.

  “Gone? Why, yes, of course he has gone,” laughed Jason. “They have both gone.”

  “Both!” said the priest, looking up inquiringly, and at sight of his face Jason laughed louder than ever.

  “So you didn’t see it, old mole?”

  “See what?”

  “That she was his wife?”

  “His wife? Who?”

  “Why, your housekeeper, as you called her.”

  “God bless my soul! And when are they coming back?”

  “They are never coming back.”

  “Never?”

  “I have taken care that they never can.”

  “Dear me! dear me! What does it all mean?”

  “It means that the despatch is on its way from Reykjavik, and will be here to-day. Ha! ha! ha!”

  “To-day? God save us! And do you intend — no, it cannot be — and yet — do you intend to die instead of him?”

  “Well, and what of that? It’s nothing to you, is it? And as for myself, there are old scores against me, and if death had not come to me soon, I should have gone to it.”

  “I’ll not stand by and witness it.”

  “You will, you shall, you must. And listen — here is a letter. It is for him. Address it to her by the first ship to the Shetlands. The Thora, Shetlands — that will do. And now bring me some more of your brenni-vin, you good old soul, for I am going to take a sleep at last — a long sleep — a long, long sleep at last.”

  “God pity you! God help you! God bless you!”

  “Ay, ay, pray to your God. But I’ll not pray to him. He doesn’t make His world for wretches like me. I’m a pagan, am I? So be it! Good-night, you dear old mole! Good-night! I’ll keep to my bargain, never fear. Good-night. Never mind your brenni-vin, I’ll sleep without it. Good-night! Good-night!”

 

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