Off we started in line, with but brief interval between, at first slowly, then glidingly, and when the impetus was gained, with darting, bounding, almost savage swiftness—­sweeping round corners, cutting the hard snow-path with keen runners, avoiding the deep ruts, trusting to chance, taking advantage of smooth places, till the rush and swing and downward swoop became mechanical.  Space was devoured.  Into the massy shadows of the forest, where the pines joined overhead, we pierced without a sound, and felt far more than saw the great rocks with their icicles; and out again, emerging into moonlight, met the valley spread beneath our feet, the mighty peaks of the Silvretta and the vast blue sky.  On, on, hurrying, delaying not, the woods and hills rushed by.  Crystals upon the snow-banks glittered to the stars.  Our souls would fain have stayed to drink these marvels of the moon-world, but our limbs refused.  The magic of movement was upon us, and eight minutes swallowed the varying impressions of two musical miles.  The village lights drew near and nearer, then the sombre village huts, and soon the speed grew less, and soon we glided to our rest into the sleeping village street.

V

It was just past midnight.  The moon had fallen to the western horns.  Orion’s belt lay bar-like on the opening of the pass, and Sirius shot flame on the Seehorn.  A more crystalline night, more full of fulgent stars, was never seen, stars everywhere, but mostly scattered in large sparkles on the snow.  Big Christian went in front, tugging toboggans by their strings, as Gulliver, in some old woodcut, drew the fleets of Lilliput.  Through the brown wood-chalets of Selfrangr, up to the undulating meadows, where the snow slept pure and crisp, he led us.  There we sat awhile and drank the clear air, cooled to zero, but innocent and mild as mother Nature’s milk.  Then in an instant, down, down through the hamlet, with its chalets, stables, pumps, and logs, the slumbrous hamlet, where one dog barked, and darkness dwelt upon the path of ice, down with the tempest of a dreadful speed, that shot each rider upward in the air, and made the frame of the toboggan tremble—­down over hillocks of hard frozen snow, dashing and bounding, to the river and the bridge.  No bones were broken, though the race was thrice renewed, and men were spilt upon the roadside by some furious plunge.  This amusement has the charm of peril and the unforeseen.  In no wise else can colder, keener air be drunken at such furious speed.  The joy, too, of the engine-driver and the steeplechaser is upon us.  Alas, that it should be so short!  If only roads were better made for the purpose, there would be no end to it; for the toboggan cannot lose his wind.  But the good thing fails at last, and from the silence of the moon we pass into the silence of the fields of sleep.

VI