THE ISLAND SPELL.


The Holy Isle was bathed in morning sunshine, shadows of light
clouds chased each other over the hills across the sound, and out
beyond the headlands the blue sea glimmered restfully.

On a bank of turf sloping to the rocks Estein sat with Osla,
drinking in the freshness of the air. She had milked their
solitary cow, baked cakes enough for the day's fare, and now, her
simple housekeeping over, she was free to entertain her guest.

"My father, I fear, is in a black mood," she said. "His moods come
and go, I know not why or when. To-day and perhaps to-morrow, and
it may be for four days or more, he will sit in his cell or on the
grass before the door, speaking never a word, and hardly answering
when I talk to him. Pay no heed to him; he means no
inhospitality."

"I fear he likes me not," said Estein. "He came here to escape
men, you say, and now he has to entertain a stranger and a
Viking."

"It is not that," she said. "The black moods come when we are
alone; they come sometimes with the rising storm, sometimes when
the sun shines brightest. I cannot tell when the gloom will fall,
nor when he will be himself again. When his mind is well, he will
talk to me for hours, and instruct me in many things."