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"
Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity.
"Mon!" he exclaimed, "ye never mean to say there's an actual puir human
creature that in this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours,
is so far misguidit as to worship the fearfu' gods o' the Scandinavian
meethology?"
"Ah!" yawned Lorimer, "you may wonder away, Sandy, but it's true enough!
Old Gueldmar is an Odinite. In this blessed, enlightened nineteenth
century of ours, when Christians amuse themselves by despising and
condemning each other, and thus upsetting all the precepts of the Master
they profess to follow, there is actually a man who sticks to the
traditions of his ancestors. Odd, isn't it? In this delightful,
intellectual age, when more than half of us are discontented with life
and yet don't want to die, there is a fine old gentleman, living beyond
the Arctic circle, who is perfectly satisfied with his existence--not
only that, he thinks death the greatest glory that can befall him.
Comfortable state of things altogether! I'm half inclined to be an
Odinite too.


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