"Sigrid," she said, almost at a whisper. "That is my name. Sigrid Geirdóttir. I hail from Jutland." Was there sympathy in the old man's eyes? He had never seen her in her entire life, that she could be sure enough of. Yet, he seemed to know her mind, as well as her troubles. With ginger hands, she accepted the quilt, clutching both it and her damp dress close. Something compelled her to keep talking. "My father was here before. He was at Iona, the cross temp- the cathedral. Are you a man of the cross?"