“No,” said I, in rather a desponding tone, “I see I can’t.”
“Don’t try it, sir!” cried Zöega; “you’ll certainly sink if you do!”
“I’ll promise you that, Zöega,” I answered, looking gloomily toward the dry land, toward which my horse was now headed, plunging frantically in a labyrinth of tufts, his head just above the ground.
“Sir, it’s very dangerous!” shouted Zöega.
“Any sharks in it?” I asked.
“No, sir; but I don’t see your horse!”
“Neither do I, Zöega. Just sing out when he blows!”
But the honest Icelander saw a better method than that, which was to dismount from his own horse, and jump from tuft to tuft until he got hold of my bridle. With it of course came the poor animal, which by hard pulling my trusty guide soon succeeded in getting on dry land. Meantime I discovered a way of getting out myself by a complicated system of jumps, and presently we all stood in a group, Zöega scraping the mud off the sides of my trembling steed, while I ventured to remark that it was “a little boggy in that direction.”
“Yes, sir,” said Zöega; “that was the reason I was going round.”
And a very sensible reason it was too, as I now cheerfully admitted. After a medicinal pull at the brandy we once more proceeded on our way.