what he is and not something else. And now for my part I wish to return your generosity in my own modest way. In my family we have always had good horses; and I myself am said to have a not unhandy colt, as my sheriff can confirm better than anyone else, for he is one of the eminent men who have offered to buy him in exchange for gold and gratitude. And now, since you have brought us justice to this country, I am going to hand over the reins of this nag as a token gift in return. The beast is now in the care of their lordships at the door; but I would be grateful if I could have the bridle back at your earliest convenience.”
Kristian Wilhelmsson first had this speech translated into Danish; but he was still not fully clear about the meaning of it, and so he called upon his page to translate it into his mother-tongue, German. The more interpretations he was given of it, the more remarkable a speech he thought it.
“Let us go and see this animal,” he said at last.
They walked to the entrance to the marquee, where a groom was holding the pony by the reins and a crowd of people had gathered from all sides to have a look at so admirable a mount. The pony was trembling slightly at the withers; he did not like being handled and stared at by so many people. The king saw at once that this was a handsome creature; he went over to the pony and patted him gently but firmly, as all good horsemen should, and the pony calmed down. He turned to some baron who was standing nearby and said to him in German, “Perhaps I am after all the right sort of barbarian chieftain to be king over the Icelanders. But I shall not accept anything for nothing from these farmers. Let it be paid for in full from my exchequer, through the proper authorities.”
Then the king took leave of Steinar of Hlíðar with a hand-clasp, and said that he would never forget such a gift. He also said that Steinar should just mention his name if ever he found himself in any difficulties, for Steinar would always have the king for a friend.
Steinar of Hlíðar thanked him for the kind reception and walked away out of sight of his king and his pony, away from the great millennial festivities.
7
Church-going
Steinar of Hlíðar hoisted his saddle on his back and set off for home. He took the track along the south side of the lake through the wood which has stood there for thousands of years and is unique because it never grows taller than the height of a man, or higher than a man can reach; everything above that is sheared off by the cold. All these stunted trees bent to the will of the wind. Then he followed the paths along the stream that flow out of Þingvallavatn (Lake Þingvellir) towards the lowlands and the main track to his home district. He walked all day and far into the night; it had begun to rain and the ground was wet, giving off a wonderful aroma. Midsummer was past, the two months when night did not exist; but one could scarcely call the nights dark yet. An occasional farm-dog gave tongue as he passed. He came to a meadow full of haycocks, where he put the saddle down for a pillow, spread hay over himself, and munched half a rye-scone that tasted utterly delicious, even though it was as tough as a saddle-flap. It was the last of his provisions. Before he fell asleep he recited to himself:
Wet and weary down I lay,
Far too tired to wander;
Saddle down among the hay
In the meadow yonder.
Next morning he called at a farm. The farmer was already up, and he asked the visitor if he were a Mormon. Steinar of Hlíðar said he was not—“unfortunately not, I almost said,” he added. “I come from Steinahlíðar, farther east.”
“Well, if you say you’re not a Mormon, you aren’t one,” said the farmer. “I’ve never heard of a Mormon who didn’t acknowledge he was one before being asked, even though he knew it would cost him a beating.”
“We are all inclined to take pride in our heresies,” said Steinar. “I in mine, you in yours.
Kristian Wilhelmsson first had this speech translated into Danish; but he was still not fully clear about the meaning of it, and so he called upon his page to translate it into his mother-tongue, German. The more interpretations he was given of it, the more remarkable a speech he thought it.
“Let us go and see this animal,” he said at last.
They walked to the entrance to the marquee, where a groom was holding the pony by the reins and a crowd of people had gathered from all sides to have a look at so admirable a mount. The pony was trembling slightly at the withers; he did not like being handled and stared at by so many people. The king saw at once that this was a handsome creature; he went over to the pony and patted him gently but firmly, as all good horsemen should, and the pony calmed down. He turned to some baron who was standing nearby and said to him in German, “Perhaps I am after all the right sort of barbarian chieftain to be king over the Icelanders. But I shall not accept anything for nothing from these farmers. Let it be paid for in full from my exchequer, through the proper authorities.”
Then the king took leave of Steinar of Hlíðar with a hand-clasp, and said that he would never forget such a gift. He also said that Steinar should just mention his name if ever he found himself in any difficulties, for Steinar would always have the king for a friend.
Steinar of Hlíðar thanked him for the kind reception and walked away out of sight of his king and his pony, away from the great millennial festivities.
7
Church-going
Steinar of Hlíðar hoisted his saddle on his back and set off for home. He took the track along the south side of the lake through the wood which has stood there for thousands of years and is unique because it never grows taller than the height of a man, or higher than a man can reach; everything above that is sheared off by the cold. All these stunted trees bent to the will of the wind. Then he followed the paths along the stream that flow out of Þingvallavatn (Lake Þingvellir) towards the lowlands and the main track to his home district. He walked all day and far into the night; it had begun to rain and the ground was wet, giving off a wonderful aroma. Midsummer was past, the two months when night did not exist; but one could scarcely call the nights dark yet. An occasional farm-dog gave tongue as he passed. He came to a meadow full of haycocks, where he put the saddle down for a pillow, spread hay over himself, and munched half a rye-scone that tasted utterly delicious, even though it was as tough as a saddle-flap. It was the last of his provisions. Before he fell asleep he recited to himself:
Wet and weary down I lay,
Far too tired to wander;
Saddle down among the hay
In the meadow yonder.
Next morning he called at a farm. The farmer was already up, and he asked the visitor if he were a Mormon. Steinar of Hlíðar said he was not—“unfortunately not, I almost said,” he added. “I come from Steinahlíðar, farther east.”
“Well, if you say you’re not a Mormon, you aren’t one,” said the farmer. “I’ve never heard of a Mormon who didn’t acknowledge he was one before being asked, even though he knew it would cost him a beating.”
“We are all inclined to take pride in our heresies,” said Steinar. “I in mine, you in yours.
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