the valley of
Thingvellir, for the reading of the old statutes and the promulgation
of the new ones, for the trial of felons and the settlement of
claims, for the making of love and the making of quarrels, for
wrestling and horse-fighting, for the practice of arms and the
breaking of heads. Count Trollop was in Iceland at this celebration
of the ancient festival, and he was induced by Jorgen to give it
the light of his countenance. The Governor's company set out on
half-a-hundred of the native ponies, and his daughter rode between
himself and the Count. During that ride of six or seven long Danish
miles Jorgen settled the terms of the intended transfer to his own
complete contentment. The Count acquiesced and the daughter did not
rebel.

The lonely valley was reached, the tents were pitched, the Bishop
halloweddays with a company of Englishmen as guide to
the geysers, and on his return he idled four weeks on the wharves,
looking at the foreign seamen as they arrived by the boats. The fame
of his exploit at Thingvellir had brought him a troop of admirers,
and what he wanted for his pleasure he never lacked. But necessity
began to touch him at home, and then he hinted to Rachel that her
father was rich. She had borne his indifference to her degradation,
she had not murmured at the idleness that pinched them, but at that
word something in her heart seemed to break. She bent her head and
said nothing. He went on to hint that she should go to her father,
who seeing her need would surely forgive her. Then her proud spirit
could brook no