its pursuing tones; but in anger now, no longer soft and coaxing. And it
was accompanied; she did not follow alone. It seemed a host of these
flying figures of the snow chased madly just behind him. He felt them
furiously smite his neck and cheeks, snatch at his hands and try to
entangle his feet and ski in drifts. His eyes they blinded, and they
caught his breath away.

The terror of the heights and snow and winter desolation urged him
forward in the maddest race with death a human being ever knew; and so
terrific was the speed that before the gold and crimson had left the
summits to touch the ice-lips of the lower glaciers, he saw the friendly
forest far beneath swing up and welcome him.

And it was then, moving slowly along the edge of the woods, he saw a
light. A man was carrying it. A procession of human figures was passing
in a dark line laboriously through the snow. And--he heard the sound of
chanting.

Instinctively, without a second's hesitation, he changed his course. No
longer flying at an angle as before, he pointed his ski straight down
the mountain-side. The dreadful steepness did not frighten him. He knew
full well it meant a crashing tumble at the bottom, but he also knew it
meant a doubling of his speed--with safety at the end. For, though no
definite thought passed through his mind, he understood that it was the
village _cure_ who carried that little gleaming lantern in the dawn, and
that he was taking the Host to a chalet on the lower slopes--to some
peasant _in extremis_. He remembered her terror of the church and bells.
She feared the holy symbols.

There was one last wild cry in his ears as he started, a shriek of the