“There is some purpose in this; come to think of it, there is a purpose in most things, and I shall arrive at an understanding of this one,” he murmured complacently. His surroundings were visibly changing, distance seemed tangible, all things more real. A strange awesome stillness had fallen around him like a mantle of dread, and every instant seemed to deepen its intensity; the air, from being languorously balmy, had grown chill, and a strong current hurried him forward. His perplexed mind began to grasp the solution which had evaded him; were it not for these many turnings, and the immensity of the circle, the cold draught from Pole to Pole would sweep through with all the devastating force of a cyclone. He stopped and straightened himself, bringing his hands together with a resounding thwack: “To be sure! Why, of course! Nordhung, I thought you would master the problem; there is very little that baffles you!” he cried approvingly. His voice sounded horrible; it echoed, and re-echoed like the laughter of a thousand demons; in wild affright he started to run, but stumbled and fell; a groan was wrung from his lips as he tried to rise; he thought he heard a soft sigh, and a moist, warm vapor swept his bruised cheek like a tender, clinging kiss. He stumbled to his feet regardless of his wounds, and screamed out, as he struck furiously into the darkness: “Go back; go to your own kind; I hate you!” he screamed, crazed with rage and his fear of restraint, and as he was—as purely animal fear ever is—brutal. A single, sad note answered him; sad as the wail of the autumn wind when the last leaf floats down to earth; sad as the cry of the Soul which—seeing Heaven’s wide-open gate—must still pass by on the other side; as sad—oh, saddest of all, as when all love’s hopes lie slain by one’s best beloved. Adieu! adieu! His hand was again lifted to strike, and—“Ah!” he caught his breath in a sharp gasp; a gust of wind lifted him off his feet, precisely as in entering, forcing his hands close to his sides, feet pressed together—toes up—like the feet of the dead. Swift, swifter he sped; all thought, all feeling lost in that mad rush; a vague consciousness alone remained to him. It seemed that for ages he was borne along, then into his dim consciousness entered the same rumbling sounds; heavy, jarring, indistinguishable noises; cold, colder grew the atmosphere, the wind pierced to the marrow of his bones; his very vitals seemed freezing. Happily he lost consciousness. For many days a wild storm swept the far southern sea, and a half-dozen sailors, with their small boat, were thrown upon a rocky point which was continually lashed by the icy waves; there they found a gaunt, white-haired old man, who sobbed at sight of them. When, after weeks of suffering from cold and hunger, they again put to sea in their small boat, they took the old man with them.