Two miles farther on, we were stopped by a promontory that screened the bay from southerly winds. It dropped straight down to the sea, and surf foamed against it. From beyond this ridge there came fearsome bellows, such as a herd of cattle might produce.
“Gracious,” Conseil put in, “a choir of bulls?”
“No,” I said, “a choir of walruses.”
“Are they fighting with each other?”
“Either fighting or playing.”
“With all due respect to master, this we must see.”
“Then see it we must, Conseil.”
And there we were, climbing these blackish rocks amid sudden landslides and over stones slippery with ice. More than once I took a tumble at the expense of my backside. Conseil, more cautious or more stable, barely faltered and would help me up, saying:
“If master’s legs would kindly adopt a wider stance, master will keep his balance.”
Arriving at the topmost ridge of this promontory, I could see vast white plains covered with walruses. These animals were playing among themselves. They were howling not in anger but in glee.