I met him at the crossroads, a man with but a cloak and a staff, and a veil of pain upon his face. And we greeted one another, and I said to him, ‘Come to my house and be my guest.’
And he came.
My wife and my children met us at the threshold, and he smiled at them, and they loved his coming.
Then we all sat together at the board and we were happy with the man for there was a silence and a mystery in him.
And after supper we gathered to the fire and I asked him about his wanderings.
He told us many a tale that night and also the next day, but what I now record was born out of the bitterness of his days though he himself was kindly, and these tales are of the dust and patience of his road.
And when he left us after three days we did not feel that a guest had departed but rather that one of us was still out in the garden and had not yet come in.