“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?”