conditions. These high mountains will, in the bright sweet summer,
be populous with youth. Even up towards this high place where the
snow is scarce gone until July, these households will extend, and
below, the whole long valley of Urseren will be a scattered summer
town.

One figures one of the more urban highways, one of those along which
the light railways of the second order run, such as that in the
valley of Urseren, into which we should presently come. I figure it
as one would see it at night, a band a hundred yards perhaps in
width, the footpath on either side shaded with high trees and lit
softly with orange glowlights; while down the centre the tramway of
the road will go, with sometimes a nocturnal tram-car gliding, lit
and gay but almost noiselessly, past. Lantern-lit cyclists will flit
along the track like fireflies, and ever and again some humming
motor-car will hurry by, to or from the Rhoneland or the Rhineland
or Switzerland or Italy. Away on either side the lights of the
little country homes up the mountain slopes will glow.

I figure it at night, because so it is we should see it first.

We should come out from our mountain valley into the minor road that
runs down the lonely rock wilderness of the San Gotthard Pass, we
should descend that nine miles of winding route, and so arrive
towards twilight among the clustering homes and upland unenclosed
gardens of Realp and Hospenthal and Andermatt. Between Realp and
Andermatt, and down the Schoellenen gorge, the greater road would
run. By the time we reached it, we should be in the way of
understanding our adventure a little better. We should know already,
when we saw those two familiar clusters of chalets and hotels