which in summer trickled down the ribbed scarps, were now transmuted into icicles.

One gusty night, a violent blow at the door startled all in the farm; in another moment, Glámr, tall as a troll, stood in the hall glowering out of his wild eyes, his grey hair matted with frost, his teeth rattling and snapping with cold, his face bloodred in the glare of the fire which smouldered in the centre of the hall.

Thorhall jumped up and greeted him warmly, but the housewife was too frightened to be very cordial.

Weeks passed, and the new shepherd was daily on the moors with his flock; his loud and deep-toned voice was often borne down on the blast, as he shouted to the sheep, driving them into fold. His presence always produced gloom, and if he spoke, it sent a thrill through the women, who openly proclaimed their aversion for him.

There was a church near the byre, but Glámr never crossed the threshold; he hated psalmody, which shows what a bad man he was.

On the Vigil of the Nativity, Glámr rose early and shouted for meat. "Meat!" exclaimed the housewife; "no man calling himself a Christian touches flesh to-day. To-morrow is the Holy Christmas-day, and this is a fast."

"All superstition!" roared Glámr. "As far as I can see, men are no better now than they were in the bonny heathen time. Now bring me meat, and make no more ado about it."

"You may be quite certain," protested the good wife, "if church rule be not kept, ill-luck will follow."

Glámr ground his teeth, and clenched his hands: "Meat! I will have meat, or—!" !" In fear and trembling the poor woman obeyed.

The day was raw and windy; masses of grey vapour rolled up from the Arctic Ocean, and hung in piles about the mountain tops. Now and then a scud of frozen fog, composed of minute spicula of ice, swept along the glen, covering bar and beam with feathery hoarfrost. As the day declined, snow

began to fall in large flakes, like the down of the eider-duck. One moment there was a lull in the wind, and then the deeptoned shout of Glámr, high up the moor slopes, was heard distinctly by the congregation assembling for the first vespers of Christmas-day. Darkness came on, deep as that in the rayless abysses of Surtshellir, and still the snow fell thicker. The lights from the church-windows sent a yellow haze far out into the night, and every flake burned golden as it swept within the ray. The bell in the lych-gate clanged for even-song, and the wind puffed the sound far up the glen; perhaps it reached the herdsman's ear. Hark! some one caught a distant shout or shriek, which it was he could not tell, for the wind muttered and mumbled about the church eaves, and then, with a fierce whistle, scudded over the grave-yard fence.

Glámr had not returned when the service was over. Thorhall suggested a search, but no man would accompany him; and no wonder! it was not a night for a dog to be out in; besides, the tracks were a foot deep in snow. The family sat up all night, waiting, listening, trembling; but no Glámr came home.

Dawn broke at last, wan and blear in the south. The clouds hung down like great sheets, full of snow, almost to bursting.

A party was soon formed to search for the missing man. A sharp scramble brought them to high land, and the ridge between the two rivers which join in Vatnsdalr was thoroughly examined. Here and there were found the scattered sheep, shuddering under an icicled rock, or half-buried in a snowdrift. No trace yet. of the keeper. A dead ewe lay at the bottom of a crag, it had staggered over it in the gloom, and had been dashed to pieces.

Presently the whole party were called together about a trampled spot in the heithi, where evidently a death-struggle had taken place, for earth and stone were tossed about, and the snow was blotched with large splashes of blood. A gory track led up the mountain, and the farm-servants were following it, when a cry, almost of agony, from one of the lads

made them turn. In looking behind a rock, the boy had come upon the corpse of the shepherd-it was livid and swollen to the size of a bullock. It lay on its back with the arms extended. The snow had been scrabbled up by the puffed hands in the death agony, and the staring glassy eyes gazed out of the ashen-grey, upturned face, into the vaporous canopy overhead. From the purple lips lolled the tongue, which in the last throes had been bitten through by the horrid white fangs, and a discoloured stream which had flowed from it was now an icicle.

With trouble the dead man was raised on a litter, and carried to a gill-edge, but beyond this he could not be borne; his weight waxed more and more, the bearers toiled beneath their burden, their foreheads became beaded with sweat; though strong men, they were crushed to the ground. Consequently, the corpse was left at the ravine-head, and the men returned to the farm. Next day their efforts to lift Glámr's bloated carcase, and remove it to consecrated ground, were unavailing. On the third day a priest accompanied them, but the body was nowhere to be found. Another expedition without the priest was made, and on this occasion the corpse was found; so a cairn was raised over it on the spot.

"What! that which we have just passed?" asked Mr. Briggs.

66

No," answered I; "Glámr was twice buried, as you shall hear."

Two nights after this, one of the thralls who had gone after the cows, burst into the stofa with a face blank and scared; he staggered to a seat and fainted. On recovering his senses, in a broken voice, he assured all who crowded about him, that he had seen Glámr walking past him, as he left the door of the stable. On the following evening a houseboy was found in a fit under the tún wall, and he remained an idiot to his dying day. Some of the women next saw a face, which, though blown out and discoloured, they recognized as that of Glámr, looking in upon them through a

window of the dairy. In the twilight, Thorhall himself met the dead man, who stood and glowered at him, but made no attempt to injure his master. The haunting did not end there. Nightly Nightly a heavy tread was heard around the house, and a hand feeling along the walls, sometimes thrust in at the windows, at others clutching at the woodwork, and breaking it to splinters. However, when the spring came round the disturbances lessened, and, as the sun obtained full power, ceased altogether.

That summer, a vessel from Norway dropped anchor in Húnavatn. Thorhall visited it, and found on board a man named Thorgaut, who was in search of work.

"What do you say to being my shepherd?" asked the bonder.

"I should much like the office," answered Thorgaut; “I am as strong as two ordinary men, and a handy fellow to boot."

"I will not engage you without forewarning you of the terrible things you may have to encounter during the winter night."

"Pray what may they be?"

"Ghosts and hobgoblins," answered the farmer; "a fine dance they lead me, I can promise you."

"I fear them not," answered Thorgaut; "I shall be with you at cattle-slaughtering time."

At the appointed season the man came, and soon established himself as a favourite in the household; he romped with the children, chucked the maidens under the chin, helped his fellow-servants, did odd jobs for his master, gratified the housewife by admiring her skyr, and was just as much liked as his predecessor had been detested. He was a devil-maycare fellow too, and made no bones of his contempt for the ghost, expressing hopes of meeting him face to face, which made his master look grave, and his mistress shudderingly cross herself. As the winter came on, strange sights and sounds began to alarm the folk, but these never frightened Thorgaut; he slept too soundly at night to hear the tread

of feet about the door, and was too short-sighted to catch glimpses of a grizzly monster striding up and down, in the twilight, before its cairn.

At last Christmas-eve came round, and Thorgaut went out as usual with his sheep.

"Have a care, man!" urged the bonder; "

to the gill-head, where Glámr lies."

"go not near

"Tut, tut! fear not for me. I shall be back by Vespers."

"God grant it," sighed the housewife; "but 'tis a wisht day to be sure."

"And pray, what does a wisht day mean?" asked Mr. Briggs.

"It is a Devonshire expression; wisht means anything ill-omened, desolate, dangerous."

"Go on then; but don't put any more Devonshire expressions into Icelandic mouths," said Mr. Briggs.

Twilight came on; a feeble light hung over the south, one white streak along this heithi we are crossing. Far off in southern lands it was still day, but here the darkness gathered in apace, and men came from Vatnsdalr for evensong, to herald in the night when Christ was born. Christmas-eve! How different in Saxon England! there the great ashen faggot is rolled along the hall with torch and taper; the mummers dance with their merry jingling bells; the boar's head with gilded tusks, "bedecked with holly and rosemary," is brought in by the steward to a flourish of trumpets.

How different, too, where the Varanger cluster round the Imperial throne in the mighty church of the Eternal Wisdom at this very hour! Outside, the air is soft from breathing over the Bosphorus, which flashes tremulously beneath the stars. The orange and laurel leaves in the Palace gardens are still exhaling fragrance in the hush of the Christmas night.

But it is different here! The wind is piercing as a twoedged sword; blocks of ice clash and grind along the coast of