th
frightful rapidity through the narrow gorge of the mountains, the
country wears an exceedingly weird and desolate aspect; the ravines
and summits of the mountains are darkened by gloomy forests of pine,
relieved only by hoary and moss-covered cliffs overhanging the rushing
waters of the Logen. On the precipitous slopes of the pass, hundreds
of feet above the road, the peasants gathered enormous masses of rock,
logs of wood, and even trunks of trees, which they fixed in such a way
that, at a moment's notice, they could precipitate the whole terrible
avalanche upon the heads of the enemy.

Such was the secrecy with which the peasants managed the whole affair,
that the Scotch, ignorant even of the existence of a foe, marched
along in imaginary security till they reached the middle of the narrow
pass, when they were suddenly overwhelmed and crushed beneath the
masses of rocks and loose timbers launched upon them by the
Norwegians. Rushing from their ambush, the infuriated peasants soon
slaughtered the maimed and wounded, leaving, according to some
authorities, only two of the enemy to tell the tale. Others, however,
say that as many as sixty escaped, but were afterward caught and
massacred. Attached to this fearful story of retribution, Laing
mentions a romantic incident, which is still currently told in the
neighborhood. A young peasant was prevented from joining in the attack
by his sweet-heart, to whom he was to be married the next day. She,
learning that the wife of Colonel Sinclair was among the party, sent
her lover to offer his assistance; but the Scotch lady, mistaking his
purpose, shot him dead. Such is the tragic history that casts over
this wild region a mingled interest of horror and romance.

The road from Laurgaard beyond the pass of the Kringelen ascends a
high mountain. On the right is a series of foaming cataracts, and
nothing can surpass the rugged grandeur of the view as you reach the
highest eminence before descending toward Braendhagen. Here the
country is one vast wilderness of pine-clad mountains, green winding
valleys, and raging torrents of water dashing down over the jagged
rocks thousands of feet below. It was nearly night when I reached
Dombaas, the last station before ascending the Dovre Fjeld.

A telegraphic station at Dombaas gives something of a civilized aspect
to this stopping-place, otherwise rather a primitive-looking
establishment. The people, however, are very kind and hospitable,