Her hall is
called Grief. Famine is her table, and her only servant is Delay. Her
gate is a precipice, her porch Faintness, her bed Leanness,--Cursing and
Howling are her tent. Her glance is dreadful and terrifying,--and her
lips are blue with the venom of Hatred.' These words," he added, "sound
finer in Norwegian, but I have given the meaning fairly."
"Ma certes!" said Macfarlane chuckling. "I'll tell my aunt in Glasgie
aboot it. This Nifleheim wad suit her pairfectly,--she wad send a' her
relations there wi' tourist tickets, not available for the return
journey!"
"It seems to me," observed Errington, "that the Nine Worlds of Nifleheim
have a resemblance to the different circles of Dante's Purgatory."
"Exactly so," said Lorimer. "All religions seem to me to be more or less
the same,--the question I can never settle is,--which is the right one?"
"Would you follow it if you knew?" asked Thelma, with a slight smile.
Lorimer laughed.
"Well, upon my life, I don't know!" he answered frankly, "I never was a
praying sort of fellow,--I don't seem to grasp the idea of it somehow.
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