With a roar, the car sprang forward like a spurred horse. Heaven knows the speed at which St. Justin was passed. I was beyond caring. We missed a figure by inches and a cart by a foot. Then the cottages faded, and the long snarl of the engine sank to the stormy mutter she kept for the open road. We were in the forest now, and I let her go. Out of the memories of that April evening our progress through the forest stands like a chapter of a dream. Below us, the tapering road, paler than ever--on either side an endless army of fir trees, towering shoulder to shoulder, so dark, so vast, and standing still as Death--above us, a lane of violet, all pricked with burning stars, we supped the rare old ale brewed by Hans Andersen himself. Within this magic zone the throb of the engine, the hiss of the carburettor, the swift brush of the tires upon the road--three rousing tones, yielding a thunderous chord, were curiously staccato. The velvet veil of silence we rent in twain; but as we tore it, the folds fell back to hang like mighty curtains about our path, stifling all echo, striking reverberation dumb. The strong, sweet smell of the woods enhanced the mystery. The cool, clean air thrashed us with perfume.... The lights of the car were powerful and focussed perfectly. The steady, bright splash upon the road, one hundred yards ahead, robbed the night of its sting. Rabbits rocketed across our bows; a bat spilled its brains upon our wind-screen; a hare led us for an instant, only to flash to safety under our very wheels. As for the moths, the screen was strewn with the dead. Three times Piers had to rise and wipe it clear. Of men and beasts, mercifully, we saw no sign. If Houeilles knew of our passage, her ears told her. Seemingly the hamlet slept. I doubt if we took four seconds to thread its one straight street. Next day, I suppose, men swore the devil was loose. They may be forgiven. Looking back from a hazy distance, I think he was at my arm. As we ran into Casteljaloux, a clock was striking.... Nine o'clock. We had covered the thirty-five miles in thirty-five minutes dead. "To the left, you know," said Piers. "_Left?_" I cried, setting a foot on the brake. "Straight on, surely. We turn to the left at Marmande." "No, no, _no_. We don't touch Marmande. We turn to the left here." I swung round obediently. "This is the Langon road. It's quite all right, and it saves us about ten miles." Ten miles. I could have screamed for joy. Only fifty-five miles to go--and an hour and a quarter left. The hope which had never died lifted up its head.... It was when we were nearing Auros that we sighted the van. This was a hooded horror--a great, two-ton affair, a creature, I imagine, of Bordeaux, blinding home like a mad thing, instead of blundering. Ah, I see a hundred fingers pointing to the beam in my eye. Bear with me, gentlemen. I am not so sightless as all that.