"Aye," answered Freydisa, "yet maybe true ones to those who worship
them. But we will talk of these later; now for their servant."

Then she dropped the figures into a pouch at her side, and began to
examine the trunk of the oak tree, of which the outer sap wood had been
turned to tinder by age, leaving the heart still hard as iron.

"See," she said, pointing to a line about four inches from the top, "the
tree has been sawn in two length-ways and the lid laid on. Come, help."

Then she took an iron-shod staff which we had brought with us, and
worked its sharp point into the crack, after which we both rested our
weight upon the staff. The lid of the coffin lifted quite easily, for
it was not pegged down, and slid of its own weight over the side of
the tree. In the cavity beneath was a form covered with a purple cloak
stained as though by salt water. Freydisa lifted the cloak, and there
lay the Wanderer as he had been placed a thousand or more of years
before our time, as perfect as he had been in the hour of his death, for
the tannin from the new-felled tree in which he was buried had preserved
him.

Breathless with wonder, we bent down and examined him by the light of
the lamps. He was a tall, spare man, to all appearance of between fifty
and sixty years of age. His face was thin and fine; he wore a short,
grizzled beard; his hair, so far as it could be seen beneath his helmet,
was brown and lightly tinged with grey.

"Does he call anyone to your mind?" asked Freydisa.