shifting the weight of my body and just touching the snow with the point of the short iron-shod stick I held in my hand, the toboggan span round the curve with the delicious clean cut of a skate.  It seemed only a moment, and already I was approaching the critical part of my journey.  The stray oil-lights of the village street began to waver irregularly here and there beneath me.  I saw the black gap in the houses through which I must go.  I listened for the creaking runners of the great Valtelline wine-sledges which constituted the main danger.  All was silent and safe.  But just as I drew a long breath, and settled for the delicious rise over the piled snow of the street and the succeeding plunge down to the Inn, a vast bulk heaved itself into the seaway, like some lost monster of a Megatherium retreating to the swamps to couch itself ere morning light.

It was the Burgomeister of Bergsdorf.

“Acht—­u—­um—­m!” I shouted, as one who, on the Scottish links, should cry “Fore!” and be ready to commit murder.

But the vision solemnly held up its hand and cried “Halt!”

“Halt yourself!” I cried, “and get out of the way!” For I was approaching at a speed of nearly a mile a minute.  Now, there is but one way of halting a toboggan.  It is to run the nose of your machine into a snow-bank, where it will stick.  On the contrary, you do not stop.  You describe the curve known as a parabola, and skin your own nose on the icy crust of the snow.  Then you “halt,” in one piece or several, as the case may be.

But I, on this occasion, did not halt in this manner.  The mind moves swiftly in emergencies.  I reflected that I had a low Canadian toboggan with a soft buffalo-skin over the front.  The Burgomeister also had naturally well-padded legs. Eh bien—­a meeting of these two could do no great harm to either.  So I sat low in my seat, and let the toboggan run.

Down I came flying, checked a little at the rise for the crossing of the village street.  A mountainous bulk towered above me—­a bulk that still and anon cried “Halt!” There was a slight shock and a jar.  The stars were eclipsed above me for a moment; something like a large tea-tray passed over my head and fell flat on the snow behind me.  Then I scudded down the long descent to the Inn, leaving the village and all its happenings miles behind.

I did not come up the same way.  I did not desire to attract immodest attention.  Unobtrusively, therefore, I proceeded to leave my toboggan in its accustomed out-house at the back of the Osteria.  Then, slipping on another overcoat, I took an innocent stroll along the village street, in the company of the landlord.

There was a great crowd on the corner by the Rathhaus.  In the centre was Henry, in the hands of two officers of justice.  The Burgomeister, supported by sympathising friends, limped behind.  There is no doubt that Henry was exercising English privileges.  His captors were unhappy.  But I bade him go quietly, and with a look of furious bewilderment he obeyed.  Finally we got the hotel-keeper, a staunch friend of ours and of great importance in these parts, to bail him out.