The man’s touch had a curious effect upon Ørlygur, at once pleasing and the reverse. He was well used to shaking hands with men, whether friends or strangers, and did so usually without a thought. But with this beggar it was different; he felt an impulse to embrace him, and at the same time shrank from giving him his hand at all.
They walked on side by side, but for a long time no word was spoken. Often the old man stopped, and leaned on his staff to rest. At length they reached the point where the road branched off to Nordurdalur. Here they halted, and sat down without a word.
The old man was the first to speak.
“You will cross the stream now, I take it, and take the shorter road. I am going down alongside the stream. I can reach Bolli in an hour’s time. There is still some one living there?”
“You must know the neighbourhood well,” said Ørlygur. “Yes; a widow lives there with her daughter.” And he blushed.
The old man noticed it and smiled. “Here is a young man who is still a child,” he thought. “Cannot speak of the widow’s daughter without blushing. If I had not been a stranger he would not have spoken of her at all.”
Aloud, he said: “I hope they’ll give me leave to sleep in a barn tonight. You’re not going that way yourself?”
Ørlygur looked aside. “No,” he said shortly.
“Shall I tell them I’ve met you—by way of greeting?” he asked.
“Yes.”