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Image Operators
Image Operators
Image Processing in Python
Jason M. Kinser
CRC Press
Taylor & Francis Group
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300
Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
© 2019 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business
No claim to original U.S. Government works
vii
viii Contents
4.3.5 PNG.................................................................................................. 65
4.3.6 Other Compressions......................................................................... 65
4.4 Summary....................................................................................................... 65
PART V Basis
xv
xvi Python Codes
xxi
Software and Data
Software and data used in this text are available at:
https://jmkinser49.wixsite.com/imageoperators
Software and images copyright (c) Jason M. Kinser 2018. Software and images provided on this
site may be used for educational purposes. All other rights are reserved by the author.
xxiii
Author
Jason M Kinser, DSc, has been an associate professor at George Mason University for more than
18 years teaching courses in physics, computational science, bioinformatics and forensic science.
Recently, he converted the traditional university physics course into an active learning technology
environment at GMU. His research interests include modern teaching techniques, more effective
methods in text-based education, image operators and analysis, pulse image processing and multi-
domain data analysis. This book was born from a desire to engage students in physics education
and to find ways of reducing the external costs that both students and institutions incur within the
traditional education framework.
xxv
Part I
Image Operators
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
coriander seed. The breakfast before us was a most substantial one, there
being no lack either of welcome, which is the best of cheer, or of mutton, fish,
beer, coffee, milk, and stale black rye-bread. Be it remembered that this
breakfast was neither Icelandic, Danish, nor Scotch; but, exhibiting some of
the characteristics of all three, seemed marvellously adapted to our present
requirements in this distant habitat.
We stepped into the store, and saw exposed for sale hardware and soft goods
of all kinds. In a corner were standing lots of quart-bottles gaudily labelled
“essence of punch,” whatever that may be. Mr. Henderson showed me some
specimens of double refracting calc, or Iceland spar, which is obtained in the
neighbourhood. It only occurs in one place of the island, filling a fissure of
greenstone from two to three feet wide and twenty to twenty-five feet long, on
the north bank of the Reydarfiord, about a thousand feet above the sea level.
There, a cascade rushes over the rock, bringing down fragments of the spar
from time to time. The mass itself gets loosened, bit by bit, through the action
of frost on the moisture which enters edgeways between the laminae, wedging
them apart in the direction of the cleavage of the crystals. Transparent
specimens more than a few inches in size are rare and valuable. Mr. Henderson
presented me with a beautiful large semi-transparent chalcedony weighing 1 ℔
7 oz., and some pebbles.
His partner, Mr. Jacobson, an Icelander, also gave me a young raven to make a
pet of. It was this year’s bird and quite tame. I called it Odin; and, having got
hold of an old box, improvised a door from a few spars, that it might have a
sheltered place to roost in at night till it got to the end of its voyage.
I now wandered up the valley, for an hour or two, alone, and sat down on a
slope, on the right side of it, to look around me and rest. The river, near where
I sit, flashes down over a steep rock and forms a fine waterfall, the roaring of
which is echoed from the chimney-capped amphitheatre of hills opposite.
Beneath the fall, it flows peacefully along, runnelling and rippling on, to the
blue fiord, through the quiet green valley. White streamlets of water trickle
down the trap hill-sides, every forty or fifty yards; the whole producing a
continuous quiet murmur or undertone, not unlike that from the wings of an
innumerable swarm of gnats playing in the sunshine on a warm summer’s day,
but ever broken in upon by the clear liquid tinkle of the streamlets nearest us,
heard drip, dripping, with a clear metallic sound which might be compared to
the chirp of the grasshopper. This solitary glen, now lying bathed in light, is
fanned by the gentle breeze, fragrant with the smell of tedded hay, and richly
variegated with wild flowers—harebells, butter-cups, wild thyme, cotton-grass,
and forget-me-nots—a gathered bunch of which is now lying beside me on a
moss-cushioned rock. Quietly musing here on all, of strange or new, I have
seen since leaving home, and dwelling more particularly on the great kindness
I have received at all hands, I feel grateful to God, who has hitherto opened up
a way for me and given me friends amongst strangers wherever I chanced to
wander.
We saw specimens of surturbrand, which crops out on the top of a steep
mountain, at the mouth of the fiord, on the north side, and obtained a few
more geological specimens and plants.
After dinner, I strolled for a quarter of a mile up the valley with Mr.
Henderson and Dr. Mackinlay, to visit the farm behind the store. It consists of
a group of hovels, the walls are stone and turf, the gables wood, and the roofs
covered with green sod. The entrance is a dark muddy passage leading into a
ground-floor apartment as dark and muddy, where, in winter, cattle are kept.
The kitchen is a dirty, smoky, sooty hole, with fish hanging in it to smoke and
dry; a pot of seal-blubber stands steaming in a corner. The fire is raised on a
few stones above the floor, like a smithy-forge; while there is a hole in the roof
for the smoke. Picking our way through another long passage, dark and dirty,
we found a trap-ladder and ascended to a little garret, where I could only walk
erect in the very centre. The apartment was floored and fitted up with bunks
all round the sides and ends. In these box-beds, at least seven people—men,
women and children—sleep at night, and sometimes a few more have to be
accommodated. The little windows in the roof are not made to open, and no
regard whatever is paid to ventilation. Dr. Mackinlay prescribed for an old man
we found lying ill in this abominable fetid atmosphere, where his chances of
recovery were very slight. He was an old farm servant about whom nobody
seemed to care anything.
FARM HOUSE, SEYDISFIORD.
In a little apartment shut off from this one, and in the gable portion of the
building which in this case constitutes the front of the house, an old woman at
the window sits spinning with the ancient distaff,[39] precisely as in the days of
Homer.
To amuse the farmer’s daughters I showed them my sketches, with which they
seemed much interested.
SEYDISFIORD, LOOKING EAST TOWARDS THE SEA.
I understood part of their remarks, and could in some degree make myself
understood by them, with the few Danish and Icelandic words I kept picking
up. On receiving a little money and a few knick-knacks, they, all round, held
out their hands and shook mine very heartily. This, the Icelanders always do,
on receiving a present of anything however trifling.
After sketching the farm-house, I took two views of Mr. Henderson’s store;
one of them from a height behind, looking down towards the fiord, and the
other from the brink of it, looking up the valley. In the latter, a part of the
same farm-house appears, and thus indicates its exact position.[40] With the
assistance of these three sketches taken together, the reader will be enabled to
form some idea, of the appearance presented by this arm of the North Sea.
SEYDISFIORD, BY FARÖE TO LEITH
We sailed from Seydisfiord at half-past six P.M. on Saturday night, direct for the
Faröe islands.
There is a singular cone-shaped mountain called Brimnæs Fjall at the mouth of
the fiord, showing masses of clay-rock alternating with and pushing up trap,
which is deposited in thin layers of perpendicular structure. Several pillars or
shafts are left standing singly on the very summit, and present a very curious
appearance, distinctly relieved against the amber light of the sky. At Dr.
Mackinlay’s request I made a sketch of it.
BRIMNÆS FJALL.
Sabbath, August 7. The weather is fine; no land or sail in sight all day; whales
playing about the ship. Had many pleasant deck-walks and talks, and several
quiet hours, sitting perched on the stem, reading, or watching the prow, below,
cutting and cleaving through the clear green water like a knife.
Monday morning, August 8. We are sailing between two of the Faröe islands,
bright sunshine lighting up all the regularly terraced trap-rocks, caves, and
crevices of this singular group.
I have now got a pet to look after, and, without Shakspere’s authority for it, we
know that
“Young ravens must have food.”
The last thing I did last night was to shut Odin in his box, and the first thing
this morning to let him out again and give him the freedom of the ship. The
bird knows me, is pleased when I scratch his head, and confidingly runs
hopping to me for protection when the boys about the ship teaze him more
than he likes. His fellow traveller, a young Icelandic fox brought on board at
Reykjavik to be sent to the Marquis of Stafford, also runs about the ship
during the day. At first we had some misgivings on the subject; for
“Treason is but trusted like the fox—
Who ne’er so tame, so cherished, and locked up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.”
However, these fears were soon dissipated; for Odin can hold his own, and
when the fox, approaching furtively, uses any liberty with his tail feathers, he
suddenly gets a peck from the bird’s great formidable beak, which he does not
seem much to relish. The salutary fear continues for a short time, is forgotten,
and again the dab comes as a reminder. We were often greatly amused,
watching their individual habits and droll ways, when the one intruded upon
the other. It was half play, half earnest, a sort of armed neutrality with a basis
of mutual respect.
On the west coast of Stromoe is the roofless ruin of the church of Kirkuboe.
It was begun in the twelfth century, but never finished. It is built of stone, has
five large windows and several small ones below; a little farm house or hut,
with red tiles on the roof, stands near it. What a strange lonely place for a
church! Thorshavn lies on the other—the east—side of the island. It is only
five miles distant as the crow flies, but as we have to sail round the south
point, and Stromoe is twenty-seven miles long, we do not reach it till near
noon.
On landing, Mr. Haycock accompanied me to call for Miss Löbner, who has
been poorly ever since her sea voyage. Her mother presented wine, cake,
coffee &c., and was most hospitable. None of us being able to speak Faröese,
at first we felt a little awkward; but a brother of the old lady’s who speaks
English soon came to the rescue and acted as interpreter. With justifiable
pride, they again showed us their flower and kitchen garden. I got the whale-
knives, caps, shoes, gloves &c., which had been made or procured for me
during my absence in Iceland. Ere leaving, Miss Löbner appeared to say adieu!
and insisted on my accepting several other specimens of Faröese workmanship
as remembrances of Thorshavn. No people could have been kinder.
Again, wandering about, we explored the town, looked at the church, stepped
into the stores, passed the governor’s garden, and wandered a mile or two in
that direction in order to obtain a view, and get quit of the fishy smells which
superabound in Thorshavn.
On our return we called for Mr. Müller, who presented me with a copy of the
gospel of St. Matthew in Danish and Faröese, arranged in parallel columns. I
understood him to say that this was the only book ever printed in the Faröese
dialect, and that it is now out of print and very rare. It bears the date of 1823.
Here we saw an old man 76 years of age, an Icelander who has been in Faröe
for the last 40 years. He had spent several years in England, and told me that,
in 1815, he saw our regiments land at Liverpool after the battle of Waterloo.
He speaks English fluently.
A Thames fishing smack, and a sloop from Lerwick, are lying in the bay.
Piping and dancing goes merrily on, on board the latter, relieved by intervals
of music alone. In one of these, we heard “The Yellow Hair’d Laddie,”
rendered with considerable taste, although, doubtless, several “improvements
and additions” were made on the original score.
We took some Faröese boatmen into the saloon of the steamer, and I shall not
soon forget the look of wonder and utter astonishment pourtrayed on their
countenances, as they gazed on the mirrors and everything around, or were
shown things with which they were not familiar and heard their uses explained.
They were greatly pleased with my life-belt. Dr. Mackinlay showed them a
multiplying-glass, and, as it was handed from one to another—each man first
making the discovery of what had so inexplicably excited the wonder of the
last looker—the queer exclamations of amazement accompanied by inimitable
pantomimic gestures reached their culminating point, and were irresistibly
droll.
NAALSÖE—FARÖE.
The weather is all we could desire. The sailors are singing some curious Danish
songs, with the time well marked, as they heave the anchor; and at 20 minutes
past 6 o’clock P.M. we are steaming out of the bay. The evening is lovely, and
the Thermometer, on the deck, stands at 68°. Thorshavn soon disappears, and
we leave the Faröe islands astern, relieved against an amber sky, Dimon being
the most striking and conspicuous of the group. A few stars shone overhead,
and I walked the deck till midnight.
ENTRANCE TO THE SOUND LEADING TO THORSHAVN.
Wednesday morning, August 10. We are off Inverness; wind a-head and rising.
Professor Chadbourne to-day gave me an oak-leaf which he plucked from the
tree, at Upsala, planted by Linnæus with his own hands. Wrote as long as the
heaving of the ship would admit of it, then arranged botanical specimens and
read Wordsworth. The wind is blowing so fresh, off Peterhead, that, with full
steam, we are not making above one and a half knots; and at times can scarcely
keep any way on. Passed the Bell-Rock; the sea still rising. Went to bed at 11
o’clock P.M.; vessel pitching a good deal.
Thursday morning, August 11. Rose at four o’clock and was on deck ere the
Arcturus dropt anchor in Leith Roads. But as we cannot get our traps on shore
till the custom-house officer comes at nine o’clock to overhaul them, we
remain and breakfast on board. The examination made, at half-past ten o’clock
A.M., we landed by a tug steamer, and made for our respective railway stations,
each, on parting, bidding the other “a bright adieu!” in the hope that it might
only be for “a brief absence!” “Odin” was in good feather: his owner sun-
bronzed and strong.
At length, comfortably ensconsed in the fast express, I lay back in the corner
of a compartment, closed my eyes and resigned myself to see pleasant pictures
and dream waking dreams—of snow jökuls, volcanoes, glaciers, and ice-fields;
of geysers, mud-cauldrons, and sulphur-pits; of lava plains, black, wierd and
blasted, or dreary wastes of ice; of deep rapid rivers, flashing waterfalls, leaping
torrents; of frightful chasms, rugged cliffs, and precipitous mountains
mirrored in deep blue fiords; of pathless stony deserts, enlivened at times with
oasis-like spots of tender green herbage and bright coloured flowers; of wild
break-neck rides, over bare rocks, among slabs and lava-blocks of all shapes
and sizes and lying in every conceivable direction; through volcanic sands and
scoriæ; by red and black vetrified craters, or across dangerous fords; of
multifarious scamperings too, and mud-plashings over hill and dale; or wild
rides down rocky steeps, not on a phantom steed, but on a sure-footed Iceland
pony; of pleasant companionship by the way; of cordial welcome and great
kindness received, in quiet homesteads, and at all hands from the people,
wherever we went; then again of Frost contending with Fire, and of all the
varied and marvellous phenomena of Iceland, that singularly interesting island
in the lone North Sea.
STROMOE—FARÖE.
APPENDIX.
I.
Long, long ago, when Trolls and Giants lived among men, there was a famous
school where curious youths were taught the mysteries of witchcraft. France
and Germany both claim the honour of it, but no one knows where it really
was.
It was kept in a dismal cavern, deep underground, into which no ray of
sunlight ever entered. Here, the scholars had to stay no less than seven winters;
for it took them all that time to complete their studies. They never saw their
teacher from one year’s end to another. Every morning a grey grizzly hand, all
covered with hair, pushed itself through the cavern wall and gave to each one
his lesson book. These books were written all over with letters of fire, and
could be read with ease, even in the dark. The lessons over, the same grizzly
hand again appeared to take away the books and bring in the scholars’ dinner.
At the close of winter, the scholars who had then got through their seven years
apprenticeship were dismissed. The great iron door was opened, and the
master stood watching those who went out; for he had stipulated that the
scholar who walked hindmost, in passing through, was to be seized by him and
kept as a thrall. But who was this strange school-master? Why, Old Nick
himself. No wonder, then, that each of the scholars struggled hard to be first
in passing the fatal threshold.
Once on a time, there were three Icelanders at the dark school; Sæmund Frodi,
afterwards parish priest at Oddi, Kalfur Arnason, and Halfdan Eldjarnsson,
afterwards parish priest at Fell, in Slettuhlid. They were all dismissed at the
same time. Sæmund, to the great delight of his companions, offered to walk
hindmost in going out of school, so he dressed himself in a long loose cloak,
which he took care to leave unbuttoned, and bidding good bye to school-
fellows left behind, prepared to follow his countrymen. Just as he was putting
his feet on the first step of the stair which led up from the school door, Old
Nick, who was watching hard by, made a clutch at the cloak and called out,
“Sæmund Frodi, pass not the door,
Thou art my thrall for evermore.”
And now the great iron door began to turn on its hinges; but, before Old Nick
had time to slam it too, Sæmund slipt his arms out of the sleeves of his cloak,
and sprung forward out of the grasp of his enemy.
In doing so, the door struck him a heavy blow on the heel, which gave him a
good deal of pain, when he said,
“The door hath swung too near the heel,
But better sore foot than serve the Deil.”
And so Sæmund outwitted Old Nick, and got away from the dark school along
with his two friends. Since then, it has become a common saying in Iceland,
when a person has had a narrow escape from danger, that “the door swung
too near his heels.”[43]
At the time Sæmund, Kalfur, and Halfdan came out of the dark school, there
was no priest at Oddi, for the old priest had just died. All three of them would
fain have the living, and so each went to the king to ask it for himself. The
king knew his men; and so he sent them all away with the same answer, that
whoever reached Oddi first, should be made priest of that place.
Thereupon Sæmund summoned Old Nick and said to him, “Now, I’ll make a
bargain with you, if you swim with me on your back across to Iceland, and
land me there without wetting my coat-tail, I’ll be your servant as long as I
live.” Old Nick was highly pleased with the offer and agreed at once. So, in less
than no time, he changed himself into a seal, and left Norway with Sæmund on
his back.
Sæmund took care to have his prayer book with him, and read bits out of it
every now and then while on the way. As soon as they got close to the shores
of Iceland, which they did in less time than you would think, he closed the
book and suddenly struck the seal such a heavy blow on the neck with it that
the animal went down all at once into deep water. Sæmund, now left to
himself, struck out for the shore and got easily to land. In this way Old Nick
lost his bargain, and Sæmund got the living of Oddi.
When Sæmund was priest of Oddi, he once had a cowherd—a good servant
withal, but greatly addicted to swearing. Sæmund often reproved him for this,
but all his reproofs were of no avail. At last he told him, he really ought to
leave off his bad habits, for Old Nick and his servants lived upon people’s
curses and wicked words. “Say you so?” said the cowherd, “if I knew for
certain that Old Nick would lose his meals by it, I would never say a bad word
more.” So he made up his mind to mend his ways.
“I’ll soon see whether you are in earnest or not,” said Sæmund, and so, he
forthwith lodged a goblin in the cowhouse. The cowherd did not like his
guest, and no wonder: for he was up to every kind of mischief, and almost
worried the life out of him with his wicked pranks. The poor cowherd bore up
bravely for a time, and never let slip an oath or angry word. The goblin got
leaner day by day, to the intense delight of the cowherd, who hoped, bye and
bye, to see an end of him.
One morning, on opening the byre door, the poor cowherd found every thing
turned topsy-turvy. The milk pails and stools were broken in pieces and
scattered about the floor; and the whole of the cows—and there were many of
them—tied tail to tail, were straggling about without halters, and goring each
other. It needed but half an eye to see who had done the mischief. So the
cowherd in a rage turned round to the goblin who, shrunk and haggard, lay
crouched up in a corner of a stall, the very picture of wretchedness, and
poured forth such a volley of furious curses as would have overwhelmed any
human being in the same plight. The goblin all at once began to revive; his
skin no longer shrivelled looked smooth and plump; his eye brightened up, and
the stream of life again flowed joyously through his veins.
“O, oh!” said the cowherd, as he suddenly checked himself, when he saw the
wonderful effect his swearing had on the goblin, “Now I know for certain that
Sæmund was right.” And from that day forward he was never known to utter
an oath. As for the goblin, he soon pined away again and has long since been
beyond troubling anybody. May you and I, and all who hear this story, strive to
follow the good example of Sæmund’s cowherd!
Sæmund one day asked Old Nick how little he could make himself. “Why,”
replied he, “as for that I could make myself as small as the smallest midge.”
Thereupon Sæmund bored a tiny hole in the door post, and asked him to
make good his boast by walking into it. This he at once did; but no sooner was
he in, than Sæmund stopped the hole with a little plug of wood, and made all
fast.
Old Nick cursed his folly, cried, and begged for mercy; but Sæmund would not
take out the stopper till he promised to become his servant and do all that he
was told. This was the reason why Sæmund always had it in his power to
employ Old Nick in whatever business he liked.
V. THE FLY.
As might be expected, Old Nick always harboured a great ill will against
Sæmund: for he could not help feeling how much he was in Sæmund’s power.
He therefore tried to revenge himself on various occasions; but all his tricks
failed, for Sæmund was too sharp for him.
Once, he put on the shape of a little fly, and hid himself—so he thought, at
least—under the film that had gathered on the priest’s milk jug, hoping that
Sæmund would swallow him unawares, and so lose his life. But Sæmund had
all his eyes about him; so instead of swallowing the fly he wrapped it up in the
film, covered the whole with a bladder, and laid the package on the altar.
There, the fly was obliged to remain till after the service, when Sæmund
opened the package and gave Old Nick his liberty. It is told, as a truth, that old
Nick never found himself in a worse case than when lying on the altar before
Sæmund.
VI. THE GOBLIN’S WHISTLE.
Sæmund had a whistle of such wonderful power, that, as often as he blew it,
one or more goblins appeared before him, ready to do his bidding.[44] One day,
on getting up, he happened to leave the whistle under his pillow, and forgot all
about it till the afternoon when the housemaid was going to make his bed. He
charged her, if she found anything unusual about the bed, she was on no
account to touch it, or move it from its place. But he might have saved himself
the trouble of speaking; for, as soon as the girl saw the whistle, she took it up
in her hand, and looked at it on every side. Not satisfied with much handling
it, she put it to her mouth and blew it lustily. The sound of the blast had not
died away before a goblin stood before her, saying, “what will you have me to
do?” The girl was not a little startled, but had the presence of mind to conceal
her surprise.
It so happened that the hides of ten sheep, that had been killed that day, were
lying on the ground in front of the parsonage. Recollecting this, the girl replied
to the goblin, “Go and count all the hairs that are on the ten hides outside,
and, if you finish your task before I get this bed made, I’ll consent to marry
you.” The goblin thought that a task worth undertaking for such a prize; and
hurrying out, fell to counting the hairs with all his might. The girl who did not
like the idea of being the wife of a goblin, lost no time, you may be sure, in
getting through with her work; and it was well she bestirred herself; for, by the
time the bed was made, the goblin had almost finished his task. Only a few
hairs of the last hide remained uncounted, but they were enough to make him
lose his bargain. When Sæmund afterwards learned how prudently the girl had
got out of her scrape, he was very well pleased.
Once on a time, a worthy couple, Sveinn and his wife, occupied a farm, on the
shores of the beautiful Skagafiord, in the north country. They were in easy
circumstances and were blessed with two fine children, a son and daughter,
who were the joy of their hearts. Biarni and his sister Salvör—for these were
the names of their children—were twins and greatly attached to each other.
In the spring of the year,[46] about St. John’s day, when these two had reached
the age of twenty, the people of Skagafiord were arranging a party to make a
journey to the mountains of the interior, to gather Iceland-moss for making
porridge. Sveinn promised to let his son go with the party. As soon as Salvör
knew that, she felt a great desire to go too; and so she went to her parents to
ask their consent. This was not so easily got, as they did not wish to part with
both their children at once; and besides, they knew she was ill fitted to bear the
hardships and fatigues of mountain travelling. But she fretted so much at the
thought of being left behind, that, at last, they consented to let her go.
The night before the moss-gatherers were to leave, Sveinn the farmer dreamed
that he had two beautiful white birds, of which he was very fond, and that all
at once, to his great grief, the hen-bird disappeared and could nowhere be
found. On awaking in the morning, he could not help thinking that his dream
betokened no good to his darling Salvör, so he called her to him, and after
telling her his dream, he said to her, “Salvör dear! I cannot bear to part with
you, you must stay at home with your mother and me, for I would never
forgive myself if any ill befel you by the way.” Salvör who had been in great
glee at the prospect of riding, day after day, up the romantic valleys to the
south of Skagafiord, and there tenting out amidst the mountains, was neither
to hold nor to bind, when she found that, after all, she would have to stay at
home; she wept with vexation and distressed herself so much that her father
could not bear it, and again gave an unwilling consent to let her go. So she
accompanied her brother and the rest of the party to the mountains.
The first day after getting there, she gathered Iceland-moss with the others,
but during the night she fell suddenly ill and was unable to leave her tent on
the following day. Biarni stayed with her, and did all that a brother could do to
help and comfort her. For three whole days he was her companion, but, on the
fourth day, he left her for a time in charge of a friend, while he himself joined
the moss-gatherers. After partly filling his bag, he sat himself down by a large
stone, and, resting his head on his hand, brooded over his sister’s unhappy
fate; he feared she was going to die among the mountains.
By and by he heard a great tramping of horses, and, on looking about, he saw
two men riding towards him at a quick pace. One of them wore red coloured
clothes, and had a red horse; the other who was younger, was dressed in black,
and was mounted on a black horse. On reaching the place where Biarni was
sitting, they dismounted and saluted him by name.
“What ails you Biarni,” said the elder of the two strangers. For a time Biarni
answered not a word, but on being pressed to do so, he opened up his heart to
them and told all about his sister’s illness.
“My companions are going to return home, but I must stay to watch over
Salvör; and who knows how soon she may die in my arms.”
“You are in a hard case Biarni,” said the other, “and I am sorry for you, but
won’t you leave your sister with me, and I will take good care of her.”
“No, no,” said Biarni, “that I dare not do, for I know neither who you are, nor
where you come from. But will you tell me where your home is?”
“That’s no business of yours,” said the other, rather gruffly, and then, taking
from his pocket a silver-gilt box set with precious stones, added, “Won’t you
sell me your sister for this box.”
“No,” said Biarni, “nor for a thousand like it. I would not give her to you for
any money.”
“Well! well! there is no help for it, you will at all events accept this box, as a
token that you have met with men among the mountains.”
Biarni took the offered gift with pleasure, and thanked the giver. The two men
then bade him farewell and rode away, while he returned to the tent. Next
morning his companions went away home, leaving him alone with his sister.
Though she was now a little better, he dared not sleep, for he was afraid lest
the strangers should come and steal her away. But, after watching a whole day
and night, he felt overcome with fatigue; so he lay down, and folding his arms
round her waist to protect her, fell into a sound sleep. But, when he awoke, his
sister was gone, and was nowhere to be found. He spent a whole day
sorrowfully wandering from spot to spot, looking and calling for her, but it
was all in vain. He then turned his back on the mountains, and with a heavy
heart went home, and told his parents what had happened.
“Woe is me,” said Sveinn, “what I feared most has come to pass, but God’s
will be done!”
There was great grief in Skagafiord when the news spread from farm to farm;
for Salvör, with all her way-wardness, was a promising girl, and was every
body’s favourite. A party of young men returned to the mountains to look for
her, but nowhere was the least trace of her to be found.
And now ten years had passed away. By this time Biarni was married and
settled on a farm, not far from his father’s. During autumn all his sheep went
amissing, and his shepherd could not discover what had become of them
though he searched diligently for them three whole days. On learning this,
Biarni bid his wife provide him with a week’s supply of food, and an extra pair
of shoes; “for,” said he, “I shall go to the mountains myself to look for the
sheep.” His parents, who were still alive, urged him to stay at home; for they
feared that, if he went to the mountains, they might never see his face again.
“I must go,” said he to them, “I cannot afford to lose the sheep. But be of
good heart, and do not begin to weary for me till the week is over.”
He then went away on foot, and did not leave off walking for three days. At
the end of that time he came to a cavern, where he turned in and lay down to
sleep. On waking, he could not see a yard before him; for a thick fog which
rested on the ground. He continued his journey, but soon lost his way.
Towards evening the fog cleared off, and he found himself in a spacious valley,
not far from a large well built farm house. It was the hay season, so that all the
people of the farm were busy in the meadow. On getting near the house, he
noticed, in particular, two women and a girl who were tedding the hay. “God’s
peace be with you,” said he, on reaching the spot; and then, telling them of his
mishaps, he asked permission to stay all night under their roof. They gave him
a hearty welcome, and the girl went with him to the house. She was of more
genteel appearance than the rest—young and handsome—and, as Biarni
thought, bore some resemblance to his long lost but well remembered sister.
This unexpected circumstance renewed his old griefs, but he did what he could
to seem cheerful before his young hostess. She led him through several
apartments to a large well furnished room, where everything was neat and tidy.
Here, she drew in a chair, and kindly asked him to sit down and rest, while she
brought in supper. He had not long to wait; for she soon placed upon the table
a plentiful supply of meat and wine.
After supper, she showed him to the little room where he was to sleep for the
night; she then took away his wet clothes, wished him a kind good night, and
left the room.
As Biarni lay in bed, he fell a-wondering where he was, and how the sight of
the girl should have so waked up the sad memories of the past. He fell asleep
thinking of these things, but was soon awakened by the sound of singing in a
room over his head. It was the family at evening worship, as is the custom of
the country. He heard both men and women singing, but one voice sounded
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