ce, was, when he waked in the morning, covered by a melting
snowdrift. A few days later he fell ill. His lungs wheezed, and
when they were expanded to take in air, he felt excruciating pain.
He kept up as long as his strength held out, but when one evening
he leaned down to blow the fire, he fell over and remained lying.

Berg Rese came to him and told him to go to his bed. Tord moaned
with pain and could not raise himself. Berg then thrust his arms
under him and carried him there. But he felt as if he had got hold
of a slimy snake; he had a taste in the mouth as if he had eaten
the unholy horseflesh, it was so odious to him to touch the
miserable thief.

He laid his own big bearskin over him and gave him water, more he
could not do. Nor was it anything dangerous. Tord was soon well
again. But through Berg's being obliged to do his tasks and to be
his servant, they had come nearer to one another. Tord dared to
talk to him when he sat in the cave in the evening and cut arrow
shafts.

"You are of a good race, Berg," said Tord. "Your kinsmen are the
richest in the valley. Your ancestors have served with kings and
fought in their castles."

"They have oftener fought with bands of rebels and done the kings
great injury," replied Berg Rese.

"Your ancestors gave great feasts at Christmas, and so did you,
when you were at home. Hundreds of men and women could find a place
to sit in your big house, which was already built before Saint Olof
first gave the baptism here in Viken. You owned old silver vessels
and great drinking-horns, which passed from man to man, filled with
mead."

Again Berg Rese had to look at the boy. He sat up with his legs
hanging out of the bed and his head resting on his hands, with
which he at the same time held back the wild masses of hair which
would fall over his eyes. His face had become pale and delicate
from the ravages of sickness. In his eyes fever still burned. He
smiled at the pictures he conjured up: at the adorned house, at the
silver vessels, at the guests in gala array and at Berg Rese,
sitting in the seat of honor in the hall of his ancestors. The
peasant thought that no one had ever looked at him with such
shining, admiring eyes, or thought him so magnificent, arrayed in
his festival clothes, as that boy thought him in the torn skin
dress.

He was both touched and provoked. That miserable thief had no right
to admire him.

"Were there no feasts in your house?" he asked.

Tor