TO THE HOLY HILLS 357 
‘My glass has gone up so steadily from 29'2 in. to 
29°6 in. that, taking that and the sky together, I felt I 
might venture on a prophecy. ‘ To-morrow,” I said, 
“it will be fine. Let the bolvan be.” And for that 
time they were content. Only it blows at present as 
hard as ever, and whenever I go on deck down the 
wind comes the mocking long-drawn howl of Tima Fé, 
“England far away. Far, far away!” till I could shoot 
him for a raven.’ 
September 17th.—‘NW. Calm. Fog. Bar. 29°7 in.’ So 
I had scored up to a certain point; the wind was fair but 
the fog was thick. Alexander, who burnt much incense 
to-day, seemed to have forgotten the bolvan. So they 
hold this poor little idol responsible for storms, but not 
for fogs. Reputations are easily won. I seem to be 
suddenly established as a good weather-prophet. They 
actually came and asked me to-day whether we should 
be able to leave to-morrow. It is pretty risky to pro- 
phesy about Kolguev weather, but thinking that, if once 
we started, we should get to land somehow, and that 
we knew as much about it as we were likely to know, 
I answered boldly, ‘ Certainly.’ 
September 18th.—( Michaelmas Day, old style). Foggy, 
with the barometer at 29°7 in., but showing a tendency 
had said, ‘Do you worship St. Nicholas?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ah, not Christians.’ ‘Oh yes, 
Christians.’ ‘Why, how is that? Have you God?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And Christ?’ ‘Oh 
yes, of course we have Christ.’ Ah,’ said Yakoff, ‘Turks.’ This was a grand dis- 
covery ; after that we were always Turks. 
