Guest the One-eyed changed his tone. “Yes,” he said earnestly. “You are young and wise, and I am old and foolish. ’Tis not a matter for jesting. What is your name, child?”
“Snebiorg is my name. Mother calls me Bagga, but I don’t let other people call me that—or only one other, perhaps, if he cares to. And you perhaps, too, because you are not like other folk.”
“One other—if he cares to? Don’t you know whether he cares to or not?”
“No—for I have never spoken to him.”
“But—are you not lovers, then?”
“Yes.”
“And you mean to say you have never spoken—only written letters to each other?”
“Written? No.” Bagga looked up in surprise. “We have looked at each other. Isn’t that enough?”
There was a strange earnestness in the old man’s voice as he answered:
“Surely it is enough. And are you very fond of him?”