THE DESERT. 35 



black when you are near them, but tinted the sweetest 

 violet in the distance. The mighty pile of snow and ice 

 rises from these abrupt scarps with a gentle curve, un- 

 dinted to the very summit, looking soft and downy as a 

 swan's breast. As the sun rests on the glittering heap it 

 blushes to the tenderest rose and sparkles like a precious 

 gem. The scene is entrancingly lovely. 



Far off behind this Jokiill, which by the way is called 

 Eirek's Jokiill, stretches another Lang Jokiill like a 

 thread of white cloud, resting on the horizon, and lost in 

 the distance of the south-east. To our right, Eirek's 

 Jokiill throws out a spur of precipitous rock, jauntily 

 tapped with snow, and beyond that rises the cone of 

 Strutur, an extinct volcano. To the north-west, as the 

 air is BO clear, we can catch sight of the marvellous 

 Baula, a mountain which is considered one of the won- 

 ders of Iceland, as it is a perfect cone, running to a point, 

 3,500 feet high, with so rapid a slope that snow never 

 rests on it. 



The great central wilderness is, as I have already 

 stated, almost entirely unexplored. Three "tracks" alone 

 cross it throughout the length of the island, and the 

 country right and left of these tracks is quite unknown. 



When I speak of a track, I do not mean a road. Roada 

 there are none in Iceland, no, not even paths. A track- 

 way over a waste is simply formed by piling three or 

 four stones on the top of a rock. This is called a vardr. 

 From this point an experienced eye can detect another 

 vardr, perhaps on the horizon. Often I could not 866 



