Walk in, sir."

[Illustration: THE PASTOR OF THINGVALLA.]

Pleased with these kind words, I stepped up to the good pastor and
cordially shook him by the hand, at the same time desiring Zoega to
say that I thanked him very much, and hoped he would make it
convenient to call and see me some time or other in California, which,
I regret to add, caused him to look both alarmed and embarrassed. A
queer, shy man was this pastor--a sort of living mummy, dried up and
bleached by Icelandic snows. His manner was singularly bashful. There
was something of the recluse in it--a mixture of shyness, awkwardness,
and intelligence, as if his life had been spent chiefly among sheep
and books, which very likely was the case. All the time I was trying
to say something agreeable he was looking about him as if he desired
to make his escape into some Icelandic bog, and there hide himself
during my stay. I followed him through the passage-way already
mentioned into the travelers' room, where he beckoned me to take a
seat, and then, awkwardly seating himself on the edge of a chair as
far away as he could get without backing through the wall, addressed
me in Danish. Finding me not very proficient in that tongue, he
branched off into Latin, which he spoke as fluently as if it had been
his native language. Here again I was at fault. I had gone as far as
_Quosque tandem_ when a boy, but the vicissitudes of time and travel
had knocked it all out of my head. I tried him on the German, and
there, to use a familiar phrase, had the "dead-wood on him." He
couldn't understand a word of that euphonious language. However, a
slight knowledge of the Spanish, picked up in Mexico and California,
enabled me to guess at some of his Latin, and in this way we struggled
into something of conversation. The effort, however, was too great for
the timid recluse. After several pauses and lapses into long fits of
silence, he got up and took his leave. Meantime Zoega was enjoying
himself by the fire in the kitchen, surrounded by the female members
of the family, who no doubt were eagerly listening to the latest news
from Reykjavik. Whenever their voices became audible I strongly
suspected that the ladies were asking whether the steamer had brought
any crinoline from Copenhagen.

The pastor's family appeared to be composed entirely of females. Like
all the Icelandic women I had seen, they do all the work of the
establishment, attend to the cows, make the cheese, cut the