Iceland's Bell by Halldór Laxness

Hereditary King, just remember that I’m His hereditary servant,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
    There was another long moment of silence. Finally the man from Hraun could be heard muttering his own name in the darkness.
    “Hólmfastur Guðmundsson.”
    He repeated it, very quietly, as if it were some kind of obscure oracle: “Hólmfastur Guðmundsson.”
    Afterward, silence.
    “Who said that the Danes beheaded Bishop Jón Arason?” asked Hólmfastur Guðmundsson.
    “I did,” said Ásbjörn Jóakimsson. “And since they beheaded Jón Arason do you think it matters whether the king has farmers like ourselves flogged?”
    “It’s an honor to be beheaded,” said Hólmfastur Guðmundsson. “Even a little churl becomes a man by being beheaded. A little churl can recite a verse as he’s being taken to the chopping block, like Þórir Jökull* who recited his verse and was beheaded—and his name will live on as long as the land is inhabited. On the contrary, the man who is flogged is belittled. There is no man so gallant who is not humiliated by the whip.”
    He added in a low voice: “Hólmfastur Guðmundsson—has anyone ever heard a more Icelandic name? And the memory of this Icelandic name will be connected with a Danish whip throughout the centuries, in the hearts of a people who write down everything in books and forget nothing.”
    “I wasn’t belittled in the least by being flogged,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “And nobody laughed at me. I was the only one who laughed.”
    “It does nothing to a man, to the man himself, to be flogged,” said Ásbjörn Jóakimsson. “But you can’t deny that it must be slightly traumatic for the man’s children to learn, when they’ve grown up, that their father was once flogged. Other children point at them and say, ‘Your father was flogged!’ I have three little girls. But after three or four generations it’s forgotten—at least I don’t imagine that Ásbjörn Jóakimsson is such a remarkable name that it will be written in books and read throughout the centuries; quite the contrary—I’m like every other nameless man, healthy today, dead tomorrow. On the other hand, the Icelandic people will live throughout the ages if they don’t give in, no matter what happens. I refused to transport the king’s man over Skerjafjörður, that’s true. Neither living nor dead, said I. I’ll be flogged and that’s fine with me. But if I had given in, even in such an insignificant matter, and if everyone gives in always and everywhere, gives in to ghosts and fiends, gives in to the plague and the pox, gives in to the king and the hangman, then where would these folk have their home? Even Hell would be too good for such folk.”
    Hólmfastur did not answer, but continued to repeat his name quietly. Jón Hreggviðsson was determined not to let them up on his plank. After some time his fetters stopped rattling and the first snores came, jerky exhalations at the threshold of the senses that gradually deepened and became steadier.
    As winter passed thieves were occasionally cast down to join Jón Hreggviðsson, sometimes several at once, confined there the night before they were to be branded or have their hands cut off. Jón was horribly anxious that they might try to steal the jug or even the ax. Others had to wait for their punishment for longer periods of time, mainly people from the district of Gullbringa. A cotter who rented land from the regent had refused to lend the regent his horse; he’d told him that men who were too lazy to go anywhere without the help of ninety good saddle horses, but who had none themselves, might as well get used to sitting at home—Gunnar of Hlíðarendi had never asked anyone to loan him a horse. Another, Halldór Finnbogason from Mýrar, had refused to receive communion and had been arraigned on charges of public blasphemy and desecration of holy relics. Both of these men were sentenced to have their tongues cut. The second of the two cursed