When we started for our drive the sun was shining brightly on Munich,
and the air was full of the joyousness of early summer. Just as we were
about to depart, Herr Delbrück (the maître d'hôtel of the Quatre
Saisons, where I was staying) came down, bareheaded, to the carriage
and, after wishing me a pleasant drive, said to the coachman, still
holding his hand on the handle of the carriage door:

'Remember you are back by nightfall. The sky looks bright but there is a
shiver in the north wind that says there may be a sudden storm. But I am
sure you will not be late.' Here he smiled, and added, 'for you know
what night it is.'

Johann answered with an emphatic, 'Ja, mein Herr,' and, touching his
hat, drove off quickly. When we had cleared the town, I said, after
signalling to him to stop:

'Tell me, Johann, what is tonight?'

He crossed himself, as he answered laconically: 'Walpurgis nacht.' Then
he took out his watch, a great, old-fashioned German silver thing as big
as a turnip, and looked at it, with his eyebrows gathered together and a
little impatient shrug of his shoulders. I realised that this was his
way of respectfully protesting against the unnecessary delay, and sank
back in the carriage, merely motioning him to proceed. He started off
rapidly, as if to make up for lost time. Every now and then the horses
seemed to throw up their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously. On such
occasions I often looked round in alarm. The road was pretty bleak, for
we were traversing a sort of high, wind-swept plateau. As we drove, I
saw a road that looked but little used, and which seemed to dip through