CHAPTER III
He had been standing for some time leaning against the cairn, when suddenly he heard a dog barking. He turned in the direction of the sound, and perceived a young man approaching. At sight of a fellow-creature, he forgot all else.
The newcomer called to his dog, and the animal was silent at once. But the voice of the stranger went to the wanderer’s heart as had never a voice before.
He limped towards him, and held out his hand, a glad smile on his wrinkled face.
The two exchanged greetings, and stood for a moment taking stock of each other. The evident emotion of the older man was not lost upon the stranger.
“A beautiful day,” said the latter after a pause.
“Do your sheep stray as far afield as this?” asked the other. He seemed to be taking in every detail of the stranger’s appearance as he spoke. He listened, moreover, rather to his voice than to his words, though the other was not aware of this—as little as he guessed that the old man had seen his face many years ago, and recognized him now.
“Who are you?” asked the young man, somewhat ill at ease.
“A poor wanderer,” was the reply.
“And your name?”
The old man hesitated. “My name,” he said at last—“there’s none remembers it for aught but ill.”
“Where are you going now?”
“Going? I go from place to place, and live by grace of God and my fellow-men. I am going to Hofsfjordur. I have never been there before.”
“Then you will come to Borg, no doubt?”
“Yes,” said the old man, with a queer smile. “I shall come to Borg.”
“You have not seen any sheep on your way? Or any sign?”
“Nay, naught but a raven flying up from below Death’s Cliff. ’Tis the only living creature I have seen. Were you going farther?”
“No. I can see as far as I need from here. We can go down together; I have looked enough for today.”
“Have you lost many sheep?”
“No. Only a white lamb with black feet and head. It was a sensible beast, and strong, when it went up with the rest in the spring—I can hardly think any fox could have harmed it. But it was a favourite, and I must find it.”
“You are from Borg, then?” queried the old man, looking away.
“Yes. My name is Ørlygur.”
“Ørlygur the younger, that will be?”
“There is no other now. Ørlygur, my grandfather, died many years ago.”
“Yes, that is true. He died in the church at Hof. I was there at the time. True....”
“So you have been here before?”
“No—no. It was—my other self that was here then.”
The young man seemed busy with thoughts of his own; he took no notice of the strange reply. He stood gazing for some moments into distance, then turned and looked searchingly at the wanderer.
“Then you must have known Sera Ketill? He is dead, too.”
“Yes, I knew Sera Ketill,” repeated the old man. And in a curiously toneless voice he went on: “He is dead, too. Yes....”
There was a long pause. The young man realized that he could not here, in broad daylight, ask all he would of this stranger, who, he perceived, could tell him much. Such talk was for the dark, when men can speak together without reserve.
“Will you come back with me now, to Borg?” he asked.
“No. I must go elsewhere.”
“But you will come to Borg? You give me your word?”
“I give you my word. No beggar ever came this way and did not ask for alms at Borg.”
Ørlygur was somewhat embarrassed, and said in a kindly tone:
“Let me give you some food now. We can share it.”
“Heaven bless you,” said the old man.
They walked down the slope together, and found a seat on a grassy mound. Ørlygur opened his haversack and took out first a new pair of shoes.
“Take these, will you not?” he asked shyly. “Yours are badly worn. I brought these with me in case my own gave out. But they will last me home easily.”
The old man took them gladly, and let his fingers glide caressingly along the clean soles. He put them on, and looked up with deep gratitude in his face.
“Fine shoes,” he said, and laughed happily.
“It does not take much to please you,” said Ørlygur, with a smile. “And now let us have something to eat.”
They ate in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Ørlygur was watching his companion, and noticed now for the first time that one eye was closed. The man’s appearance seemed less repulsive now than at first. Evidently, one who had seen better days.
When the old man had finished he wiped his mouth and murmured something to himself, then added aloud:
“Thanks be to God.” And he reached out for Ørlygur’s hand in thanks, looking at it closely as he did so.
The man’s touch had a curious effect upon Ørlygur, at once pleasing and the reverse. He was well used to shaking hands with men, whether friends or strangers, and did so usually without a thought. But with this beggar it was different; he felt an impulse to embrace him, and at the same time shrank from giving him his hand at all.
They walked on side by side, but for a long time no word was spoken. Often the old man stopped, and leaned on his staff to rest. At length they reached the point where the road branched off to Nordurdalur. Here they halted, and sat down without a word.
The old man was the first to speak.
“You will cross the stream now, I take it, and take the shorter road. I am going down alongside the stream. I can reach Bolli in an hour’s time. There is still some one living there?”
“You must know the neighbourhood well,” said Ørlygur. “Yes; a widow lives there with her daughter.” And he blushed.
The old man noticed it and smiled. “Here is a young man who is still a child,” he thought. “Cannot speak of the widow’s daughter without blushing. If I had not been a stranger he would not have spoken of her at all.”
Aloud, he said: “I hope they’ll give me leave to sleep in a barn tonight. You’re not going that way yourself?”
Ørlygur looked aside. “No,” he said shortly.
“Shall I tell them I’ve met you—by way of greeting?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Ørlygur did not look up. The old man rose and came towards him. “Good-bye,” he said, offering his hand.
“And thank you for good company.”
“Good-bye and thanks.”
Ørlygur sat looking after the old man as he went. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he ran after him and asked:
“Will you not tell me your name?”
“Men call me ‘Guest the One-eyed,’” answered the wanderer quietly, and smiled.
Ørlygur said nothing, but his face showed that the name was not unknown to him.
“Good-bye, again, Ørlygur à Borg.”
“Good-bye, Guest One-eyed, and God be with you,” answered Ørlygur reverently, pressing the other’s hand.
The wanderer went on his way, following the course of the stream. Ørlygur watched him till he was out of sight, and stood for a long while looking down the way he had gone.