And clumsily he helped the wanderer to rise; his hands were little used to helping others.
“Let me take your sack,” he said.
“Nay—a beggar carries his own,” answered Guest the One-eyed, and hoisted it on his back. Then suddenly he smiled and, swinging down the sack once more, handed it to the farmer, who took it as if it were a favour granted him.
Guest the One-eyed glanced at him mischievously.
“’Tis strange to see you with a beggar’s pouch. None would have thought you could ever come to that.”
The farmer cast a sidelong glance at his men, and was about to make an angry retort, but restrained himself and gave a forced laugh. Then he said:
“If I were to fill the sack with more than you could carry—what then?”
“Then I should let it lie.”
The farmer was evidently anxious to make much of his visitor; the latter, however, seemed to care little for his hospitality, and would not even accept the bed that was offered him. The farmer assured him that it was a bed reserved for personages of distinction; bishops and high officials had lain in it. But Guest the One-eyed preferred to sleep in the barn, and all that the farmer could do was to have the cracks in the walls stopped as far as possible, and a fresh layer of hay laid over the rotting stuff that strewed the floor.
Before retiring, the beggar brought up the subject of Sera Ketill.