“He’s one of our sort,” he said. “It is Guest the One-eyed.”
There was a shout of welcome at this, and Grimur took out a flask from his pocket.
“Best corn brandy,” he declared, handing the bottle to Guest. “Good stuff, you can take my word for it.” Then, in a slightly altered tone, he went on: “I daresay, now, you think us rather a rough lot, you being more gentle like. But it’s just our way. Rap out an oath without thinking like.”
“’Tis not such words that do the worst of harm,” said Guest the One-eyed. And he took a sip from the flask.
Then with a grimace he spat it out. “I thought it might do me good,” he said. “But I can’t swallow it, all the same.”
“Oh, you swine!” shouted Grimur as he saw the precious liquid wasted. “There, I’m sorry,” he went on. “That’s no way to speak to a godly man. But the stuff’s too good to waste. Leastways, to my thinking.”
Guest the One-eyed offered his hand.
“No harm, brother,” he said. “Each to his own ways.”
“‘Brother,’” repeated Grimur thickly. “Calls me brother—shakes hands. Nobody ever called me brother before. My own folk won’t touch me, call me Luse-Grimur, and keep far out of reach of vermin. Ay, it’s true enough what they say of you, Guest One-eyed. God’s blessing, man.”
“We’ll have Grimur drowning his lice in floods of tears,” grumbled the Bishop. “See them swimming around and saying their prayers, Amen!”