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A Barren Land

           Hansstoppedherehalfanhour.Hesharedwithusourfrugalbreakfast;answeringmyuncle’squestionsabouttheroadandourrestingplacethatnightwithmerelyyesorno,exceptwhenhesaid"Gardär."

           IconsultedthemaptoseewhereGardärwas.IsawtherewasasmalltownofthatnameonthebanksoftheHvalfiord,fourmilesfromRejkiavik.Ishowedittomyuncle.

           "Fourmilesonly!"heexclaimed;"fourmilesoutoftwenty-eight.Whatanicelittlewalk!"

           Hewasabouttomakeanobservationtotheguide,whowithoutansweringresumedhisplaceatthehead,andwentonhisway.

           Threehourslater,stilltreadingonthecolourlessgrassofthepastureland,wehadtoworkroundtheKollafiord,alongerwaybutaneasieronethanacrossthatinlet.Wesoonenteredintoa‘pingstaœr’orparishcalledEjulberg,fromwhosesteepletwelveo’clockwouldhavestruck,ifIcelandicchurcheswererichenoughtopossessclocks.Buttheyareliketheparishionerswhohavenowatchesanddowithout.

           Thereourhorseswerebaited;thentakingthenarrowpathtoleftbetweenachainofhillsandthesea,theycarriedustoournextstage,theaolkirkjaofBrantärandonemilefartheron,toSaurboër‘Annexia,’achapelofeasebuiltonthesouthshoreoftheHvalfiord.

           Itwasnowfouro’clock,andwehadgonefourIcelandicmiles,ortwenty-fourEnglishmiles.

           InthatplacethefiordwasatleastthreeEnglishmileswide;thewavesrolledwitharushingdinuponthesharp-pointedrocks;

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Roboto Lora
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