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.
"See," he said, "the breast of the little bird is red because it had compassion on its Maker as He suffered, and would pluck the cruel thorns away." And so with all homely words and simple he taught us, and we were fain to listen.

Odin and the Asir seemed far off at that time and in that place, and I half blamed myself for harkening.
"What of our Asir ?" I said at last.
"Heroes of the old days," he said.

"Heroes whom their sons have worshipped; because a man must needs worship the greatest whom he knows." "And what has become of them ?" He shook his head.

"They are in the hands of the true Allfather," he answered.

"I cannot tell more than that.