"It is indeed bad," remarked my father.

"However, let us dry our bedraggled clothing, for we are soaked to the skin.

Trust to the god Odin, my son.

Do not give up hope." The sun was beating down slantingly, as if we were in a southern latitude, instead of in the far Northland.

It was swinging around, its orbit ever visible and rising higher and higher each day, frequently mist-covered, yet always peering through the lacework of clouds like some fretful eye of fate, guarding the mysterious Northland and jealously watching the pranks of man.