The Professor saw that my limbs were refusing to perform their office, and in spite of his impatience he decided on stopping.

He therefore spoke to the hunter, who shook his head, saying: "_Ofvanfoer._" "It seems we must go higher," said my uncle.
Then he asked Hans for his reason.
"_Mistour,_" replied the guide.
"_Ja Mistour,_" said one of the Icelanders in a tone of alarm.
"What does that word mean ?" I asked uneasily.
"Look!" said my uncle.
I looked down upon the plain.

An immense column of pulverized pumice, sand and dust was rising with a whirling circular motion like a waterspout; the wind was lashing it on to that side of Snaefell where we were holding on; this dense veil, hung across the sun, threw a deep shadow over the mountain.

If that huge revolving pillar sloped down, it would involve us in its whirling eddies.

This phenomenon, which is not unfrequent when the wind blows from the glaciers, is called in Icelandic 'mistour.' "_Hastigt! hastigt!_" cried our guide.
Without knowing Danish I understood at once that we must follow Hans at the top of our speed.