A light breeze blew from the southeast, the sun was shining gaily, the skiff was as dry as a floor, for we had just emptied it; and I had four pieces of rye cake, spread with extra good Danish butter, in my pocket.
Oh, everything was splendid! Louisa told sea stories and we bent to our oars with a will.
“Grandfather says,” announced Louisa, “that you may be all by yourself on the sea on board a schooner or a yacht or whatever, and you think that you are alone, and you are not, for the sea-spirits are with you.”
“Ugh, Louisa! that would be horrid.”
“And Grandfather says,” continued Louisa, “that they can take different forms. It may happen that one shows itself as a big flapping bird or a gray maiden. Grandfather himself has seen a spirit in the form of a cloud of fire.”
“Oh, come now, Louisa! You’re talking nonsense.”
“If it isn’t true, you may chop my head off,” said Louisa. “Grandfather was just outside of Dröbak in his yacht; it was in the middle of the night in late autumn, and all at once as he sat there, a queer shape of fire glided close to him.”
“Don’t talk of spirits, Louisa—don’t. I won’t listen any more.”
“Well, there are sea-spirits and they are ugly, too,” insisted Louisa.
It was farther to Bird Island than we had counted on, and we rowed and rowed till our arms were tired and weak with rowing so far; but at last our boat scraped against the little wharf.