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Updated: June 29, 2025
The wanderer by night never thought to look whether forms wrapped in mist sat at midnight on the tops of the cairns staring in silent longing at the stars. It was a glittering morning, dewy and warm. The hunter who had been out since daybreak had thrown himself down in the heather behind King Atle's pile. He lay on his back and slept.
He laid the floor with split young trees. It was uneven and shaky. The heather, which grew and blossomed under it, for at year had passed since the day when Tönne had lain aleep behind King Atle's pile, pushed up bold red clusters through the cracks, and ants without number wandered out and in, inspecting the fragile work of man.
It was a hideous picture indeed, and Mr. Holt would have given years of his life to be rid of it. It was on the sixth day after Atle's visit that the pastor, sitting alone in his study, called Carina to him. He had scarcely seen her during the last six days, or at least talked with her. Her sweet innocent spirit would banish the shadows that darkened his soul.
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