It had been decided that she should go back over the moor to the farm at Gil where she had been staying before she came to live with the poet. They crossed the fjord on the ferry, and on the other side there was a horse waiting for her which had been sent across the moor. The poet had decided to escort his former intended to the county boundary, and be back home in Sviðinsvík himself by nightfall. The route was the same as when he had been taken on a stretcher by the poet Reimar long ago.The journey was rather a silent one. He walked ahead, threading the winding bridle paths up the mountain, sweating, bent, with his hair in his eyes. He was in no state to look back and see how the vista widened behind him the higher up they went, nor to breathe in the fragrance from the green dells of the mountain; he plodded onwards like a soulless old jade and never lifted his eyes from the path. She sat astride her belongings, wrapped in black shawls and wide skirts in the June sunshine, and the tears fell in brief showers with clear periods in between, and dried of their own accord before the next shower.
