“What hour is that striking now?”
“Good heavens, master! you make me shiver. Yes, that is Throndhjem clock; the wind brings the sound to us. That’s a sign of storm. The northwest wind brings clouds.”
“In truth, the stars have all disappeared behind us.”
“Pray let us make haste, my noble lord, the storm is close at hand, and Gill’s corpse and my escape may already have been discovered in the city. Let us make haste!”
“Willingly. Old man, your load seems heavy; give it to me, I am younger and stronger than you.”
“No, indeed, noble master; it is not for the eagle to carry the shell of the tortoise. I am too far beneath you for you to burden yourself with my wallet.”
“But, old man, if it tires you? It seems heavy. What have you in it? Just now you stumbled, and it clinked as if there were iron in it.”
The old man sprang away from the young man.
“It clinked, master? Oh, no! you are mistaken. It contains nothing—but food, clothes. No, it does not tire me, sir.”
The young man’s friendly offer seemed to give his old comrade a fright which he tried to disguise.