I made some answer in the Gaelic, more for the comfort of the Irish stranger than for the sense of what I spoke.  And as he heard he smiled and did as he had done to Dalfin, signing and saying words I could not understand.  I had no doubt that it was a welcome, so I bowed, and he smiled at me.

“I was sorely terrified, my sons,” he said.  “I thought you some of these heathen Danes—­or Norse men, rather, from your arms.  But I pray you do not think that I fled from martyrdom.”

“You fled from somewhat, father,” said Dalfin dryly; “what was it?”

The father pointed and smiled uneasily.

“My son,” he said slowly, “I came to this place to be free from the sight of—­of aught but holy men.  If there were none but men among you, even were you the Lochlann I took you for—­and small wonder that I did—­I had not fled.  By no means.”

“Why,” said Dalfin, with a great laugh, “it must be Gerda whom he fears!  Nay, father, the lady is all kindness, and you need fear her not at all.”

“I may not look on the face of a lady,” said the father solemnly.

“Well, you have done it unawares, and so you may as well make the best of it, as I think,” answered Dalfin.  “But, without jesting, the poor lady is in sore need of shelter and hospitality, and I think you cannot refuse that.  Will you not take us to the monastery?”

“Monastery, my son?  There is none here.”

“Why, then, whence come you?  Are you weather bound here also?”

“Aye, by the storms of the world, my son.  We are what men call hermits.”

Dalfin looked at me with a rueful face when he heard that.  What a hermit might be I did not at all know, and it meant nothing to me.  I was glad enough to think that there was a roof of any sort for Gerda.

“Why, father,” said my comrade, “you do not sleep on the bare ground, surely?”

“Not at all, my son.  There are six of us, and each has his cell.”

“Cannot you find shelter for one shipwrecked lady?  It will not be for long, as we will go hence with the first chance.  We have our boats.”

Now all this while the hermit had his eye on Dalfin’s splendid torque, and at last he spoke of it, hesitatingly.

“My son, it is not good for a man to show idle curiosity—­but it is no foolish question if I ask who you are that you wear the torque of the O’Neills which was lost.”

“I am Dalfin of Maghera, father.  The torque has come back to me, for Dubhtach is avenged.”

At that the hermit gave somewhat like a smothered shout, and his stately way fell from him altogether.  He went on his knee before Dalfin, and seized his hand and kissed it again and again, crying words of welcome.

“My prince, my prince,” he said, with tears of joy running down his cheeks.  “It was told me that you had gone across the seas—­but I did not know it was for this.”

Dalfin reddened, and raised the hermit from the sand.