straight, stark trunks, and branches woven together in an unbroken
flood 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
done. It is time to rest, and eat, and sleep. If we press onward
now, we cannot see our steps; and will not that be against the
word of the psalmist David, who bids us not to put confidence in
the legs of a man?"

Winfried laughed. "Nay, my son Gregor," said he, "thou hast
tripped, even now, upon thy text. For David said only, 'I take no
pleasure in the legs of a man.' And so say I, for I am not minded