He took the High Street towards the Inn, and then an irregular alley that led past the lake to a square in front of the Cathedral, and ended at a little house of basaltic blocks that nestled at its feet, for it was there he meant to lodge. It had been the home of a worthy couple whom he had known in the old days, caretakers of the Cathedral, and his mother's only friends in her last days. Old and feeble and very deaf they had both been then, and as he strode along in the darkness he wondered if he should find them still alive. He found them as he had left them: not otherwise changed than if the five years of his absence had been but five hours. The old man was still at the hearth chopping up some logs of driftwood, and the old woman was still at the table ironing her linen by the light of a rush candle. With uplifted hands and cries of wonderment they received him, and while he supped on the porridge and skyr that they set before him they talked and questioned.
"And where have you been this many a day?" said the old man.
"In England, Scotland, Denmark—many places," said Jason.
"Well they've buried you these four years and better," said the old man, with a grimace.
"Lord bless me, yes, love; and a cross over your grave too, and your name on it," said the old woman, with a look of awe.
"Who did that?" said Jason.
"[Jorgen] Jorgensen," said the old man, grinning.
"It's next to your mother's, love. He did that, too, for when he heard that she was gone he repented," said the old woman.
"It's no good folks repenting when their bad work's done and done with," said the old man.
"That's what I say. There's them above that won't call it repenting. And see what has come of it," said the old woman.