The slip was accelerated by a very large waterspout striking the face of the mountain, as amongst the rocks which were brought down was a quantity of sand, and the presence and action of water were palpable, deep pools being left in many places. The scene was appalling—a wreck in the wildest sense of the word. Some three-quarters of a mile of mountain side had come down, carrying all before it—rammeding, as the Norse word is. Huge rocks, a few stunted trees, hardly any kind of herbage—what a hurly-burly of desolation! Looking across and over it, we saw the distant placid fjord and open sea. What a contrast, the peace of one and the turbulence of the other! Still the damage was a known quantity, every year something of the kind happening, sometimes with loss of life, sometimes without. The accompanying sketch was taken from the lower portion, looking upwards.

Landslip at Sylbotten; Indfjord.

[[See larger version]]

After going over the greater part of this chaos we went back to the preserved sæter, where we were most kindly received, our sympathy being accepted in the same spirit in which it was offered. Then we returned. We found Halve’s coat quite safe and undisturbed, and after the usual time arrived at Ole Erikson Boe’s farm, where we had a simple repast of good fladbrod and bunker, there being no meat here. We rested, and early in the morning started for Fiva. During the evening Boe showed me an old Danske Bible, folio size, a.d. 1590, with large brass clasps. The good folk wanted me to bring my wife to the funeral, in case the poor girl should not survive. In the morning we went down to the shore, as we heard the steamer for Molde was coming in to take Ingeborg thither, should she be still alive. Life was all but extinct when she was got on board. Ole Fiva and myself started in a boat for Veblungsnæs, having thanked the good people of Indfjord for their kind welcome, and they expressing their gratitude for our interest and sympathy, and reiterating their desire to welcome my wife at Indfjord.

The morning was lovely for boat travel; such peace that convulsions like those we had witnessed seemed incredible. But it was no dream: the inhabitants of Indfjord, the family of Ingeborg, Ingrana, and the poor woman without her solitary cow, all were stern realities.

Soon after our return to Fiva we heard that Ingeborg was dead, had been taken back from Molde, and was to be buried in the gravested at Indfjord on September 2nd, 1875. Accordingly, early that morning we started in carrioles from Fiva to Veblungsnæs, where myself, wife, daughter, and Ole Fiva took a boat with six oars for Indfjord. A lovely, peaceful morning it was as we left the landing-place at Veblungsnæs. Soon the six oars began their sturdy dip as we came under the shadow of the mountains: the dip was strong, as Norwegians only can row for a long travelling sweep and perfect time. After settling down with our tine of provisions—for we were travelling Norskily, and no Norske is complete without a well-filled tine—a sad tone seemed pervading the boat: our mission was one of sympathy for the bereavement of others, with an after-thought of thankfulness that we had been spared in health, and were sound in body and bone. But the melancholy of every one was broken by a remark from Ole that we should soon see the Runic steen, which is about half a Norske mile from Veblungsnæs. A lieutenant of engineers, who was superintending a new bridge, had described this stone to us, and we were eager to see it. At last we came upon it. The boatman ran alongside, and threw water over it to develop it. In nine hundred years pluvial attrition alone is sure to make its mark, to say nothing of our energetic friend Neptune’s constant stormdrift and tempest. (The writer would apologize for the term “pluvial attrition,” but there are so many long words about just now, what with street advertisements and urban authors.) A general view of the Runic stone is given in the opposite engraving, while the initial ornament on [page 175] was drawn from a plant plucked on the spot. The letters are thirteen in number, and their length about eighteen inches. Twelve feet from the sea-level, under low-water mark, and projecting some few feet, runs a ledge of rocks, beneath which is supposed to be secreted untold wealth.

The translation of these Runic hieroglyphics is, “The Court of Justice,” and this inscription was evidently placed in a conspicuous position to guide any who came to the court in old pagan days; for Romsdal was one of the last of the pagan strongholds. Above, high up, close to Sylbotten, was a pagan temple; but the Court of Justice was held at Devold, Romsdal.

There was now a regular good settle down for a long pull. Up to this time we have been in shadow, but now we round a point, and taking what a landsman would call the “first on the left,” we go due south down to Indfjord. The sea-water is beautifully clear, reflecting the quartz rocks. à merveille, like the good old chandeliers of our grandfathers after a spring cleaning; the rich sunlit yellow seaweed is grander far than ormolu; and here are three herons in repose, water-ousels with their snow-white breasts, and now and then sparkles by an old cormorant or diver. As we go down the fjord the snow range at the end of it blocks in everything, the morning mist waiting in the valley for exit, if possible.