Mounted on a wild, dashing bay--known familiarly as the "Bay of Biscay" from its rough turbulence--I easily kept the lead.

But our horses began to fail.

Suddenly Spitz halted, clapped his hand to his head, and threw himself from his horse.

"Fools!" he said, "we should have taken the train! It will get there an hour before we will!" He pointed to a wayside station where the 7.15 excursion train for Kohlslau was waiting.
"But how dreadfully unmediaeval!--What will the public say ?" I began.
"Bother the public!" he said gruffly.

"Who's running this dynasty--you or I?
Come!" With the assistance of Fritz he tied up my face with a handkerchief to simulate toothache, and then, with a shout of defiance, we three rushed madly into a closely packed third-class carriage.
Never shall I forget the perils, the fatigue, the hopes and fears of that mad journey.