The Northern sun had taken another aspect and changed its colour, opening the new day by a sinister morn.

Completely free from its veil, it gave forth its grand rays, crossing the sky in fitful flashes, foretelling nasty weather.

During the past few days it had been too fine to last.

The winds blew upon that swarm of boats, as if to clear the sea of them; and they began to disperse and flee, like an army put to rout, before the warning written in the air, beyond possibility to misread.
Harder and harder it blew, making men and ships quake alike.
And the still tiny waves began to run one after another and to melt together; at first they were frosted over with white foam spread out in patches; and then, with a whizzing sound, arose smoke as though they burned and scorched, and the whistling grew louder every moment.
Fish-catching was no longer thought of; it was their work on deck.

The fishing lines had been drawn in, and all hurried to make sail and some to seek for shelter in the fjords, while yet others preferred to round the southern point of Iceland, finding it safer to stand for the open sea, with the free space about them, and run before the stern wind.