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Ormarr reached home and let himself in—not until then did he notice that he had walked all the way without hat or overcoat, still carrying his violin.

After all, what did it matter? His mind was in a state of utter indifference to everything; completely numbed.

His shoes were muddy, his dress coat wet through; he raised his hand to his forehead and wiped the rain from his face.

His throat was parched; he felt nervous and ill. He fumbled about for whisky and a syphon, drained one glass at a draught and poured out another. Then, drenched and dirty as he was, he threw himself down on the divan, without a thought of changing his wet things.

The blood throbbed in his temples; there was not a clear thought in his mind. When he shut his eyes, he felt as if a wheel were tearing round at a furious rate inside his head.

The door bell rang—it was Blad.

“Grahl is dead!”

Blad threw down Ormarr’s hat and coat, which he had been carrying; he himself was out of breath, and overpowered with emotion.

“Grahl—dead?” Ormarr sat bowed forward, his hands clasped, his eyes staring vacantly before him. Blad stood watching him for a moment. Then he burst out: