“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?”