The SKYDSGUT, or so-called postboy, for the next stage of the
journey, was a full-grown man of considerable weight. As he climbed
to his perch on our portmanteau, my lady Graygown congratulated me
on the prudence which had provided that one side of that receptacle
should be of an inflexible stiffness, quite incapable of being
crushed; otherwise, asked she, what would have become of her Sunday
frock under the pressure of this stern necessity of a postboy?
But I think we should not have cared very much if all our luggage
had been smashed on this journey, for the road now began to ascend,
and the views over the Etnadal, with its winding river, were of a
breadth and sweetness most consoling. Up and up we went, curving in
and out through the forest, crossing wild ravines and shadowy dells,
looking back at every turn on the wide landscape bathed in golden
light. At the station of Sveen, where we changed horse and postboy
again, it was already evening. The sun was down, but the mystical
radiance of the northern twilight illumined the sky. The dark fir-
woods spread around us, and their odourous breath was diffused
through the cool, still air. We were crossing the level summit of
the plateau, twenty-three hundred feet above the sea. Two tiny
woodland lakes gleamed out among the trees.
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