TAKING A SIGHT. 
337 
hours where we were. No !—yes!—no ! By Phoebus ! 
there he is! A faint spongy spot of brightness gleamed 
through the grey roof over head. The indistinct outline 
grew a little clearer; one-half of him—though still 
behind a cloud—hardened into a sharp edge. Up went 
the sextant. “ 52.43 !” (or whatever it was) I shouted to 
Mr. Wyse. “52.41, my Lord! ” cried he, in return; there 
was only the discrepancy of a mile between us. We had 
got the altitude; the sun might go to bed for good and 
all now, we did not care,—we knew our position to an 
inch. There had been an error of something like forty 
miles in our dead reckoning, in consequence—as I after¬ 
wards found—of a current that sets to the northward, 
along the west coast of Norway, with a velocity varying 
from one to three miles an hour. The island upon which 
we had so nearly run was Roost. We were still nearly 
200 miles from our port. “ Turn the hands up ! Make 
sail!” and away we went again on the same course as 
before, at the rate of ten knots an hour. 
By three o’clock next day we were up with Vigten; 
and now a very nasty piece of navigation began. In 
order to make the northern entrance of the Throndhjem 
Fiord, you have first to find your way into what is 
z 
