I made no answer, being confounded by the knowledge that my uncle showed of me and my affairs, which afterwards I discovered he had, in part at any rate, from the old priest, my confessor, who had written to commend me to him, telling my story and sending the letter by a King’s messenger, who left for London on the morrow of the Burning.  Nor did he wait for any, for he bade me sit down and eat, plying me with more meats than I could swallow, all most delicately dressed, also with rare wines such as I had never tasted, which he took from a cupboard where they were kept in curious flasks of glass.  Yet as I noted, himself he ate but little, only picking at the breast of a fowl and drinking but the half of a small silver goblet filled with wine.

“Appetite, like all other good things, for the young,” he said with a sigh as he watched my hearty feasting.  “Yet remember, Nephew, that if you live to reach it, a day will come when yours will be as mine is.  Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity!”

At length, when I could eat no more, again he rang the silver bell and those fair waiting girls dressed alike in green appeared and cleared away the broken meats.  After they were gone he crouched over the fire rubbing his thin hands to warm them, and said suddenly: 

“Now tell me of my sister’s death and all the rest of your tale.”

So as well as I was able I told him everything from the hour when I had first sighted the French fleet on board my fishing-boat to the end.

“You are no fool,” he said when I had finished, “who can talk like any clerk and bring things that have happened clearly to the listener’s eye, which I have noted few are able to do.  So that’s the story.  Well, your mother had a great heart, and she made a great end, such an one as was loved of our northern race, and that even I, the old merchant knave, desire and shall not win, who doubtless am doomed to die a cow’s death in the straw.  Pray the All-Father Odin—­nay, that is heresy for which I might burn if you or the wenches told it to the priests—­pray God, I mean, that He may grant you a better, as He did to old Thorgrimmer, if the tale be true, Thorgrimmer whose sword you wear and have wielded shrewdly, as that French knight knows in hell to-day.”

“Who was Odin?” I asked.

“The great god of the North.  Did not your mother tell you of him?  Nay, doubtless she was too good a Christian.  Yet he lives on, Nephew.  I say that Odin lives in the blood of every fighting man, as Freya lives in the heart of every lad and girl who loves.  The gods change their names, but hush! hush! talk not of Odin and of Freya, for I say that it is heresy, or pagan, which is worse.  What would you do now?  Why came you to London?”

“Because my mother bade me and to seek my fortune.”

“Fortune—­what is fortune?  Youth and health are the best fortune, though, if they know how to use it, those who have wealth as well may go further than the rest.  Also beauteous things are pleasant to the sight and there is joy in gathering them.  Yet at the last they mean nothing, for naked we came out of the blackness and naked we return there.  Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!”