They pulled up. Germany it might be--but the road to Treves? He did not
know; he knew nothing, except that with his left foot he stood in
Germany, and with his right in France.




CHAPTER VIII


GERMANY

Over the side of the next mountain all Hans Andersen was stretched
before them--tracts of _little_ country, little wooden houses with
pointed roofs, little hills covered with squares of different coloured
woods, and a blue river at the bottom of the valley, white with geese
upon its banks. They held their open mouths insultedly in the air as the
motor passed. The narrow road became like marble, and the car hissed
like a glass ball rolled on a stone step. On every little hill stood a
castle made of brown chocolate, very small, but complete with turrets.
Young horses with fat stomachs and arched necks bolted sideways off the
road in fear, followed by gaily painted lattice-work carts, and plunged
far into the grassland at the side. Old women with coloured hoods swore
at them, and pulled the reins. Many pointed hills were grey with
vine-sticks, and on the crest of each of these stood a small chapel as
if to bless the wine. The countryside was wet and fresh--white, hardly
yellow--with the winter sun; moss by the roadside still dripped from the
night, and small bare orchard trees stood in brilliant grass.