ULTIMA rnuie 75 



bay, in a blinding storm of wind and rain; and now, 

 under the warm August sun the sea is smooth, the 

 wind is still. The long swell that sways at intervals the 

 tall masts of the yacht, and ripples softly on her sides, 

 rocks us gently as we lounge idly on the deck and con- 

 trast the tumult of last night with the dream-like quiet 

 of the morning. 



It is a quaint little township that clusters along the 

 edge of the water, with all its gable-ends towards the 

 sea, as if the houses were standing shoulder to shoulder 

 to keep out the wind and the waves. Up and down the 

 harbour dark-sailed fishing boats are drifting, steered 

 by fair-haired children, or by bearded Vikings such as 

 on this very sea manned the keels of Haco or the 

 war galleys of Hardrada. And although the islanders 

 no longer, when harvesting is done, lay down the 

 reaping-hook for the war-axe and the oar, the old ad- 

 venturous spirit stirs them still, and drives them out 

 from home across far off perilous seas. In the narrow, 

 crooked street of the little town there is hardly a hearth 

 without its vacant chair, its tearful memories of storm 

 and shipwreck. 



But pleasant as is the quiet of this little harbour, he 

 who would know the shyer tenants of the islands must 

 find a mooring out of sight even of this simple township. 

 And such a spot we found, in the shelter of a long, low, 

 heath-covered islet whose farther verge was a very 

 paradise for beast and bird. 



Putting off in the dingy, and rounding the rocky 

 headland, we drifted gently into the pale green shallows, 



