After many days of suffering—days which were like a horrible dream of cloudless sky and lapping water, with never a drop to quench their thirst; a ball of fire by day, which yet gave no grateful warmth, and a maddening calm of moon at night; a nightmare of wandering thoughts, and gibbering tongues, amid which the face of Nordjansen looked like a fabled Gorgon, with eyes of restless fire—after many days of this inexpressible horror they were taken on board a ship bound for the East Indies. Nordjansen had crouched down by a coil of rope, his long gray beard hung in matted strings, his scant white hair tossed wildly in the breeze. A seaman, attending to his duty, stumbled over a loose end of the rope and came near falling; he gave vent to an impatient exclamation in his native tongue—Norwegian. No matter how fluently one speaks a foreign language, in moments of emotion the tongue falls naturally into its national speech. Nordjansen sprang to his feet, his eyes glowing wildly; his words came tumbling over each other in voluble incoherency; he clasped his compatriot’s knees and kissed the hands that would have pushed him away; the fiery light died out of his eyes, leaving them sad and pathetic; at last the man understood, and lifting him to his feet said kindly: “Tell me what you wish?” “I want to go to my Norway! I wish for my friends! I am weary of strange lands, and stranger things! I long for the land of my birth, and would once more hear our beloved language spoken by all!” he poured forth volubly. “Yes, yes!” answered his friend soothingly, as he hurried away. Nordjansen’s eyes followed him hungrily, and from that time he watched the leaping waves with glad delight as he stood for hours at the prow of the boat. “Fly! Begone! Away with you, that the more speedily I may see my beloved land,” he would cry with all the happy abandon of childhood. He waylaid Varman, and plied him with endless questions until the man took every means of keeping out of his sight. Day followed day in sickening monotony, until Nordjansen laid his aching head upon his coil of rope and wept in weariness of heart. “I shall never see my land again; Varman is deceiving me. I wish that I had been less unkind to She; I should know _her_ thought; _She_ would not deceive me!” He was so soon regretting that which he had cast side so carelessly, forgetful that dead love knows no resurrection; neither can the divine passion be put on or off as easily as we can reconsider our decision as to cast-off garments. Thus he fretted until the hours were as days, and the days interminable; when they hailed a passing ship, and he was transferred to the homeward-bound vessel, and thus at last he reached the haven of his desire—Norway. As his old feet tottered through the streets of his native place, all things looked sad and strange; he looked piteously around, seeking a familiar countenance, and when he found not one, he hid his face in his shaking hands and wept aloud.