more with him, seeing some recognition in his
eyes again, and hearing some cordiality in his voice.

He unfastened my skates deftly and quickly, slung them over his arm, and
helped me up again. I essayed feebly to walk, but my limbs were numb
with cold. I could not put one foot before the other, but could only
cling to his arm in silence.

"So!" said he, with a little laugh. "We are all alone here! A fine time
for a moonlight skating."

"Ah! yes," said I, wearily, "but I can't move."

"You need not," said he. "I am going to carry you away in spite of
yourself, like a popular preacher."

He put his arm round my waist and bade me hold fast to his shoulder. I
obeyed, and directly found myself carried along in a swift, delightful
movement, which seemed to my drowsy, deadened senses, quick as the
nimble air, smooth as a swallow's flight. He was a consummate master in
the art of skating--that was evident. A strong, unfailing arm held me
fast. I felt no sense of danger, no fear lest he should fall or stumble;
no such idea entered my head.

We had far to go--from one end of the great Schwanenspiegel to the
other. Despite the rapid motion, numbness overcame me; my eyes closed,
my head sunk upon my hands, which were clasped over his shoulder. A sob
rose to my throat. In the midst of the torpor that was stealing over me,
there shot every now and then a shiver of ecstasy so keen as to almost
terrify me. But then even that died away. Everything seemed to whirl
round me--the meadows and trees, the stiff rushes and the great black
sheet of ice, and the white moon in the inky heavens became only a
confused dream. Was it sleep or faintness, or coma? What was it that
seemed to make my senses as dull as my limbs, and as heavy? I scarcely
felt the movement, as he lifted me from the ice to the ground. His shout
did not waken me, though he sent the full power of his voice ringing out
toward the pile of buildings to our left.

With the last echo of his voice I lost consciousness entirely; all
failed and faded, and then vanished before me, until I opened my eyes
again feebly, and found myself in a great stony-looking room, before a
big black stove, the door of which was thrown open. I was lying upon a
sofa, and a woman was bending over me. At the foot of the sofa, leaning
against the wall, was Courvoisier, looking down at me, his arms folded,
his face pensive.

"Oh, dear!" cried I, starting up. "What is the matter? I must go home."