right abruptly, and begin
to mount by the side of a pretty little stream, the Schwarzbach, which
runs brawling over rocks down the Taunus from Eppstein. By this time the
excitement had somewhat cooled down for the moment; I was getting
reconciled to be beaten on the level, and began to realise that my
chances would be best as we approached the steepest bits of the mountain
road about Niederhausen. So I positively plucked up heart to look about
me and enjoy the scenery. With hair flying behind--that coil had played
me false--I swept through Hofheim, a pleasant little village at the
mouth of a grassy valley inclosed by wooded slopes, the Schwarzbach
making cool music in the glen below as I mounted beside it. Clambering
larches, like huge candelabra, stood out on the ridge, silhouetted
against the skyline.

'How far ahead the last man?' I cried to the recording soldier. He
answered me back, 'Two minutes, Fraeulein.'

I was gaining on them; I was gaining! I thundered across the
Schwarzbach, by half-a-dozen clamorous little iron bridges, making easy
time now, and with my feet working as if they were themselves an
integral part of the machinery. Up, up, up; it looked a vertical ascent;
the Manitou glided well in its oil-bath at its half-way gearing. I rode
for dear life. At sixteen miles, Lorsbach; at eighteen, Eppstein; the
road still rising. 'How far ahead the last man?' 'Just round the corner,
Fraeulein!'

I put on a little steam. Sure enough, round the corner I caught sight of
his back. With a spurt, I passed him--a dust-covered soul, very hot and
uncomfortable. He had not kept his wind; I flew past him like a
whirlwind. But, oh, how sultry hot in that sweltering, close valley! A
pretty little town, Eppstein, with its mediaeval castle perched high on a
craggy rock. I owed it some gratitude, I felt, as I left it behind, for
'twas here that I came up with the tail-end of my opponents.

That one victory cheered me. So far, our route had lain along the
well-made but dusty high road in the steaming valley; at Nieder-Josbach,
two miles on, we quitted the road abruptly, by the course marked out for
us, and turned up a mountain path, only wide enough for two cycles
abreast--a path that clambered towards the higher slopes of the Taunus.
That was arranged on purpose--for this was no fair-weather show, but a
practical trial for military bicycles, under the conditions they might
meet with in actual warfare. It was rugged riding: