and consolingly.
“By the way,” she said coldly, from somewhere within her sleeplessness, as a certain trifle crossed her mind. “Does a man named Jón Hreggviðsson exist?”
“Jón Hreggviðsson,” repeated the archpriest, opening his eyes. “Does mademoiselle speak the name of such a man?”
“Oh, then he exists,” said the damsel. “I thought I’d dreamed him. What has he done?”
“Why does mademoiselle want me to speak with her concerning that miserable scoundrel? I know nothing more than that he was sentenced to execution out west in Borgarfjörður in the fall, for having murdered the hangman from Bessastaðir one night, and that the verdict will soon be confirmed at the Alþingi.”
She burst out laughing and the archpriest looked at her in surprise, but when he questioned her she answered only that she found it ridiculous that His Royal Majesty’s hangman should be murdered by an out-and-out scoundrel—“It seems to me as if I, a vulgar sinner, am to preach to the archpriest! Or perhaps it’s no trouble to kill a man?” she asked.
The archpriest did not join in her laughter, not because her suggestion offended him, but rather because a poor cleric raised strongly in the theological doctrines concerning the freedom of the human will in choosing between good and evil could not understand the frivolous viewpoint of a young maiden, sprung of the seed of blossoms, to whom mortal deeds appeared to operate independent of law, and who considered not only sins, but also deadly crimes, as ridiculous, and even asked whether it was difficult to commit them.
She stopped listening to him and went back to work tidying up her bower, with a look of earnestness. Finally she said, distractedly:
“I’ve changed my mind. There’s nothing left to wait for here. Ask the steward to find me a good horse. I’m bored. I’m going west to Dalir, home.”
9
“Child,” says the magistrate Eydalín. He and his drinking companions look up in amazement as the damsel Snæfríður, wearing a riding frock, steps quickly in through the doorway of the magistrate’s booth at the Alþingi on a bright night at the close of the assembly. They all wait silently. “Welcome, child—and what brings you here? What has happened?”
He stands up and walks toward her, somewhat hesitant in his stride, and greets her with a kiss.
“What has happened, good child?”
“Where’s my sister Jórunn?”
“The bishop and his wife have ridden west to your mother’s. They delivered your greeting, and said that you would remain at Skálholt this summer. They said that they had left you under the care of the schoolmaster and his wife. What has happened?”
“Happened? Why do you ask me this thrice in one breath, father? If something had happened then I wouldn’t be here. But nothing has happened and that’s why I’m here. Why can’t I ride to the assembly? Hallgerður Langbrók* rode to the assembly.”
“Hallgerður Langbrók? I do not understand you, child.”
“Aren’t I human, father?”
“You know that your mother does not care much for independent-minded girls.”
“Who knows?—maybe I’ve changed my mind. Who knows but that certain things are afoot?”
“What things are afoot?”
“—or, phrased more correctly, are not afoot. Who knows—maybe I suddenly wanted to go home—to my father. I’m just a child. Or maybe I’m not a child?”
“Child, where am I to find a place for you? There is no lodging here for women. The assembly is at an end, and these gentlemen and I will sit here tonight and keep watch until dawn, when we must stand witness to the execution of several criminals. Immediately afterward I will ride south to Bessastaðir. What do you think your mother would say—”
A cavalier in topboots with spurs, a long goatee and a peruke that hung down to his ruff, girded with a sword, rose to his feet with the festive and self-contented air of an adequately drunken man, stepped forward, struck
“By the way,” she said coldly, from somewhere within her sleeplessness, as a certain trifle crossed her mind. “Does a man named Jón Hreggviðsson exist?”
“Jón Hreggviðsson,” repeated the archpriest, opening his eyes. “Does mademoiselle speak the name of such a man?”
“Oh, then he exists,” said the damsel. “I thought I’d dreamed him. What has he done?”
“Why does mademoiselle want me to speak with her concerning that miserable scoundrel? I know nothing more than that he was sentenced to execution out west in Borgarfjörður in the fall, for having murdered the hangman from Bessastaðir one night, and that the verdict will soon be confirmed at the Alþingi.”
She burst out laughing and the archpriest looked at her in surprise, but when he questioned her she answered only that she found it ridiculous that His Royal Majesty’s hangman should be murdered by an out-and-out scoundrel—“It seems to me as if I, a vulgar sinner, am to preach to the archpriest! Or perhaps it’s no trouble to kill a man?” she asked.
The archpriest did not join in her laughter, not because her suggestion offended him, but rather because a poor cleric raised strongly in the theological doctrines concerning the freedom of the human will in choosing between good and evil could not understand the frivolous viewpoint of a young maiden, sprung of the seed of blossoms, to whom mortal deeds appeared to operate independent of law, and who considered not only sins, but also deadly crimes, as ridiculous, and even asked whether it was difficult to commit them.
She stopped listening to him and went back to work tidying up her bower, with a look of earnestness. Finally she said, distractedly:
“I’ve changed my mind. There’s nothing left to wait for here. Ask the steward to find me a good horse. I’m bored. I’m going west to Dalir, home.”
9
“Child,” says the magistrate Eydalín. He and his drinking companions look up in amazement as the damsel Snæfríður, wearing a riding frock, steps quickly in through the doorway of the magistrate’s booth at the Alþingi on a bright night at the close of the assembly. They all wait silently. “Welcome, child—and what brings you here? What has happened?”
He stands up and walks toward her, somewhat hesitant in his stride, and greets her with a kiss.
“What has happened, good child?”
“Where’s my sister Jórunn?”
“The bishop and his wife have ridden west to your mother’s. They delivered your greeting, and said that you would remain at Skálholt this summer. They said that they had left you under the care of the schoolmaster and his wife. What has happened?”
“Happened? Why do you ask me this thrice in one breath, father? If something had happened then I wouldn’t be here. But nothing has happened and that’s why I’m here. Why can’t I ride to the assembly? Hallgerður Langbrók* rode to the assembly.”
“Hallgerður Langbrók? I do not understand you, child.”
“Aren’t I human, father?”
“You know that your mother does not care much for independent-minded girls.”
“Who knows?—maybe I’ve changed my mind. Who knows but that certain things are afoot?”
“What things are afoot?”
“—or, phrased more correctly, are not afoot. Who knows—maybe I suddenly wanted to go home—to my father. I’m just a child. Or maybe I’m not a child?”
“Child, where am I to find a place for you? There is no lodging here for women. The assembly is at an end, and these gentlemen and I will sit here tonight and keep watch until dawn, when we must stand witness to the execution of several criminals. Immediately afterward I will ride south to Bessastaðir. What do you think your mother would say—”
A cavalier in topboots with spurs, a long goatee and a peruke that hung down to his ruff, girded with a sword, rose to his feet with the festive and self-contented air of an adequately drunken man, stepped forward, struck
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