FLY-FISHING ON THE OSTRA DAL RIVER, SWEDEN. 43 



For what seemed a long period we remained, the 

 woman and I, shouting a ad howling with the best of 

 our vocal powers, making wood and mountain ring, 

 and waking the wild echoes, till to our joy we saw 

 a boat put off from the distant shore and soon found 

 ourselves in the farm hut which we had seen. 



It was yet light, though past midnight. The wind 

 had increased, and was now howling round the dismal 

 dwelling with a force that caused it fairly to shake. 

 Nor was the interior more inviting. An old man, so 

 wrinkled and withered as scarcely to resemble any- 

 thing human, was endeavouring to pacify his son, a 

 maniac, with a very repulsive-looking bowl of sour 

 milk. 



The dreadful cries of the madman seemed strangely 

 in harmony with the howlings of the storm. The ad- 

 venture was decidedly of a romantic character. 



When a start was made next morning with the 

 only abled-bodied inhabitant as baggage-carrier, the 

 maniac had been tied in a chair with ropes as a pre- 

 caution, but was indulging in the most startling ges- 

 ticulations, and it was with a full sense of relief 

 that we turned our backs upon the hut and com- 

 menced the long march over the frontier into Norway, 

 till, after a hard climb, the wild expanse of Lake 

 Eogon could be discerned from the summit of the 

 divide glittering in the distance far below. Lake 

 Eogon is about thirty miles in length from east to 

 west, and fifteen in breadth, of irregular shape, and 

 surrounded on three sides by high mountains. 



