_Thursday, June 11th, 10 a.m._—In sight of the Loffoden Islands; sky overcast; some few rays of the sun; sea smoother; the vessel still rolls. _Friday, June 12th, 9.30._—At last we are in the straits which lead to Tromsö. I was so ill to-night that I should have thrown myself into the sea had I forgotten, for one moment, my duty and my family. [Illustration: DANES ISLAND AND THE PIKE HOUSE.] At 11 p.m. I sent for the doctor; it seemed to me that I was going to die all alone in my narrow cabin. He ordered me champagne and sleep. Charlotte, the stewardess, brought me some oranges, and took off my boots, which I had not had the courage to take off for four days. Oh, Charlotte, my fair Scandinavian maid, with your clear eyes, your engaging smile, your gay face, and your lithe but robust physique, how you must have pitied “the French gentleman,” as they called me, who but the other day was so nimble, so sure of himself to all appearance, and who has suddenly become more inert and helpless than an old cap that has been cast away by the skipper! And in spite of the horrible tortures I suffered, I was vaguely conscious of the strange humour of the situation of having my boots removed by dainty female hands better adapted for millinery than for such a rough task. Have you ever been sea-sick? If you have, you will understand me. How well I then understood what is narrated of Cicero, who, having taken refuge on board a vessel in order to escape the assassin sent out for him by Marc-Antony, preferred returning to Gaeta, to face the death which he feared, to enduring any longer the tortures of sea-sickness. The bay bristles with high granite mountains with snow-capped summits. The _Virgo_ makes signals for a pilot, who is a long time coming; she stops from five o’clock to nine awaiting him, and strange to say, when the noise of the engine ceases we have a feeling of sadness. It is as if something was wanting from our lives. At last, at half-past nine the much-wished-for pilot arrives, and the _Virgo_ resumes her route towards Tromsö, the promised land. We are now floating on a lake whose banks are clad with verdure. I behold with some amount of pleasure the objects surrounding me. What a contrast! On the right a group of well-built, brick pilots’ houses, on the mountain slope, facing the sea. Heavy cumuli cover the summits of the rocks; above, the sky is of a pure blue, and the bright sun pours floods of golden light over the landscape. On the left there is a church standing all alone, the rendezvous of the fishermen who inhabit the coast in summer. The sailors are getting ready the boat which is to set us ashore, as there is no quay at Tromsö, and the _Virgo_ will remain at anchor in the roads. The bay is getting narrower and villages succeed each other, with telegraph lines on both banks. Numerous Norwegian fishing boats are ploughing the sea. The air is pure and dry.