we were over we
should strike a lot of "down hill." But if the leak became worse, and
there was much more collarwork....

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 Adele,
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 be