130 HUNTING THE SEA OTTER. 



abruptness ; dense, cold fogs seeming to rise from the 

 surface of the water, as if touched by the wand of some 

 malignant spirit, wrapping everything in their cloud-like 

 folds. Before we had been out an hour, what looked 

 suspiciously like the smoke of a steamer made it advisable 

 to return to our vessel and get under way as quickly as 

 possible. This we accordingly did, having no wish to be 

 caught at anchor within the three-mile limit, after the 

 bother we had had during the preceding month. We 

 stood out to sea for awhile; and, seeing no signs of a vessel, 

 we put off in the boats again at eight o'clock, and pulled 

 down the coast. We found otters fairly plentiful, and had 

 shot four, when it suddenly came on to blow, compelling us 

 to take shelter in a tiny basin, hollowed out of a large rock, 

 that stood some hundreds of yards from the shore. The 

 view from the top was very beautiful, the air being clear 

 and bright. In the distance the lofty blue mountains, 

 scarred and seamed with ridge and ravine, towered here 

 and there in volcanic cones, whose lofty shafts were 

 embroidered with a lacework of snow ; while over some a 

 cap of steaming vapour, sign of activity, hung cloud-like 

 and motionless in the still air. The wind, though strong, 

 was unmistakably local. At our feet the sea was studded 

 with half-submerged rocks and boulders of every shape and 

 colour; and these stretched in unbroken confusion till lost 

 in the dark background of gorge and precipice. Over all a 

 death-like silence reigned supreme, scarcely broken by the 

 moaning of the wind as it swept past the storm-riven faces 

 of the scorched and blackened rocks. 



Amidst such a scene of desolation, the summit of the 

 rock where we were standing was carpeted with the 

 cranberry, above which rose clusters of large red flowers, 

 poppy-like, but with smooth-edged, elliptical leaves ; other 

 plants, too, with long, spear-shaped leaves both were new 

 to us. But stranger than these seemed the two lovely 

 swallow-tailed butterflies (P. machaon) that flitted more 

 languidly than is their wont from flower to flower. 



