himself he an incorporeal
legend, Molly clapped a little hand over his mouth, crying out that
even if he had tried to destroy the Maid of Orleans he must spare
William Tell. Further on, she made us confide the car to Gotteland on
the Axenstrasse, while we descended the path to Tell's chapel and did
reverence to the hero's memory. On such a day as this must it have
been that Tell leaped ashore from the boat, leaving Gessler to look
after himself; for the blasts were shrieking down the lake, and the
waves dashed their foam over the ledge where stands the chapel.

Jack stopped several times in the rock galleries of the Axenstrasse
before we reached Flueelen; consequently it was evening when we
slipped into little Altdorf, where Molly insisted on making a curtsey
to the statue of Tell and his agreeable little boy. Winston predicted
that we should probably not be challenged until we got to Goeschenen,
as up to that point the road does not take on a true Alpine character.
The storm (which seemed rising to a point of fury) was in our favour,
too, for no one would choose to be out on such a night, save mad
English automobilists and wilful American girls.

Dusk was beginning to shadow the Reussthal, as we ran past the railway
station at Erstfeld, and began at length the ascent of the St. Gothard
Road. The great railway (of which we had caught glimpses as we came
along the lake) was now our companion, while on the other hand roared
the tumbling Reuss. So hoarse and insistent was the voice of the
stream that Molly suggested it should be "had up for brawling." It did
us the service, however, of drowning the noise of our motor, at all
times a discreetly silent machine; and as Jack had given orders that
the big Bleriots should not be lighted (two good oil lamps showing us
the way), we had high hopes that we might fly by unnoticed, on the
wings of the storm. In Amsteg no one seemed to look upon us with
surprise, and here the road turned, to worm itself into the heart of
the mountains, while the railway, often disappearing into tunnels, ran
far above our heads.

By the time we had reached Gurtnellen night had fallen black and
close, and Molly issued an edict that we should dine in the open air,
instead of seeking the doubtful comforts of a village inn, where, too,
we might suffer from the solicitude of some officious policeman. The
car accordingly was run under the lee of a great rock, the
ever-inspired Gotteland extemporised a she