Desperately I put Pong along. The snow was deeper now and was affecting the steering. The wheels, too, were slipping constantly. I had to go very gingerly. Two deep furrows ahead told of Ping's passage. I began to wonder how Adèle, Jill, and Jonah were getting on.... It was when the snow was perhaps a foot deep that we snarled past a ruined cabin and, stumbling over the very top of the world, began to descend. Ten minutes later we came to Roncevaux. Where Abbey began or village ended, it was impossible to say, and there was no one to be seen. The place looked like a toy some baby giant had carried into the mountains, played with awhile, and then forgotten. Here was the last of the snow, so I crammed some more into the radiator, tried very hard to think I could see the water, and hoped for the best. While I was doing this, Berry had closed the car--a wise measure, for, though we should lose a lot of scenery, the sun was sinking and Evening was laying her fingers upon the fine fresh air. Navarre seemed very handsome. It was, indeed, all mountains--bleaker, less intimate than France, but very, very grand. And the road was splendidly laid: its long clean sweeps, its graceful curves, the way in which its line befitted the bold landscape, yet was presenting a style of its own, argued a certain poetry in the hearts of its engineers. We swept through a village that might have been plucked out of Macedonia, so rude and stricken it looked. There was no glass in the windows: filth littered the naked street: pigs and poultry rushed for the crazy doorways at our approach. Pampeluna being the nearest town, I realised with a shock what sort of a night we should spend if we failed to get there. I began to hope very hard that there were no more hills. Presently the road forked and we switched to the right. Maps and Guide declared that this was the better way. "What's _carretera accidentada_ mean?" said my sister, looking up from the Michelin Guide. "I think _carretera_ means 'road,'" said I. "As for _accidentada_--well, it's got an ugly sound." "Well, do look out," said Daphne. "We shall be there any minute. This must be Espinal, and that's where it begins." Berry cleared his throat. "The art of life," he announced, "is to be prepared. Should the car overturn and it become necessary to ply me with cordial, just part my lips and continue to pour until I say 'When.' Should---- What are you stopping for?" "Very slightly to our rear," said I, "upon the right-hand side of the road stands a water-trough. You may have noticed it." "I did," said Berry. "A particularly beautiful specimen of the palaeolithic epoch. Shall we go on now?" "Supposing," said I relentlessly, "you plied the radiator. Just take the cap off and continue to pour till I say 'When.'" "I should be charmed," was the reply. "Unfortunately I have no vessel wherewith to----"