"Something has stirred his blood; surely your friend has done nothing to offend him?" "Nothing except remark that he has always liked a four-strand riata better than six.

Let what will happen, or who will go back, he cannot; he must find the sea, along those frozen rivers, through those starving countries, among tribes of stinted men, whose habitual interjection was "edui, it is hard, uttered in a querulous tone," distrusted by his followers, deserted by his guides, on, on he goes, till he sees the sea, cold, lowering, its strand bristling with foes; but he does see it.

He was standing alone on the strand east of Smyge fishing hamlet before sunrise.