I questioned Zöega on this point, but not with much success. How was it possible, I asked, that millions and billions of tons of lava could be vomited forth from the crater of any mountain within sight? Here was a solid bed of lava spread over the valley, and many miles beyond, which, if piled up, shrunken and dried as it was, would of itself make a mountain larger than the Skjaldbraid Jokul, from which it is supposed to have been ejected.
“Now, Zöega,” said I, “how do you make it out that this came from the Skjaldbraid Jokul?”
“Well, sir, I don’t know, but I think it came from the inside of the world.”
“Why, Zöega, the world is only a shell—a mere egg-shell in Iceland I should fancy—filled with fiery gases.”
“Is that possible, sir?” cried Zöega, in undisguised astonishment.
“Yes, quite possible—a mere egg-shell!”
“Dear me, I didn’t know that! It is a wonderful world, sir.”
“Very—especially in Iceland.”
“Then, sir, I don’t know how this could have happened, unless it was done by spirits that live in the ground. Some people say they are great monsters, and live on burnt stones.”
“Do you believe in spirits, Zöega?”