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“The horses!”

Ormarr did not wait for any further order. He hurried out of the room, snatched up a bridle, and ran out calling:

“Gryla, Køput, Kondut!”

Barking and delighted, the farm dogs clustered round him, and followed him out into the paddock, where he caught his father’s horse and vaulted into the saddle.

Ten minutes later, forty horses were stamping and neighing ready for work. Swiftly they were brought round, the pack-saddle put on, and loaded up with the finished wool.

Ormarr had overheard his father’s brief, sharp orders to the foreman, a man he could trust. He had kept close at hand all the time, listening eagerly to what was said. At last, when all was ready for the start, he looked up earnestly.

“Father—may I?”

Ørlygur à Borg looked at his son in surprise.

“You? Nay, lad, I’m afraid that would hardly do.”

But his voice was not so decided, harsh almost, as it was wont to be when he refused a request. He even glanced inquiringly, as it were, at the foreman, who smiled back merrily in return. That seemed to settle it. Ormarr’s eyes were bright with anticipation.