The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, so vast, so
full of endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every
side to overwhelm them. Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and
knotted as if in rage, rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth
forests of beech-trees, round and gray, swept over the knolls and
slopes of land in a mighty ground-swell. But most of all, the
multitude of pines and firs, innumerable and monotonous, with
straight, stark trunks, and branches woven together in an unbroken
Hood of darkest green, crowded through the valleys and over the
hills, rising on the highest ridges into ragged crests, like the
foaming edge of breakers.

Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of shining
whiteness,--an ancient Roman road, covered with snow. It was as if
some great ship had ploughed through the green ocean long ago, and
left behind it a thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track
the travellers held their way,--heavily, for the drifts were deep;
warily, for the hard winter had driven many packs of wolves down
from the moors.

The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the sledges creaked
over the dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through
the still, cold air. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of
the road grew longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch,
dropped behind the tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it
had been a bird of prey waiting for this sign to swoop down upon
the world.

"Father," said Gregor to the leader, "surely this day's march is