Ormarr turned from the moon, forgetting the base designs which he had just attributed to its dull red bridge of rays. He looked at the stars—and suddenly he remembered the summer nights at home, when he had lain out among the hay in the fields, unable to draw his eyes from the twinkling golden points of light.
The northern lights flickered and faded, and showed up anew; like fiery clouds, appearing suddenly on one horizon, to vanish in a flaming trail behind another. Ormarr loved them—their restlessness, their capricious, fantastic shapes, the play of mood through every imaginable shade of colour—it was a silent musical display of heavenly fire.
Next day, the captain and Ormarr were alone on the bridge. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, and both were gazing towards the shore.
The captain broke the silence.
“See there, Hr. Ørlygsson—that ring of mist there round the peak. Now, mist, I should say, is white as a rule, but looking at it there, against the snow, it looks just grey.”
Ormarr made some brief reply; he was studying the face of the little Danish captain.
The latter spoke again:
“I don’t know if you know this part of the country at all. When we round that point just ahead, you will see one of the strangest fjords all round the coast, though that’s saying a good deal. Rocks sticking up out of the sea, sharp as needles some of them, and some all tumbled about in groups; some look like houses, and there are a few that make gateways, as it were, real arches, that you can take a ship through if you like.”
“Then we shall be in very soon, I suppose—and up to time for once.”