"Have you any matches?" he asked.
"No--yes--that is to say, I'm afraid they're damp," said the stranger. He struck one and it spluttered out.
"Take care then. A boy is lying asleep on the floor. Bring your horse this way."
"Thanks! How lucky I heard you! I had lost the road, and was wondering what hollow ground I was walking on when you shouted from below. It nearly frightened my life out."
It was a young voice; the stranger was clearly a young man, probably a young farmer. They talked together in the darkness, neither being able to see the other's face.
"Who are you, my lad?" asked Christian Christiansson.
"I am Eric Arnasson. I come from Thingvellir. Who are you, sir?"
"I am a traveler, and I'm on my way there."
"Going to the sale, I suppose?"
"Yes."