He was curiously attired, after something of the fashion of the Highlander, and something yet more of the ancient Greek, in a tunic, vest, and loose jacket all made of reindeer skin, thickly embroidered with curious designs worked in coarse thread and colored beads; while thrown carelessly over his shoulders and knotted at his waist, was a broad scarf of white woollen stuff, or _wadmel_, very soft-looking and warm.

In his belt he carried a formidable hunting-knife, and as he faced the two intruders on his ground, he rested one hand lightly yet suggestively on a weighty staff of pine, which was notched all over with quaint letters and figures, and terminated in a curved handle at the top.

He waited for the young man to speak, and finding they remained silent, he glanced at them half angrily and again repeated his words-- "I am the _bonde_,--Olaf Gueldmar.

Speak your business and take your departure; my time is brief!" Lorimer looked up with his usual nonchalance,--a faint smile playing about his lips.

He saw at once that the old farmer was not a man to be trifled with, and he raised his cap with a ready grace as he spoke.
"Fact is," he said frankly, "we've no business here at all--not the least in the world.