The night was clear and cold; the men’s footsteps fell noiselessly on the soft snow, nothing was heard except the creaking of the sledge, and ever and anon Elizabeth’s low moaning, or a louder word in the old woman’s soliloquy. Ruth had fallen asleep on her mother’s lap, and was breathing heavily. At Lautenhof a narrow path led through the mountains deep into the forest. As it grew steeper, the snow became knee-deep, and the men helped the little horse, which often coughed, tossing its thick head up and down, as if working a churn. Once, when the poor creature met with a very heavy fall, Marx pointed to the green woollen scarf on the animal’s neck, and whispered to the smith “Twenty years old, and has the glanders besides.” The little beast nodded slowly and mournfully, as if to say: “Life is hard; this will probably be the last time I draw a sleigh.” The broad, heavy-laden pine-boughs drooped wearily by the roadside, the gleaming surface of the snow stretched in a monotonous sheet of white between the trunks of the trees, the tops of the dark rocks beside the way bore smooth white caps of loose snow, the forest stream was frozen along the edges, only in the centre did the water trickle through snow-crystals and sharp icicles to the valley. So long as the moon shone, flickering rays danced and sparkled on the ice and snow, but afterwards only the tedious glimmer of the universal snow-pall lighted the traveller’s way. “If it would only snow!” repeated the charcoal-burner. The higher they went, the deeper grew the snow, the more wearisome the wading and climbing. Often, on the doctor’s account, the smith called in a low voice, “Halt!” and then Costa approached the sleigh and asked: “How do you feel?” or said: “We are getting on bravely.” Rahel screamed whenever a fox barked in the distance, a wolf howled, or an owl flew through the treetops, brushing the snow from the branches with its wings; but the others also started. Marx alone walked quietly and undisturbed beside his little horse’s thick head; he was familiar with all the voices of the forest. It grew colder towards morning. Ruth woke and cried, and her father, panting for breath, asked: “When shall we rest?” “Behind the height; ten arrow-shots farther,” replied the charcoal-burner. “Courage,” whispered the smith. “Get on the sledge, doctor; we’ll push.” But Costa shook his head, pointed to the panting horse, and dragged himself onward. The poacher must have sent his arrows in a strange curve, for one quarter of an hour after another slipped by, and the top was not yet gained. Meantime it grew lighter and lighter, and the charcoal-burner, with increasing anxiety, ever and anon raised his head, and glanced aside. The sky was covered with clouds-the light overhead grey, dim, and blended with mist. The snow was still dazzling, though it no longer sparkled and glittered, but covered every object with the dull whiteness of chalk.