"Yes," I cried; "there is a boat."
"Why did not you say so then? Well, let us go on."
"TIDVATTEN," said the guide.
"He says tide," said my uncle, translating the Danish word.
"No doubt we must wait for the tide."
"FORBIDA," said my uncle.
My uncle stamped with his foot, while the horses went on to the boat.
I perfectly understood the necessity of abiding a particular moment of the tide to
undertake the crossing of the fiord, when, the sea having reached its greatest height, it
should be slack water. Then the ebb and flow have no sensible effect, and the boat does
not risk being carried either to the bottom or out to sea.
That favourable moment arrived only with six o'clock; when my uncle, myself, the guide,
two other passengers and the four horses, trusted ourselves to a somewhat fragile raft.
Accustomed as I was to the swift and sure steamers on the Elbe, I found the oars of the
rowers rather a slow means of propulsion. It took us more than an hour to cross the fiord;
but the passage was effected without any mishap.
In another half hour we had reached the aolkirkja of Gardar
