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But Pall’s thoughts had wandered far from all this, settling, as did his glance, on a row of stately gables that rose above a low hill in the centre of the peninsula, formed by the waters of Borgara and Hofsa.

From three of the chimneys a kindly smoke ascended. The storm had abated, and folk were beginning to move about here and there among the outbuildings round the large walled farmyard. Already flocks of sheep were on their way to the winter pasture at the foot of the hills, where some dwarfed growth was still to be found.

This was Borg, the home of Ørlygur the Rich, as he was called. It was by no means uncommon for folk to speak of him as “the King,” for he ruled over scores of servants, and owned hundreds of cattle and horses and thousands of sheep.

Suddenly Pall’s cheeks flushed with a happy thought. It had crossed his mind that he might call at Borg. All knew that Ørlygur the Rich never sent a poor man empty away. But then he realized that today was not the first time the thought had come to him. No, better to give it up; he had turned for help to Borg too many times before; he could not well ask again.