But these were only old wives' tales, and he liked better the talk of the sea-going franklins, who would sail in the summer time on trading ventures and pushed farther than any galleys of war.

The old sailor, Othere Cranesfoot, was but now back from a voyage which had taken him to Snowland, or, as we say, Iceland.

He could tell of the Curdled Sea, like milk set apart for cheese-making, which flowed as fast as a river, and brought down ghoulish beasts and great dragons in its tide.

He told, too, of the Sea-walls which were the end of the world, waves higher than any mountain, which ringed the whole ocean.

He had seen them, blue and terrible one dawn, before he had swung his helm round and fled southwards.