He spurred on to the edge.

His steed lowered his head to examine the nearest waves and stopped.

My uncle, who had an instinct of his own, too, applied pressure, and was again refused by the animal significantly shaking his head.

Then followed strong language, and the whip; but the brute answered these arguments with kicks and endeavours to throw his rider.

At last the clever little pony, with a bend of his knees, started from under the Professor's legs, and left him standing upon two boulders on the shore just like the colossus of Rhodes.
"Confounded brute!" cried the unhorsed horseman, suddenly degraded into a pedestrian, just as ashamed as a cavalry officer degraded to a foot soldier.
"_Faerja,_" said the guide, touching his shoulder.
"What! a boat ?" "_Der,_" replied Hans, pointing to one.
"Yes," I cried; "there is a boat." "Why did not you say so then?
Well, let us go on." "_Tidvatten,_" said the guide.
"What is he saying ?" "He says tide," said my uncle, translating the Danish word.
"No doubt we must wait for the tide." "_Foerbida,_" said my uncle.
"_Ja,_" replied Hans.
My uncle stamped with his foot, while the horses went on to the boat.
I perfectly understood the necessity of abiding a particular moment of the tide to undertake the crossing of the fiord, when, the sea having reached its greatest height, it should be slack water.