"Your mind has been wandering for days, my dear son. You must not talk too much."
He was silent, but evidently pondered more.
December 25, Christmas Day, 1003.[ {iv}]--
All the household has given itself up to joy and gladness; even poor Alfgar, who has been released today from the confinement of his chamber, has entered into the general joy, although ever and anon relapsing into sadness.
He knows all now: a day or two agone, when all the household had gone to hunt in the woods, I was alone with him in his chamber, and thought that at last I must discharge the painful task of telling him the truth.
"My boy," I said, "you have not lately inquired about your father."
He looked at me very sadly.
"I know all," he said, "that you would tell me. I have no father, no mother, no kinsfolk."
"Some of our people have told you then?"
"No. At first the events of that fearful night seemed all like a dream, and mingled themselves with the strange spectres which haunted me in delirium; but afterwards the real separated itself from the unreal, and I knew that my father and all his friends, my Danish uncles amongst them, had perished with the whole household assembled there that fatal day. I also remembered, but faintly, how I came here. Did not you save me from the murderers?"