Sunset was fading out upon the Rhaetikon and still reflected from the Seehorn on the lake, when we entered the gorge of the Fluela—­dense pines on either hand, a mounting drift of snow in front, and faint peaks, paling from rose to saffron, far above, beyond.  There was no sound but a tinkling stream and the continual jingle of our sledge-bells.  We drove at a foot’s pace, our horse finding his own path.  When we left the forest, the light had all gone except for some almost imperceptible touches of primrose on the eastern horns.  It was a moonless night, but the sky was alive with stars, and now and then one fell.  The last house in the valley was soon passed, and we entered those bleak gorges where the wind, fine, noiseless, penetrating like an edge of steel, poured slantwise on us from the north.  As we rose, the stars to west seemed far beneath us, and the Great Bear sprawled upon the ridges of the lower hills outspread.  We kept slowly moving onward, upward, into what seemed like a thin impalpable mist, but was immeasurable tracts of snow.  The last cembras were left behind, immovable upon dark granite boulders on our right.  We entered a formless and unbillowed sea of greyness, from which there rose dim mountain-flanks that lost themselves in air.  Up, ever up, and still below us westward sank the stars.  We were now 7500 feet above sea-level, and the December night was rigid with intensity of frost.  The cold, and movement, and solemnity of space, drowsed every sense.

IV

The memory of things seen and done in moonlight is like the memory of dreams.  It is as a dream that I recall the night of our tobogganing to Klosters, though it was full enough of active energy.  The moon was in her second quarter, slightly filmed with very high thin clouds, that disappeared as night advanced, leaving the sky and stars in all their lustre.  A sharp frost, sinking to three degrees above zero Fahrenheit, with a fine pure wind, such wind as here they call ’the mountain breath.’  We drove to Wolfgang in a two-horse sledge, four of us inside, and our two Christians on the box.  Up there, where the Alps of Death descend to join the Lakehorn Alps, above the Wolfswalk, there is a world of whiteness—­frozen ridges, engraved like cameos of aerial onyx upon the dark, star-tremulous sky; sculptured buttresses of snow, enclosing hollows filled with diaphanous shadow, and sweeping aloft into the upland fields of pure clear drift.  Then came the swift descent, the plunge into the pines, moon-silvered on their frosted tops.  The battalions of spruce that climb those hills defined the dazzling snow from which they sprang, like the black tufts upon an ermine robe.  At the proper moment we left our sledge, and the big Christian took his reins in hand to follow us.  Furs and greatcoats were abandoned.  Each stood forth tightly accoutred, with short coat, and clinging cap, and gaitered legs for the toboggan.