As he said the last words Atli stooped, and lifting two large logs cast them on the fire. For a minute he watched them crackle and spit sparks, bending his brows as he deliberated how he should begin.
Then he turned to Estein and said,—
"When I saw thee by the shore at Hernersfiord, now some two years gone, didst thou think then that Atli was a stranger?"
"I thought so indeed," replied Estein, "though some words you let fall pointed otherwise."
"Yet, Estein," the old man said, "when thou wert no higher than that bench whereon thou sittest, I dandled thee in mine arms, and those fingers that now clasp a sword hilt, and, if men say true, clasp it right firmly, played once with my beard. Less snow had fallen on it then, Estein. Thou canst not remember me?"
Estein looked at him closely before replying.
"Nay, Atli, my memory carries me not so far back."
"So it was," Atli continued; "but chiefly was I the friend of thine ill-fated brother Olaf."
"Of Olaf?" exclaimed Estein, with a slight start.
"Ay, of Olaf. Often have I fought by his side on sea and shore, and dearly, more dearly than I ever loved man or woman since, I loved the youth. Thou even as a child wert strangely like him in features, and as I look upon thee now, there comes back memories of blither days. Wonder not then that I long was fain to see thee."