"Is Jan's loss all thy grief, Snorro?"

"Nay, there is more. Has thou found it out?"

"I think so. Speak to me."

"I dare not speak it."

"It is as sinful to think it. I am thy true friend. I come to comfort thee. Speak to me, Snorro."

Then he lifted his face. It was overspread by an expression of the greatest awe and sorrow:

"It is also my Lord Christ. He hath deceived me. He said to me, whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do. I asked him always, every hour to take care of Jan. If I was packing the eggs, or loading the boats, or eating my dinner, my heart was always praying.

When Jan was at sea, I asked, 'take care of him,' when he was at Torr's, I prayed then the more, 'dear Lord Christ, take care of him.'

I was praying for him that night, _at the very hour he perished_. I can pray no more now. What shall I do?"

"Art thou sure thou prayed for the right thing?"

"He said, 'whatsoever.' Well, then, I took him at his word. Oh yes, I believed every word he said. At the last, I thought, he will surely save Jan. I will pray till his time comes. He will not deceive a poor soul like me, for he knows right well that Snorro loves him."

"And so thou thinkest that Christ Jesus who died for thee hath deceived thee?"

"Well, then, he hath forgotten."

"Nay, nay, Snorro. He never forgets. Behold he has graven thy name upon his hands. Not on the mountains, for they shall depart; not on the sun, for it shall grow dark; not on the skies, for they shall melt with fervent heat; but on _his own hand_, Snorro. Now come with me, and I will show thee, whether Lord Christ heard thee praying or not, and I will tell thee how he sent me, his servant always, to answer thy prayer. I tell thee at the end of all this thou shalt surely say: 'there hath not failed one word of all his good promise, which he promised.'"

Then he lifted Michael's cap and gave it to him, and they locked the store door, and in silence they walked together to the manse. For a few minutes he left Snorro alone in the study. There was a large picture in it of Christ upon the cross. Michael had never dreamed of such a picture. When the minister came back he found him standing before it, with clasped hands and streaming eyes.

"Can thou trust him, Michael?"

"Unto death, sir."

"Come, tread gently. He sleeps."

Wondering and somewhat awestruck Michael followed the doctor into the room where Jan lay. One swift look from the bed to the smiling face of Jan's saviour was all Michael needed. He clasped his hands above his head, and fell upon his knees, and when the doctor saw the rapture in his face, he understood the transfiguration, and how this mortal might put on immortality.

CHAPTER VIII.

DEATH AND CHANGE.

"Wield thine own arm!--the only way To know life is by living."

When Jan awoke Snorro was standing motionless beside him. He feebly stretched out his hand, and pulled him close, closer, until his face was on the pillow beside his own.

"Oh Jan, how could'st thou? My heart hath been nearly broken for thee."

"It is all well now, Snorro. I am going to a new life. I have buried the old one below the Troll Rock."

Until the following night the men remained together. They had much to talk of, much that related both to the past and the future. Jan was particularly anxious that no one should know that his life had been saved: "And mind thou tell not my wife, Snorro," he said. "Let her think herself a widow; that will please her best of all."

"There might come a time when it would be right to speak."

"I can not think it."

"She might be going to marry again."

Jan's face darkened. "Yes, that is possible--well then, in that case, thou shalt go to the minister; he will tell thee what to do, or he himself will do it."

"She might weep sorely for thee, so that she were like to die."

"Mock me not, Snorro. She will not weep for me. Well then, let me pa.s.s out of memory, until I can return with honor."

"Where wilt thou go to?"

"Dost thou remember that yacht that was tied to the minister's jetty four weeks ago?"

"Yes, I remember it."

"And that her owner stayed at the manse for two days?"

"Yes, I saw him. What then?"

"He will be back again, in a week, in a few days, perhaps to-morrow.

He is an English lord, and a friend of the minister's. I shall go away with him. There is to be a new life for me--another road to take; it must be a better one than that in which I have stumbled along for the last few years. Thou art glad?"

"Yes, Jan, I am glad."

"If things should happen so that I can send for thee, wilt thou come to me?"

"Yes, to the end of the world I will come. Thee only do I love. My life is broken in two without thee."

Every day Snorro watched the minister's jetty, hoping, yet fearing, to see the yacht which was to carry Jan away. Every night when the town was asleep, he went to the manse to sit with his friend. At length one morning, three weeks after Jan's disappearance, he saw the minister and the English lord enter Peter's store together. His heart turned sick and heavy; he felt that the hour of parting was near.

Peter was to send some eggs and smoked geese on board the yacht, and the minister said meaningly to Snorro, "Be sure thou puts them on board this afternoon, for the yacht sails southward on the midnight tide." Snorro understood the message. When the store was closed he made a bundle of Jan's few clothes; he had washed and mended them all. With them he put the only sovereign he possessed, and his own dearly-loved copy of the Gospels. He thought, "for my sake he may open them, and then what a comfort they will be sure to give him."

It was in Snorro's arms Jan was carried on board at the very last moment. Lord Lynne had given him a berth in the cabin, and he spoke very kindly to Snorro. "I have heard," he said, "that there is great love between you two. Keep your heart easy, my good fellow; I will see that no harm comes to your friend." And the grateful look on Snorro's face so touched him that he followed him to the deck and reiterated the promise.

It was at the last a silent and rapid parting. Snorro could not speak.

He laid Jan in his berth, and covered him as tenderly as a mother would cover her sick infant. Then he kissed him, and walked away. Dr.

Balloch, who watched the scene, felt the deep pathos and affection that had no visible expression but in Snorro's troubled eyes and dropped head; and Lord Lynne pressed his hand as a last a.s.surance that he would remember his promise concerning Jan's welfare. Then the anchor was lifted, and the yacht on the tide-top went dancing southward before the breeze.

At the manse door the minister said, "G.o.d be thy consolation, Snorro!

Is there any thing I, his servant, can do for thee?"

"Yes, thou can let me see that picture again."