The cape is merely a low hill with steep sides, standing lonely by the beach.
The _Valkyria_ kept at some distance from the coast, taking a westerly course amidst great shoals of whales and sharks.

Soon we came in sight of an enormous perforated rock, through which the sea dashed furiously.

The Westman islets seemed to rise out of the ocean like a group of rocks in a liquid plain.

From that time the schooner took a wide berth and swept at a great distance round Cape Rejkianess, which forms the western point of Iceland.
The rough sea prevented my uncle from coming on deck to admire these shattered and surf-beaten coasts.
Forty-eight hours after, coming out of a storm which forced the schooner to scud under bare poles, we sighted east of us the beacon on Cape Skagen, where dangerous rocks extend far away seaward.

An Icelandic pilot came on board, and in three hours the _Valkyria_ dropped her anchor before Rejkiavik, in Faxa Bay.
The Professor at last emerged from his cabin, rather pale and wretched-looking, but still full of enthusiasm, and with ardent satisfaction shining in his eyes.
The population of the town, wonderfully interested in the arrival of a vessel from which every one expected something, formed in groups upon the quay.
My uncle left in haste his floating prison, or rather hospital.