Now we had to wait for their signal that all was ready for us, and how long that might be we could not tell.  It depended mostly on where the king was holding his court, which the fishers did not know.  In the end it came to pass that we had to wait four days here, and I will not say that they went at all quickly.

Dalfin waxed moody before the next day was over.  He was one of those who loved excitement, and are only happy when one thing follows another fast, caring not what it may be so long as there is somewhat, even danger.  I think it was as well that he was a mighty sleeper, being content to lie on a warm sand hill and slumber between his meals.  Bertric and I built a pig stye out of wreck wood for the hermits, which pleased them mightily, and was certainly better than doing nothing.  Gerda watched us quietly, and then we would climb to the top of the hill and look out toward the land in hopes of seeing the fire which the fishers were to light when all was in order for our going.

So it chanced on the second day that she and I had been up the hill together, and were coming back to Bertric and his work down the little glen, when we came suddenly on the old superior, who was walking with bent head among the trees of a clearing, musing.  We had not seen him since the day when we came ashore.

He started when he saw us, and looked at us as if it was the first time that he had met us; and we were about to pass him quickly, with a little due reverence.  But he spoke, and we stopped.

“I remember,” he said.  “You are the Lochlannoch who were cast ashore.  Is all well with you?”

“In every way, father,” I answered in the Gaelic.

He looked hard at me for a moment, and his face flushed slowly.  It had been white before with the whiteness that comes of a dark cell and long biding within it.  Only the warm sun had taken him out today, for Phelim said that he was close on ninety years of age.  Then he set forth his hand to me, and laid it on my arm.

“Tell me who you are,” he said.

“We are Norse folk, cast ashore here by mischance in the gale.”

“Norse?” he said.  “Yet you speak the tongue of my childhood—­the kindly Gaelic of the islands which is not that altogether of the Erse of today.  It is full sixty years since I heard it.”

“My mother was a Scottish lady,” I answered.  “My own name is Malcolm.”

“Tell me more,” he said eagerly.  “Let me hear the old tongue again before I die.”

Now, it is in no wise easy to be told to talk without a hint in the way of question on which to begin, and I hesitated.  Gerda asked me softly what was amiss, and I told her in a few words.  The old hermit looked kindly at her, but did not speak.

“Tell him of your home,” she said.  “Tell him without saying aught of the end of it.”

I did so, slowly at first, for the words would not come, and then better as I went on.  The old man listened, and the tears came into his eyes.