The old man burst out laughing. Then, noticing the boy’s confusion, he asked him in, and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.
“Do you mean to say you have come all the way from Iceland to learn the violin? What did you say your name was?”
“Ormarr, son of Ørlygur à Borg.”
“I see, Ormarr à Borg, then.”
“Yes, Ormarr Ørlygsson.”
“Ormarr Ørlygsson. And how did you manage to find me?”
“It was quite easy. I had the address written on a paper, and asked the way.”
“Yes, yes—but I mean, who told you to come to me?”
“Sera Daniel—the priest. I was to come to you and get you to teach me—you and no other. He said my career might depend upon it. And he said if you refused, if you sent me away once or twice or more, I was to try again.”
“H’m. Seems clear enough. And you look as if you were the sort to do it. Well, let me hear what you can do with that instrument of yours.”