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.
"Yes, I think so, a little," I replied.

"Who is it, now?
Oh! I know, my mother." "That is strange, Olaf, since to me he seems much like what you might become should you live to his years.