It was a dull foreboding day; for the clouds had fallen over the summits and all was gray. The gorges were darksome, and over everything there seemed to have come a sudden gloomy melancholy. Without actually raining, the gray mist overhead dissolved softly into a falling dampness which was more subtly penetrating than driving rain itself. The sea was of a dull gray, and looked muddy. Those Arctic fjords can make a wondrous show when the sun shines, and fleecy white clouds nestle upon the shoulders of the grim mountains, but when a gray pall hangs motionless one thousand feet above the sea, there is no more dismal prospect on earth. It seems as if the rain would softly fall for ever and a day—as if nothing could ever brush aside the heavy vaporous veil, and let the gay blue sky peep through again.
But it was a grand fishing-day, despite a chill breeze too weak to move the clouds, and the fishermen went off in high feather. The ladies stood on deck and waved departing wishes for good luck. Before the breeze Admiral Wylie scudded away, while Trist's progress in the heavier boat was slower, owing to the northern deliberation of Nielsen's movements. They saw him land, and immediately he was surrounded by a skipping, dancing bevy of little white-haired children—merry little boys who begged him in their monotonous Norse to throw a stone far, far across the sea. Willingly he obliged them, while eager hands were outstretched to hold his rod and gaff. Then the little maidens had to be attended to, notably one quaint little figure in a dress made upon the same lines as her mother's, reaching to her heels, with true golden hair, plaited and pressed close against her tiny head in gleaming coils, who looked up into his face with a wondrous pair of blue eyes, which seemed to speak some deep unearthly language of their own.
This little one went up the path towards the river in triumph, standing upon the lid of his creel with her little fingers closely clutching the collar of his coat, while the boys and older girls ran by his side chattering gaily.
'And that,' said Mrs. Wylie in her semi-sarcastic way as she turned to go below with the view of consulting the steward about dinner, 'is the man whose element is war.'
She waited a moment, but Brenda made no reply beyond a short, mirthless laugh.
During that day the clouds never lifted. It was twilight from morning till night. At times it drizzled in a silent, feathery way, and occasionally it rained harder. The temperature grew hot and cold, unaccountably, at intervals, and the roar of the river was singularly noticeable.
At six o'clock in the evening Nielsen's boat dropped alongside, and Trist clambered on board the Hermione. The ladies, having heard the sound of oars, came on deck to meet him.
'Ah,' said Brenda; 'you are the first home again.'
'Yes. I have three, so I am content,' was his reply. 'Is there no sign of the Admiral?'
'Not yet.'