But I lifted my hand, and he held his peace, doffing his cap to me with all reverence for the fine dress and jewelled weapons--Carl's gift--that I wore.
I did not heed his words of apology, but looked at the ragged, brown-faced man who called to me.

He was thin and wiry, with a yellow beard, and his hands were hard with some heavy work.

Yet his face was in some way not altogether strange to me, though I could not name him.

He was no thrall of ours or of my cousin's, so far as I could tell.
"Wilfrid--thane--whatever you are now," he said, for I would not suffer the trader to prevent his words, "you gave me a black eye at Weymouth, and thereafter drank 'skoal' to me when we chased the trading ship." Thereat Werbode laughed.
"Faith," he said, "if every thrall to whom I have given a black eye or so has a claim on me--" But his words went on unheard as far as I was concerned.

I seemed to have the very smell of the smoke of burning Weymouth in my nostrils, and the wild rowing song came back to me.