“There’s many things a man can think of. Will you give me shelter for the night?”
“I’ve no beds for lazy vagabonds. But you can sleep in the barn if you like, though I warn you it’s draughty. I take it you can do some tricks or tell a story or something in return?”
Guest the One-eyed smiled and, looking up at him, said:
“Have you ever heard the story of the rich man and Lazarus?”
The farmer turned pale with rage. “You cursed bundle of rags!” he shouted. “You dare ... I’ll have you taken up before the sheriff for begging if you don’t mind your words!”
The men looking on smiled. The local authority was Ormarr à Borg, and all knew there would be little gained by an angry man who came to him demanding the punishment of some poor wanderer for begging. It would, indeed, be about the best thing that could happen to the culprit himself.
“What is your name?” demanded the farmer, striding towards him with a threatening mien.
“I am called Guest the One-eyed,” answered the old man, with his quiet smile.
The farmer was taken aback. “Guest the One-eyed! Impossible. He never comes this way. Guest the One-eyed....”
He looked at the beggar again, shifted his feet, and stood in some confusion. “God’s blessing,” he stammered out at last. “Forgive me—I did not know. Come—come up to the house with me.”