Like birds in the heavens, cleaving the keen, crisp air, they sped forward over the smooth ice.

The gay throng vanished, the dead reeds and stark bushes seemed to fly away from them.

The only sounds in their ears were the rushing of the wind, the swish of the iron runners, and the hollow tapping of the hooves of their galloping horses.

Certain sledges drew ahead in the first burst, but the Wolf and the Badger were not among these.

The Count de Montalvo was holding in his black stallion, and as yet the grey Flemish gelding looped along with a constrained and awkward stride.