I turned the corner of a house which stood half in the road, and just in front of me, in its little yard, was the little white church with its square, heavy, short spire. At the gate stood a tall figure, perfectly motionless, leaning on a long staff. As I approached I saw that he was an elderly man. He wore a long beard, once yellow but now gray, and he looked very straight and large. There was something grand about him as he stood there in the dusk.
I came quite up to him. He did not move.
“Good-evening,” I said.
“Good-evening.”
“Are you Mr. Hovedsen?” I asked, drawing out my letter.
“I am Olaf of the Mountain,” he said slowly, as if his name embraced the whole title.
I handed him the letter.
“You are——?”
“I am——” taking my cue from his own manner.
“The friend of her friend?”