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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Oh, Vigfusson," she would answer, shaking her head mournfully, "for a hundred paths that lead in, there is only one that leads out again, and sometimes even that one is nowhere to be found." He understood her not, but fearing to ask, he remained silent.
Then came the third the noise grew; fourth and it sounded like a hoarse, angry hiss; when the twelfth stroke fell, silence reigned again in the forest. Vigfusson dropped the bell-rope, and with a loud voice called Lage Kvaerk and his men. He lit a torch, held it aloft over his head, and peered through the dusky night.
"Do you mean to say that you make your living by writing songs?" asked Lage. "The trouble is," answered Vigfusson, "that I make no living at all; but I have invested a large capital, which is to yield its interest in the future. There is a treasure of song hidden in every nook and corner of our mountains and forests, and in our nation's heart.
"If that is your object," remarked Lage, "I think you have hit upon the right place in coming here. You will be able to pick up many an odd bit of a story from the servants and others hereabouts, and you are welcome to stay here with us as long as you choose." Lage could not but attribute to Vigfusson the merit of having kept Aasa at home a whole day, and that in the month of midsummer.
It was near midnight when he returned to Kvaerk, where Aasa sat in her high gable window, still humming the weird melody of the old ballad. By what reasoning Vigfusson arrived at his final conclusion is difficult to tell.
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