18 SPITSBERGEN chap, n 



could distinguish, save the cry of a remote cuckoo and its 

 fainter echo. 



Another time I wandered round on the lower level to the 

 reservoir lake, a natural basin enlarged by a dam, artificial 

 but not ugly. A rock promontory juts into the water and 

 •offers a natural pedestal for a recumbent man. I lay there 

 long in entire solitude with the black waters of the lake 

 around me, and sparsely wooded and lonely hill slopes reach- 

 ing up to a low grey roof of cloud. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! was 

 again nature's only song, with the faint lapping of water on 

 my rock for its accompaniment. 



At last, on the dull morning of the 7th, the Raftsund cast 

 loose and steamed away through scenery that was at first 

 tame and uninteresting, low-lying islands and rocky promon- 

 tories all rounded in the same manner by the ancient ice- 

 sheet. Then bolder outlines appeared, and seaward, abrupter 

 humps and even steep-sided domes of rock, with now and 

 then a snow patch. Inland came mountains of a certain 

 size but lacking dignity of form. Near the mouth of the 

 Nord Fjord the Raftsund followed a narrow channel imme- 

 diately below Horneln, a bold and noble mountain that rises 

 by steep slopes from the sea, and juts a bare precipice of 

 nodding and splintered rock aloft to a jagged crest. The 

 gloomy evening light and the grey cloud roof overhead, 

 formed a suitable setting for this weird and solitary tower, 

 which then looked as lofty and massive as hills and precipices 

 can look, whatever may be their measured size. Clouds 

 ultimately gathered about and hid Horneln, but in the other 

 direction the sun shone forth and drew a clear fess of gold 

 across the grey azure field of cloudy sky. The boat heaved 

 beneath the ocean swell as she quitted the shelter of islands, 

 and I knew no more till the morrow's awakening in the 

 harbour of Christiansund. 



Lovers of the sea and those to whom its motion is kind 



