“Ah, the old days,” he said, when I stopped.  “Your voice is a voice from the days that are gone, and the old tongue comes back to me, with the sound of the piper on the hill and the harper in the hall, with the sough of the summer wind in the fir trees, and the lash of the waves on the rocks.  Oh, my son, my son, I would that you had never come here to make me mind the things that are dead.”

Now he was trembling, and I took his white hand and set it on my arm to steady him.  His hand felt the cold touch of the great gold bracelet Gerda would have me wear, and he looked at it, and turned it in his fingers.

“Jarl, and son of a jarl,” he whispered.  “War and flame, and the cry of the victors!  Oh, my son, you mind me of bitter things.”

“I and mine have never hurt Christian folk, father,” I said, knowing what he meant.

The sword and fire had fallen heavily on the Scottish islands when the Norseman first came thither.  But surely he could not mind that.

Thereafter Phelim told me that he thought the old man spoke of the burning of some monastery on the mainland of Scotland, whence he had fled, with those of his brethren who escaped, to Ireland, coming hither at last to end his days in peace.  But I heard no more from himself now.  What I had just spoken turned his thoughts afresh, and I was glad.

“Then you are a heathen; and this lady also?”

“We are Odin’s folk,” I answered.  “I suppose that is what you mean, father.”

“Yet I think now that I saw you once in the chapel.”

“You may do so again, father, if it is permitted by you.  I have heard naught but good words there.”

His eyes brightened, and he smiled at me.

“You know nothing of the faith then?” he asked.

I shook my head.  I had heard never a word of it until I met my friends.

“We will teach you,” he said eagerly.  “Sit here, my children, in this warm place, and let me tell you somewhat thereof.  It may be the last time I may teach the heathen.  Aye, I have done it in days long ago.”

I spoke to Gerda then, telling her what the old father wished, and she smiled at the thought.

“We have naught to do,” she said, “and if it will give him pleasure we may as well bide here.”

So we sat down on the bank in the sun amid the quiet of the woodland, and listened.  The wood flowers carpeted the ground, and Gerda plucked those that were in reach and played with them while the father began his words.  Presently he saw that Gerda was paying no heed, and he bade me translate, hearing that she did not understand.  And by that time he spoke the old tongue of his youth, and the Erse way of speaking was forgotten.

Then he told us things which every Christian child knows; but which were new and wonderful and very good to hear, to us two.  Soon Gerda had forgotten the flowers, and was listening, and presently asking questions as might a child who hears the sweetest tale ever told.  So still we were, and so soft the voice of the old man, that the birds the hermits were wont to feed came close to us, and a robin perched on the shoulder of the father, and he smiled at it.