Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins.  It was no child’s play, in those days, to cross Europe afoot.

The weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered hill and vale, tableland and mountain-peak.  There were wide moors where the wolves hunted in packs as if the devil drove them, and tangled thickets where the lynx and the boar made their lairs.  Fierce bears lurked among the rocky passes, and had not yet learned to fear the face of man.  The gloomy recesses of the forest gave shelter to inhabitants who were still more cruel and dangerous than beasts of prey,—­outlaws and sturdy robbers and mad were-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers.

The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the Tiber to the mouth of the Rhine must travel with a little army of retainers, or else trust in God and keep his arrows loose in the quiver.

The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, so vast, so full of endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every side to overwhelm them.  Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and knotted as if in rage, rose in groves like tidal waves.  Smooth forests of beech-trees, round and gray, swept over the knolls and slopes of land in a mighty ground-swell.  But most of all, the multitude of pines and firs, innumerable and monotonous, with straight, stark trunks, and branches woven together in an unbroken Hood 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 to spare thy legs or mine, until we come farther on our way, and do what must be done this night.  Draw the belt tighter, my son, and hew me out this tree that is fallen across the road, for our campground is not here.”