Then one day he was standing inside his house, almost lost in meditation, when Geelong suddenly lumbered to the door, sniffing and whining. A moment later a completely unexpected voice called from outside, hailing whoever might be in the house. * * * Awaiting the hermit in his front yard, regarding him when he came out with a look of fresh and youthful confidence, was a young man of about eighteen. Curly brown hair framed a broad and honest-looking face, above a strong and blocky body, not particularly tall. The youth was clad in the gray boots and tunic of a religious pilgrim, but he still wore a short sword belted to his side—a reasonable and common precaution for any traveler in these parts. It struck Gelimer as odd, though, that this visitor was carrying nothing at all besides the weapon, no pack or canteen. “Good morning to you, Sir Hermit. Or do I read your white robes wrongly?” The young man’s voice was as cheerful and confident as were his face and bearing.
