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Late that afternoon word went around that the trading-ship of Arnor Gunnarsson was coming up Eric's Fiord. The arrival of that merchant was one of the events of the year.
And those in front respectfully gave way before him, while those behind fell over one another to get near in case he should speak, and Leif himself paused in his greeting of Arnor Gunnarsson to look at the stranger curiously. The youth stood running his eyes over the faces of those around him, until his gaze fell upon Sigurd Haraldsson.
Sigurd's friends would receive me well for his sake; and after I had got everything for my disguise, I would have yet many good chances to return to Nidaros and board the ship of Arnor Gunnarsson, who comes here each summer on a trading voyage. Coming that way, who could suspect me? particularly when it is everyone's belief that I am dead." "No one!" Helga cried joyously. "No one! It is perfect!"
"That will do well," said Sigurd; and the chief went back, and at once the host sat down. Then Havelok rode to them, and with him went we three and Sigurd and Biorn. There was a murmur of wonder as he came, and it grew louder as he unhelmed and stayed before them. And then one shouted, "Skoal to Havelok Gunnarsson!" and at once the shout was taken up along the line.
And so, when those two rode into our garth, and the gates were closed after them, we reined our horses round them, and drew our swords, and cried the ancient greeting with one mighty shout: "Skoal to Havelok Gunnarsson Skoal to Goldberga, Havelok's wife! Skoal! Yours we are, and for you we will die! Skoal!" Now one would like to tell of quiet days at Grimsby; but they were not to be.
Since then, Iceland's contribution has been steady, not only in the works of those who wrote in foreign languages, but equally and during the last couple of decades exclusively in vernacular writing. In fact, with the return to his native country of Gunnar Gunnarsson in 1939, the vogue of writing in foreign languages virtually came to an end.
A horse brought me to Nidaros; gold bought me a passage with Arnor Gunnarsson, and his ship brought me into Eric's Fiord." Then, for the first time, Leif spoke. His words leaped out like wolves eager for a victim. "Do not stop there! Tell how you passed from his ship into mine. Tell whom you found in Eric's Fiord who became a traitor for your gold." She answered him bravely: "No one, kinsman.
On his arrival in Iceland Gunnarsson had settled in his native east- country district though he afterwards moved to Reykjavík, where he now lives. Indeed he possesses many of the best qualities of the gentleman-farmer firmness, tenacity of purpose, and a craving for freedom in his domain, combined with a writer's imaginative and narrative powers and understanding of humanity.
Especially in the prose-writing of the period, there were signs of flourishing growth. Gunnar Gunnarsson wrote The Church on the Mountain, and Laxness was becoming known. Laxness has devoted less attention to the writing of plays and poetry than novels and short stories. On the whole, the subject-matter of his stories is extremely varied, equally as regards time, place and human types.
We rode to the door, and one came to meet us with words of welcome, thinking that we were men who came to the levy that was gathering; but his words stayed when I asked to be taken to the presence of Hodulf, as I came with a message from Havelok Gunnarsson the king. The man, chamberlain or steward, or whatever he was, stared at me, and said in a low voice, "It is true then?"
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