Estein had again fallen a prey to his thoughts. In his gloomy
fatalism he thought that the wrath of the gods pursued him for the
neglect of his duty to his murdered brother, and he submitted to
the failure of this adventure as the beginning of his punishment.
The fighting fire died out, the longing for action was choked, and
in their place what was as nearly a spell as can fall on mortal
men had fallen on him. His devoted friend fumed impatiently beside
him as the fog grew denser and the hours went slowly by, and
bitterly he cursed the enchantress of the Holy Isle.

"He talks of the gods," he said to himself. "This is no work of
theirs; it is the magic of that island witch, may the trolls take
her!"

"The fog lifts!" cried Grim from his post at the tiller.

The men heard the cry, and ceasing their awestruck talk, looked
eagerly at the fast-widening rifts in the white shroud. Ghost-like
wreaths detached themselves, flitted by the ship, and then
dissipated in thin air. The summer night sky with its pale stars
appeared in lakes above, and below, the fog rose from the water
like steam. Presently the great cliffs came out clear and terrible
in the midnight dusk, and the men cried that the spell was broken.

Over Estein came the greatest change. As the fog lifted, the light
returned to his eye, and he turned eagerly to Grim.

"Where are we now? Have we yet time to catch Liot at his feast?"

The pilot shook his head.