the codfish and the moorcocks; and thus it was that now, when I had done

with my classes, I was returning thither with so light a heart that July

day.

The Ross, as we call it, is a promontory neither wide nor high, but as

rough as God made it to this day; the deep sea on either hand of it, full

of rugged isles and reefs most perilous to seamen--all overlooked from

the eastward by some very high cliffs and the great peals of Ben Kyaw.

_The Mountain of the Mist_, they say the words signify in the Gaelic

tongue; and it is well named. For that hill-top, which is more than

three thousand feet in height, catches all the clouds that come blowing

from the seaward; and, indeed, I used often to think that it must make

them for itself; since when all heaven was clear to the sea level, there

would ever be a streamer on Ben Kyaw. It brought water, too, and was

mossy {5} to the top in consequence. I have seen us sitting in broad

sunshine on the Ross, and the rain falling black like crape upon the

mountain. But the wetness of it made it often appear more beautiful to

my eyes; for when the sun struck upon the hill sides, there were many wet

rocks and watercourses that shone like jewels even as far as Aros,

fifteen miles away.

The road that I followed was a cattle-track. It twisted so as nearly to

double the length of my journey; it went over rough boulders so that a

man had to leap from one to another, and through soft bottoms where the

moss came nearly to the knee. There was no cultivation anywhere, and not

one house in the ten miles from Grisapol to Aros. Houses of course there

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