aisle—they seemed to be the convent’s labourers. On the women’s side he saw none but Ingunn; she stood leaning against the farthest pillar, trying to make out the pictures painted on the baldachin over the side altar.
Olav took a seat on the bench—now he felt again how fearfully stiff and tired he was all over. The palms of his hands were blistered.
The boy knew nothing of what the monks sang. Of the Psalms of David he had learned no more than the
Miserere
and
De profundís
, and those but fairly well. But he knew the chant—saw it inwardly as a long, low wave that broke with a short, sharp turn and trickled back over the pebbles; and at first, whenever they came to the end of a psalm and sang
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancto,”
he whispered the response:
“Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.”
Themonk who led the singing had a fine deep, dark voice. In drowsy-well-being Olav listened to the great male voice that rose alone and to the choir joining in, verse after verse throughout the psalms. After all the varied emotions of the day peace and security fell upon his soul as he sat in the dark church looking at the white-clad singers and the little flames of the candles behind the choir-screen. He would do the right and shun the wrong, he thought—then God’s might and compassion would surely aid him and save him in all his difficulties.
Pictures began to swarm before his inner vision: the boat, Ingunn with the velvet hood over her fair face, the glitter on the water behind her, the floor-boards covered with shining fish-scales—the dark, damp path among nettles and angelica—the fence they had climbed and the flowery meadow through which they had run—the golden net over the bottom of the lake—all these scenes succeeded one another behind his closed and burning eyelids.
He awoke as Ingunn took him by the shoulder. “You have been asleep,” she said reprovingly.
The church was empty, and just beside him the south door stood open to the green cloister garth in the evening sun. Olav yawned and stretched his stiff limbs. He dreaded the journey home terribly; this made him speak to her a little more masterfully than usual; “ ’Twill soon be time to set out, Ingunn.”
“Yes.” She sighed deeply. “Would we might sleep here tonight!”
“You know we cannot do that.”
“Then we could have heard mass in Christ Church in the morning. We never see strange folk, we who must ever bide at home-it makes the time seem long.”
“You know that one day it will be otherwise with us.”
“But you have been in Oslo too, you have, Olav.”
“Ay, but I remember nothing of it.”
“When we come to Hestviken, you must promise me this, that you will take me thither some time, to a fair or a gathering.”
“That I may well promise you, methinks.”
Olav was so hungry his entrails cried out for food. So it was good to get warm groats and whey in the guest-room of the convent. But he could not help thinking all the time of the row home. And then he was uneasy about his axe.
But now they fell into talk with two men who also sat at meatin the guest-house. They came from a small farm that lay by the shore a little to the north of the point where Olav and Ingunn were to land, and they asked to be taken in their boat. But they would fain stay till after complin.
Again Olav sat in the dark church listening to the deep male voices that chanted the great king’s song to the King of kings. And again the images of that long, eventful day flickered behind his weary eyelids—he was on the point of falling asleep.
He was awakened by the voices changing to another tune; through the dark little church resounded the hymn:
Te lucis ante terminum
Rerum Creator poscimus
Ut pro tua clementia
Sis præsul et custodia
.
Procul recedant somnia
Et noctium phantasmata;
Hostemque nostrum comprime
,
Ne polluantur corpora
.
Præsta, Pater piissime
,
Patrique compar
Olav took a seat on the bench—now he felt again how fearfully stiff and tired he was all over. The palms of his hands were blistered.
The boy knew nothing of what the monks sang. Of the Psalms of David he had learned no more than the
Miserere
and
De profundís
, and those but fairly well. But he knew the chant—saw it inwardly as a long, low wave that broke with a short, sharp turn and trickled back over the pebbles; and at first, whenever they came to the end of a psalm and sang
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancto,”
he whispered the response:
“Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.”
Themonk who led the singing had a fine deep, dark voice. In drowsy-well-being Olav listened to the great male voice that rose alone and to the choir joining in, verse after verse throughout the psalms. After all the varied emotions of the day peace and security fell upon his soul as he sat in the dark church looking at the white-clad singers and the little flames of the candles behind the choir-screen. He would do the right and shun the wrong, he thought—then God’s might and compassion would surely aid him and save him in all his difficulties.
Pictures began to swarm before his inner vision: the boat, Ingunn with the velvet hood over her fair face, the glitter on the water behind her, the floor-boards covered with shining fish-scales—the dark, damp path among nettles and angelica—the fence they had climbed and the flowery meadow through which they had run—the golden net over the bottom of the lake—all these scenes succeeded one another behind his closed and burning eyelids.
He awoke as Ingunn took him by the shoulder. “You have been asleep,” she said reprovingly.
The church was empty, and just beside him the south door stood open to the green cloister garth in the evening sun. Olav yawned and stretched his stiff limbs. He dreaded the journey home terribly; this made him speak to her a little more masterfully than usual; “ ’Twill soon be time to set out, Ingunn.”
“Yes.” She sighed deeply. “Would we might sleep here tonight!”
“You know we cannot do that.”
“Then we could have heard mass in Christ Church in the morning. We never see strange folk, we who must ever bide at home-it makes the time seem long.”
“You know that one day it will be otherwise with us.”
“But you have been in Oslo too, you have, Olav.”
“Ay, but I remember nothing of it.”
“When we come to Hestviken, you must promise me this, that you will take me thither some time, to a fair or a gathering.”
“That I may well promise you, methinks.”
Olav was so hungry his entrails cried out for food. So it was good to get warm groats and whey in the guest-room of the convent. But he could not help thinking all the time of the row home. And then he was uneasy about his axe.
But now they fell into talk with two men who also sat at meatin the guest-house. They came from a small farm that lay by the shore a little to the north of the point where Olav and Ingunn were to land, and they asked to be taken in their boat. But they would fain stay till after complin.
Again Olav sat in the dark church listening to the deep male voices that chanted the great king’s song to the King of kings. And again the images of that long, eventful day flickered behind his weary eyelids—he was on the point of falling asleep.
He was awakened by the voices changing to another tune; through the dark little church resounded the hymn:
Te lucis ante terminum
Rerum Creator poscimus
Ut pro tua clementia
Sis præsul et custodia
.
Procul recedant somnia
Et noctium phantasmata;
Hostemque nostrum comprime
,
Ne polluantur corpora
.
Præsta, Pater piissime
,
Patrique compar
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