“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.  It is enough.”

“I have heard it said,” I went on, for here was somewhat which troubled me, “that you Christians hold that we worship fiends—­that the Asir are such.”

“That were to wrong the heroes of the past, my son,” he answered.  “It is meant that you know not what you worship under those honoured names.  There are those among you who know that the Asir were your forefathers.  Did you ever hear that Alfred, the wise and most Christian king of England, was ashamed of that ancestry of his?”

“I myself cannot be ashamed thereof.  I am from the line of Odin,” I said.  “If you speak truth, father, one count against Christians has passed, from my mind at least.”

But now Gerda spoke timidly, for she too had her question at this time.

“What of women, father?  Is there a place for them in the heaven of which you speak?  Was it won for us?”

“Most truly, my daughter.  It is for the woman as for the man.  There is no difference.”

I saw her face light up with a new wonder and joy, which told me that here was no idle listener.  And so the old teacher went on in all kindly wisdom, never hurting us in aught he said of the old gods, but leading us to see the deeper things which our forebears had forgotten.  I listened, and thought it all good; but betimes Gerda wept quietly, and would fain hear more and more.  The little bell on the chapel rang for the vespers or ever we ended that long talk, and the old man must go.  I raised him up, for he was very feeble, and again the touch of the gold put a word into his mind.

“Jarl, and son of Odin,” he said, smiling, “no need for you to wait that dim Ragnarok fight of yours for warfare against evil.  That fight has begun, and in it you may take your part now, that you may share in the victory hereafter.”

Then I said, for I minded how useless to me seemed this life here: 

“What part have you therein, father—­you and the brethren?”

“We pray for those who have forgotten to do so for themselves,” he answered.  “And we are of those whose sorest fight has been against evil within.”

So we went into the chapel for the vespers with him, and the day was done.  But in the morning there hung on the black cross on the green grass a wreath of white flowers which no brother had set there.