"I was sorely terrified, my sons," he said. "I thought you some of these heathen Danes--or Norse men, rather, from your arms. But I pray you do not think that I fled from martyrdom."
"You fled from somewhat, father," said Dalfin dryly; "what was it?"
The father pointed and smiled uneasily.
"My son," he said slowly, "I came to this place to be free from the sight of--of aught but holy men. If there were none but men among you, even were you the Lochlann I took you for--and small wonder that I did--I had not fled. By no means."
"Why," said Dalfin, with a great laugh, "it must be Gerda whom he fears! Nay, father, the lady is all kindness, and you need fear her not at all."
"I may not look on the face of a lady," said the father solemnly.
"Well, you have done it unawares, and so you may as well make the best of it, as I think," answered Dalfin. "But, without jesting, the poor lady is in sore need of shelter and hospitality, and I think you cannot refuse that. Will you not take us to the monastery?"
"Monastery, my son? There is none here."
"Why, then, whence come you? Are you weather bound here also?"
"Aye, by the storms of the world, my son. We are what men call hermits."