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in a pail and a lump of butter ready to thrust into the pony’s mouth when he came back from his long and tiring journey as ravenous as a wolf.
    The golden plover was curiously subdued that summer, and scarcely a whistle was heard from the oyster-catcher. It was also one of those late-summer times when the cliffs of Steinahlíðar sent back no echoes. One shouted, but received no reply. The fulmar drifted silently under the black cliffs.
    When it was two or three days past the expected time, the children thought they could make out yet another vagrant coming round the shoulder of the hill with his knapsack on his back. But as the stranger approached, they seemed to recognize his walk: with every step he would put each foot down twice, as if he were testing ice that might not be quite safe. When he reached the edge of the home-field he stopped and ran his hand over the wall, adjusting a stone here and there and fitting in some small ones which lay loose nearby.
    Steinar’s little daughter stood outside on the paved doorstep and suddenly burst into tears.
    “I knew it, I dreamt it,” she sobbed. “I knew this would happen. Everything’s finished now.”
    And with that she rushed into the house and hid.
    Steinar came walking into the farmyard with his saddle on his back. He greeted his wife and son affectionately, and asked where little Steina was.
    “Where’s Krapi?” asked the viking.
    “It’s a long story,” said Steinar. “But here I am with the saddle at least. And the riding-crop.”
    “He has sold the horse, naturally,” said his wife.
    “A small man cannot carry a big horse,” he said. “So I gave him to the king.”
    “How silly of me,” said his wife. “You gave him away, of course.”
    “I had the feeling, somehow, that the only proper owner for such a horse was the king,” said Steinar.
    “I’m so glad you didn’t accept money from the king, my dear,” said his wife. “I have no desire to be married to a horse-coper.”
    “And anyway, money for a horse like that! It’s absurd, is it not, my dear?” said Steinar.
    “Our Krapi cannot be valued in money,” she replied. “Good health and peace of mind are the only real blessings in life; whereas all life’s evils spring from gold. Oh, you’ve no idea how glad I am and grateful to God that we never see gold here at Hlíðar!”
    “On the other hand, the king promised me his friendship,” said Steinar.
    “There you are! When has any crofter in these parts ever been given the king’s friendship?” said the woman. “God bless the king!”
    “What have we left to be fond of now?” said the boy, and started to cry like his sister.
    “A man can never discover his real worth until he has renounced his horse,” said Steinar.
    “Stop making such a fuss, silly,” said the boy’s mother. “You don’t understand what a father you have. How do you know the king won’t summon him before long and make him his counsellor?”
    This was enough to console the boy, for he was a true viking and king’s-man.
    “I was only sorry I forgot to get the bridle back,” said Steinar. “But we can manage somehow, I expect.”
    He took the saddle over to the outhouse.
    It was late in the autumn when a sheriff’s messenger came riding into the farmyard, stepped on to the paving, pulled out a letter with an official seal on it and handed it to Steinar of Hlíðar.
    In those days it was unusual for a sheriff to send a special messenger to peasants unless to tell them that their possessions were being confiscated for some valid reason, or to give them notice of the date on which they were to be evicted. A letter of the kind that was now delivered had never been received by an ordinary peasant in Iceland before, as far as is known. This document stated that His Majesty the King of Denmark sent Steinar of Hlíðar his most gracious greetings and favour as before; it was the king’s pleasure to invite this farmer to pay him a visit in Denmark, and the