THE NORTH-WEST PENINSULA. S3' of the curious saucer-like depressions as common on these heithis as the triple peaks upon the mountains. The snow was pretty deep in places, and above the cirque itself lay a wilderness of scattered stone blocks, a chaotic scree, wherein the track was speedily lost, and in the usual fitness of such things, a heavy fog descended and obliterated every vestige of a landmark. Fortunately the compass acted fairly well, and, guided by it, I reached the path again. From end to end the pass is about seven miles in length, and at half-past ten a light appeared in the valley. Stumbling over the usual mounds of the hayfield, I knocked at the farmhouse door, but quite in vain. In half-an-hour another appeared, through what by this time was fairly the gloom of night. But the place was bewitched like the other, and no one came. Yet a light continued to shine in the Bathstofa, and, easily climbing the little wall, I tapped at the window, only to find that the light most prompt- ly disappeared, and with it those hopes of supper which will-o’-the-wisp like it had kindled. Forsaking the farms, I tried the fisher- men’s cottages with uniform non-success, and tramped a two-miles trudge by the side of Skutilsfjorthr, won- dering what in the world was ‘up,’ and trying to steal a boat, which only its weight prevented, for , 7 An Icelandic Hayfield. over the inky wavelets there danced the flickering gleam of a fishing-boat’s mast-head light. At last, in orthodox style, a big white ghost loomed out of the darkness, fifty feet high at least, which presently turned itself into a most unedible church, fixed on a sandbank spit a few hundred feet in width. Attracted by a ruddy glow to a cottage near its walls, I peered through the window, and beheld a rudely-constructed hearth, a huge black caldron under a blacker chimney breast, and, amid the curls of the lurid smoke, the forms of a pair of ancient dames, who were bending over the pregnant pot. Startled beyond measure, they faced around as I gave a tentative tap ; one opened the door an inch or so, heard a benighted wanderer’s story in broken Icelandic, and mournfully shaking a dubious head, decidedly shut the door. In utter amazement, I followed the sandspit which curved away up the fjord, and faring no better elsewhere, discovered at last, about two a.m., the Hotel Isafjord. A knock proving as fruitless as ever, I considered that

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