for dear, friendly, peaceful
Skjagen. They call Skjagen an out-of-the-way corner; but it's a good
warm chimney-corner, and its windows open towards every part of the
world."

That was a journey!--it was like taking fresh breath--out of the cold
dungeon air into the warm sunshine! The heath stood blooming in its
greatest pride, and the herd-boy sat on the Hun's Grave and blew his
pipe, which he had carved for himself out of the sheep's bone. Fata
Morgana, the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the desert, showed itself
with hanging gardens and swaying forests, and the wonderful cloud
phenomenon, called here the "Lokeman driving his flock," was seen
likewise.

Up through the land of the Wendels, up towards Skjagen, they went,
from whence the men with the long beards (the Longobardi, or Lombards)
had emigrated in the days when, in the reign of King Snio, all the
children and the old people were to have been killed, till the noble
Dame Gambaruk proposed that the young people had better emigrate. All
this was known to Juergen--thus much knowledge he had; and even if he
did not know the land of the Lombards beyond the high Alps, he had an
idea how it must be there, for in his boyhood he had been in the
south, in Spain. He thought of the southern fruits piled up there; of
the red pomegranate blossoms; of the humming, murmuring, and toiling
in the great beehive of a city he had seen; but, after all, home is
best; and Juergen's home was Denmark.

[Illustration: JUeRGEN'S BETTER FORTUNE.]

At length they reached "Wendelskajn," as Skjagen is called in the old
Norwegian and Icelandic writings. Then already Old Skjagen, with the
western and eastern town, extended for miles, with sand-hills and
arable land, as far as the lighthouse near the "Skjagenzweig." Then,
as now, the houses were strewn among the wind-raised sand-hills--a
desert where the wind sports with the sand, and where the voices of
the seamen and the wild swans strike harshly on the ear. In the
south-west, a mile from the sea, lies Old Skjagen; and here dwelt
merchant Broenne, and here Juergen was henceforth to dwell. The great
house was painted with tar; the smaller buildings had each an
overturned boat for a roof; the pig-sty had been put together of
pieces of wreck. There was no fence here, for indeed there was nothing
to fence in; but long rows of fishes were hung upon lines, one above
the other, to dry in the wind. The whole coast was strewn with spoilt
herrings;