When Ørlygur arrived at Bolli, with the lamb trotting contentedly behind him, he found the widow outside the gate.
She looked at him, and then at the lamb. She had noticed that morning that it was missing, but had merely thought it had been found and taken away earlier in the day.
“Good morning,” she said in answer to his greeting. “Your lamb seems loth to leave us.”
Bagga had told her mother before that the lamb always came back every time she had essayed to drive it off with other stray sheep.
“It seems so,” Ørlygur agreed. “Can I have a word with Snebiorg?” There was a lump in his throat; he could hardly speak the name.
“She is not at home just now. We had a stranger here last night, and she has gone out to see him a little on his way. How far, I do not know. Can you guess who the stranger was?”
“I think so. Guest the One-eyed, was it not?”
“Oh—then you knew he was here?”
“Yes. I was the first to meet him. When I left him yesterday he was on his way to you.”
“Why did you not come with him, then, and fetch your lamb? When did you fetch it?”