“Oootonoole!” ("We got drowned”) was the reply.  “Get out your ropes, quick, while I run to the shore for some driftwood.  The horses will freeze and sink in a few minutes.  Akh!  My God!  My God!  What a punishment!” and, tearing off his outer fur coat, he started at a run for the shore.  I did not know what he expected to do with driftwood, but he seemed to have a clear vital idea of some sort, so Price and I rushed away after him.  “We must get a tree, or a small log,” he explained breathlessly as we overtook him, “so I can crawl out on it and cut the horses loose.  But God knows,” he added, “whether they’ll hold out till we get back.  The water is killing cold.”  After a few minutes on the snowy beach, we found a long, slender tree-trunk that our driver said would do, and began to drag it across the ice.  Our breath, by this time, was coming in short, panting gasps, and when Schwartz, Malchanski, and the other driver, who ran to our assistance, took hold of the heavy log, we were on the verge of physical collapse.  When we got back to the air-hole, the horses were still swimming feebly, but they were fast becoming chilled and exhausted, and it seemed doubtful whether we should save them.  We pushed the log out over the broken edge of the ice, and five of us held it while our driver, with a knife between his teeth and a rope about his shoulders, crawled out on it, cut loose one of the outside horses and fastened the line around its neck.  He then crept back, and we all hauled on the line until we dragged the poor beast out by the head.  It was very much exhausted and badly scraped by the sharp edge of the ice, but it had strength enough to scramble to its feet.  We then cut loose and hauled out in the same way the outside horse on the other side.  This one was nearly dead and made no attempt to get up until it had been cruelly flogged, but it struggled to its feet at last.  Cutting loose the thill-horse was more difficult, as its body was completely submerged and it was hard to get at the rawhide fastening that held the collar, the wooden arch, and the thills together, but our plucky driver succeeded at last, and we dragged the half-frozen animal out.  Rescue came for him, however, too late.  He could not rise to his feet and died, a few moments afterward, from exhaustion and cold.  Fastening ropes to the half-submerged sleigh and harnessing to it the horses of the other team, we finally pulled that up on the ice.  Leaving it there for the present, we made traverses back and forth across the river until we found the line of evergreen trees, and then started for the nearest post-station—­Price and I riding with Malchanski and Schwartz while our driver followed with the two rescued horses.  When we reached the post-station, which was about seven miles away, it was between three and four o’clock in the morning; and, after rousing the station-master and sending a driver with a team of fresh horses after the abandoned sleigh, we drank two or three tumblerfuls of hot tea, brought in blankets