“You’ll have my hands nearer than you care for in a minute,” answered Grimur, with a leer. “Go on, Gudda.”
Gudda was known for her talent in making songs. She was a powerfully built woman getting on in years, with a coarse voice in keeping with her coarse face and heavy build. Her skirt reached hardly below her knees, showing a pair of muscular legs; her stockings were of rough material, and clumsily darned. One redeeming feature she had—her large blue eyes. Children feared her until she looked them full in the face, when the glance of her eyes seemed to draw them to her.
She was one of the few women vagabonds in the country, and was known far and wide for her vulgar songs.
Looking towards the door, she caught sight of the stranger, and called to him to come in. Guest the One-eyed limped over to the group.
“God’s peace with you,” returned the others, somewhat abashed.
Suddenly the youngest of the party stepped forward. This was Jon Gislason, a short, thick-set fellow who had some claim to good repute, being known to work at times, and trusted to carry letters and parcels from place to place. He strode up to the newcomer, and looked him in the face.
“He’s one of our sort,” he said. “It is Guest the One-eyed.”
There was a shout of welcome at this, and Grimur took out a flask from his pocket.
“Best corn brandy,” he declared, handing the bottle to Guest. “Good stuff, you can take my word for it.” Then, in a slightly altered tone, he went on: “I daresay, now, you think us rather a rough lot, you being more gentle like. But it’s just our way. Rap out an oath without thinking like.”
“’Tis not such words that do the worst of harm,” said Guest the One-eyed. And he took a sip from the flask.
Then with a grimace he spat it out. “I thought it might do me good,” he said. “But I can’t swallow it, all the same.”
“Oh, you swine!” shouted Grimur as he saw the precious liquid wasted. “There, I’m sorry,” he went on. “That’s no way to speak to a godly man. But the stuff’s too good to waste. Leastways, to my thinking.”
“No harm, brother,” he said. “Each to his own ways.”
“‘Brother,’” repeated Grimur thickly. “Calls me brother—shakes hands. Nobody ever called me brother before. My own folk won’t touch me, call me Luse-Grimur, and keep far out of reach of vermin. Ay, it’s true enough what they say of you, Guest One-eyed. God’s blessing, man.”