“Is it extinct?”
“Oh, yes; more than five hundred years.”
“Well,” replied my uncle, who was frantically locking his legs together to keep himself from jumping up in the air, “that is where I mean to begin my geological studies, there on that Seffel—Fessel—what do you call it?”
“Snæfells,” replied the excellent M. Fridrikssen.
This part of the conversation was in Latin; I had understood every word of it, and I could hardly conceal my amusement at seeing my uncle trying to keep down the excitement and satisfaction which were brimming over in every limb and every feature. He tried hard to put on an innocent little expression of simplicity; but it looked like a diabolical grin.
“Yes,” said he, “your words decide me. We will try to scale that Snæfells; perhaps even we may pursue our studies in its crater!”
“I am very sorry,” said M. Fridrikssen, “that my engagements will not allow me to absent myself, or I would have accompanied you myself with both pleasure and profit.”
“Oh, no, no!” replied my uncle with great animation, “we would not disturb anyone for the world, M. Fridrikssen. Still, I thank you with all my heart: the company of such a talented man would have been very serviceable, but the duties of your profession—”
I am glad to think that our host, in the innocence of his Icelandic soul, was blind to the transparent artifices of my uncle.
“I very much approve of your beginning with that volcano, M. Liedenbrock. You will gather a harvest of interesting observations. But, tell me, how do you expect to get to the peninsula of Snæfells?”