“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: