Mr. Treffry took a pull at his horses. “Whoa, mare! Dogged does it!” and the near horse, throwing up her head, whinnied; a fleck of foam drifted into Harz's face. The painter had come on impulse; because Christian had told him to, not of his own free will. He was angry with himself, wounded in self-esteem, for having allowed any one to render him this service. The smooth swift movement through velvet blackness splashed on either hand with the flying lamp-light; the strong sweet air blowing in his face-air that had kissed the tops of mountains and stolen their spirit; the snort and snuffle of the horses, and crisp rattling of their hoofs—all this soon roused in him another feeling. He looked at Mr. Treffry's profile, with its tufted chin; at the grey road adventuring in darkness; at the purple mass of mountains piled above it. All seemed utterly unreal. As if suddenly aware that he had a neighbour, Mr. Treffry turned his head. “We shall do better than this presently,” he said, “bit of a slope coming. Haven't had 'em out for three days. Whoa-mare! Steady!” “Why are you taking this trouble for me?” asked Harz. “I'm an old chap, Mr. Harz, and an old chap may do a stupid thing once in a while!” “You are very good,” said Harz, “but I want no favours.” Mr. Treffry stared at him. “Just so,” he said drily, “but you see there's my niece to be thought of. Look here! We're not at the frontier yet, Mr. Harz, by forty miles; it's long odds we don't get there—so, don't spoil sport!” He pointed to the left. Harz caught the glint of steel. They were already crossing the railway. The sigh of the telegraph wires fluttered above them. “Hear 'em,” said Mr. Treffry, “but if we get away up the mountains, we'll do yet!” They had begun to rise, the speed slackened. Mr. Treffry rummaged out a flask. “Not bad stuff, Mr. Harz—try it. You won't? Mother's milk! Fine night, eh?” Below them the valley was lit by webs of milky mist like the glimmer of dew on grass. These two men sitting side by side—unlike in face, age, stature, thought, and life—began to feel drawn towards each other, as if, in the rolling of the wheels, the snorting of the horses, the huge dark space, the huge uncertainty, they had found something they could enjoy in common. The steam from the horses' flanks and nostrils enveloped them with an odour as of glue. “You smoke, Mr. Harz?” Harz took the proffered weed, and lighted it from the glowing tip of Mr. Treffry's cigar, by light of which his head and hat looked like some giant mushroom. Suddenly the wheels jolted on a rubble of loose stones; the carriage was swung sideways. The scared horses, straining asunder, leaped forward, and sped downwards, in the darkness.