great crag "shaped like a giant's helmet," as Valdemar Svensen had
said. It rose sheer out of the water, and its sides were almost
perpendicular. Some beautiful star-shaped sea anemones clung to it
in a varicolored cluster on one projection, and the running ripple
of the small waves broke on its jagged corners with a musical
splash, and sparkle of white foam. Below them, in the emerald mirror
of the Fjord, it was so clear that they could see the fine white
sand lying at the bottom, sprinkled thick with shells and lithe
moving creatures of all shapes, while every now and then, there
streamed past them, brilliantly tinted specimens of the Medusae,
with their long feelers or tendrils, looking like torn skins of
crimson and azure floss silk.

The place was very silent; only the sea-gulls circled round and
round the summit of the great rock, some of them occasionally
swooping down on the unwary fishes, their keen eyes perceived in the
waters beneath, then up again they soared, swaying their graceful
wings and uttering at intervals that peculiar wild cry that in
solitary haunts sounds so intensely mournful. Errington gazed about
him in doubt for some minutes, then suddenly his face brightened. He
sat down again in the boat and resumed his oar.

"Row quietly, George," he said in a subdued tone "Quietly--round to
the left."

The oars dipped noiselessly, and the boat shot forward,--then
swerved sharply round in the direction,--and there before them lay a
small sandy creek, white and shining as though sprinkled with
powdered silver. From this, a small but strongly-built wooden pier
ran out into the sea. It was carved all over with fantastic figures,