“What is this?” he cried.  “Are you possessed of evil spirits, that you would quarrel on the eve of battle?  Remember, Ketill, that Estein is your prince; and Estein, my brother, what ails you?  You are under a spell indeed.  Would that I had slain the witch ere you parted.  You can gain nothing by wrecking the ship, and this fog is too dense to row a race off such a coast as this.”

Perhaps it was the allusion to the “witch” that brought Estein to his senses, for his eyes suddenly softened.

“I was wrong, Ketill,” he said.  “The wrath of the gods is upon me, and I am not myself.”

He turned away abruptly, and gazed moodily into the fog; while Ketill, with the look of one who is dealing with a madman, left the poop.

“It is ill sailing with a bewitched leader,” he muttered.

The idea that Estein was under a spell took rapid hold of the superstitious crew.  They told each other that this was no earthly mist that had fallen on them, and listening to the break of the sea on the cliffs, they talked low of wizards and sea-monsters, and heard strange voices in the sound of the surge.  Then they became afraid to row at more than a snail’s pace, and sometimes almost stopped altogether.  In vain Helgi went amongst them, and urged that Grim knew these waters so well that there was little danger, in vain he pointed to the hope of booty and revenge ahead; even as he spoke there was a momentary break in the mist, and they saw the towering cliff so close above them that his words were wasted.

“There is witchcraft here,” they said; and Ketill was as obstinate as the rest.  The ship crept under the cliffs with hardly any way on at all, and Helgi, in despair, saw the golden hour slipping by.

“Oh, for two more good ships,” he thought:  “then we could wait till daylight, and fall upon them when we pleased.”

Estein had again fallen a prey to his thoughts.  In his gloomy fatalism he thought that the wrath of the gods pursued him for the neglect of his duty to his murdered brother, and he submitted to the failure of this adventure as the beginning of his punishment.  The fighting fire died out, the longing for action was choked, and in their place what was as nearly a spell as can fall on mortal men had fallen on him.  His devoted friend fumed impatiently beside him as the fog grew denser and the hours went slowly by, and bitterly he cursed the enchantress of the Holy Isle.

“He talks of the gods,” he said to himself.  “This is no work of theirs; it is the magic of that island witch, may the trolls take her!”

“The fog lifts!” cried Grim from his post at the tiller.

The men heard the cry, and ceasing their awestruck talk, looked eagerly at the fast-widening rifts in the white shroud.  Ghost-like wreaths detached themselves, flitted by the ship, and then dissipated in thin air.  The summer night sky with its pale stars appeared in lakes above, and below, the fog rose from the water like steam.  Presently the great cliffs came out clear and terrible in the midnight dusk, and the men cried that the spell was broken.