red temples of the gods.' I have felt a
new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to 'cudgel my
brains,' as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will make my
name."

_Part of the third letter_, _the second being mere talk about the book_
(_a history apparently_) _that the man was writing_:

"MY DEAR JOYCE,--I have written you two letters--this will make the
third--but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been
expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are
kindly people towards strangers--to say nothing of the inducements of
trade. A fortnight having passed, however, and the commissariat
question having become serious, I yesterday set out before dawn, and
made my way down to the valley; and this gives me something to tell
you. Nearing the village, I met a peasant woman. To my intense
surprise, instead of returning my salutation, she stared at me, as if
I were some wild animal, and shrank away from me as far as the width
of the road would permit. In the village the same experience awaited
me. The children ran from me, the people avoided me. At last a grey-
haired old man appeared to take pity on me, and from him I learnt the
explanation of the mystery. It seems there is a strange superstition
attaching to this house in which we are living. My things were
brought up here by the two men who accompanied me from Drontheim, but
the natives are afraid to go near the place, and prefer to keep as far
as possible from any one connected with it.

"The story is that the house was built by one Hund, 'a maker of runes'
(one of the old saga writers, no doubt), who lived here with his young
wife. All went peacefully until, unfortunately for him, a certain maiden
stationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him.

"Forgive me if I am telling you what you know, but a 'saeter' is the name
given to the upland pastures to which, during the summer, are sent the
cattle, generally under the charge of one or more of the maids. Here for
three months these girls will live in their lonely huts, entirely shut
off from the world. Customs change little in this land. Two or three
such stations are within climbing distance of this house, at this day,
looked after by the farmers' daughters, as in the days of Hund, 'maker of
runes.'

"Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would come and tap
lightly at Hund's door.