The voyage began.  The current was not travelling at more than two miles an hour.  The sun glared down on their heads mercilessly, and there was no shade or prospect of shade.  Maskull sat down near the edge, and periodically splashed water over his head.  Gangnet sat on his haunches next to him.  Krag paced up and down with short, quick steps, like an animal in a cage.  The lake widened out more and more, and the width of the stream increased in proportion, until they seemed to themselves to be floating on the bosom of some broad, flowing estuary.

Krag suddenly bent over and snatched off Gangnet’s hat, crushing it together in his hairy fist and throwing it far out into the stream.

“Why should you disguise yourself like a woman?” he asked with a harsh guffaw—­“Show Maskull your face.  Perhaps he has seen it somewhere.”

Gangnet did remind Maskull of someone, but he could not say of whom.  His dark hair curled down to his neck, his brow was wide, lofty, and noble, and there was an air of serious sweetness about the whole man that was strangely appealing to the feelings.

“Let Maskull judge,” he said with proud composure, “whether I have anything to be ashamed of.”

“There can be nothing but magnificent thoughts in that head,” muttered Maskull, staring hard at him.

“A capital valuation.  Gangnet is the king of poets.  But what happens when poets try to carry through practical enterprises?”

“What enterprises?” asked Maskull, in astonishment.

“What have you got on hand, Gangnet?  Tell Maskull.”

“There are two forms of practical activity,” replied Gangnet calmly.  “One may either build up, or destroy.”

“No, there’s a third species.  One may steal—­and not even know one is stealing.  One may take the purse and leave the money.”

Maskull raised his eyebrows.  “Where have you two met before?”

“I’m paying Gangnet a visit today, Maskull but once upon a time Gangnet paid me a visit.”

“Where?”

“In my home—­whatever that is.  Gangnet is a common thief.”

“You are speaking in riddles, and I don’t understand you.  I don’t know either of you, but it’s clear that if Gangnet is a poet, you’re a buffoon.  Must you go on talking?  I want to be quiet.”

Krag laughed, but said no more.  Presently he lay down at full length, with his face to the sun, and in a few minutes was fast asleep, and snoring disagreeably.  Maskull kept glancing over at his yellow, repulsive face with strong disfavour.

Two hours passed.  The land on either side was more than a mile distant.  In front of them there was no land at all.  Behind them, the Lichstorm Mountains were blotted out from view by a haze that had gathered together.  The sky ahead, just above the horizon, began to be of a strange colour.  It was an intense jale-blue.  The whole northern atmosphere was stained with ulfire.