And see--over the lake,
that still mirrored the evening red, a boat appeared moving towards the
island, and two white-sleeved girls sat at the oars, singing as they
rowed. A strange feeling came over him. Here--here he would stay.
In the saeter-hut stood an enormously fat woman, with a rope round
her middle, evidently ready to go to bed. Could she put him up for the
night? Why, yes, she supposed so--and she rolled off into another room.
And soon he was lying in a tiny chamber, in a bed with a mountainous
mattress and a quilt. There was a fresh smell from the juniper twigs
strewed about the newly-washed floor, and the cheeses, which stood in
rows all round the shelf-lined walls. Ah! he had slept in many places
and fashions--at sea in a Lofoten boat; on the swaying back of a camel;
in tents out in the moonlit desert; and in palaces of the Arabian
Nights, where dwarfs fanned him with palm-leaves to drive away the heat,
and called him pasha. But here, at last, he had found a place where it
was good to be. And he closed his eyes, and lay listening to the murmur
of a little stream outside in the light summer night, till he fell
asleep.
Late in the forenoon of the next day he was awakened by the entry of the
old woman with coffee. Then a plunge into the blue-green water of
the mountain lake, a short swim, and back to find grilled trout and
new-baked waffles and thick cream for lunch.
Yes, said the old woman, if he could get along with the sort of victuals
she could cook, he might stay here a few days and welcome.
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