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.