horse and let him go where he would, only entreating the guide to hurry and get down somewhere off from this exposed position.  He tried in vain to compel his horse to face the storm.  Neither shouts nor blows could force him to turn round, and he was obliged finally to ride along the crest of the mountain to the eastward.  We went down into a comparatively sheltered valley, up again upon another ridge higher than the first, around the side of a conical peak where the wind blew with great force, down into another deep ravine and up still another ridge, until I lost entirely the direction of our route and the points of the compass, and had not the slightest idea where we were going.  I only knew that we were half frozen and in a perfect wilderness of mountains.

I had noticed several times within half an hour that our guide was holding frequent and anxious consultations with the other Kamchadals about our road, and that he seemed to be confused and in doubt as to the direction in which we ought to go.  He now came to me with a gloomy face, and confessed that we were lost.  I could not blame the poor fellow for losing the road in such a storm, but I told him to go on in what he believed to be the direction of the Samanka River, and if we succeeded in finding somewhere a sheltered valley we would camp and wait for better weather.  I wished to caution him also against riding accidentally over the edges of precipices in the blinding snow, but I could not speak Russian enough to make myself understood.

We wandered on aimlessly for two hours, over ridges, up peaks, and down into shallow valleys, getting deeper and deeper apparently into the heart of the mountains but finding no shelter from the storm.  It became evident that something must be done, or we should all freeze to death.  I finally called the guide, told him I would take the lead myself, and opening my little pocket compass, showed him the direction of the sea-coast.  In that direction I determined to go until we should come out somewhere.  He looked in stupid wonder for a moment at the little brass box with its trembling needle, and then cried out despairingly, “Oh, Barin!  How does the come-pass know anything about these accursed mountains?  The come-pass never has been over this road before.  I’ve travelled here all my life, and, God forgive me, I don’t know where the sea is!” Hungry, anxious, and half frozen as I was, I could not help smiling at our guide’s idea of an inexperienced compass which had never travelled in Kamchatka, and could not therefore know anything about the road.  I assured him confidently that the “come-pass” was a great expert at finding the sea in a storm; but he shook his head mournfully, as if he had little faith in its abilities, and refused to go in the direction that I indicated.  Finding it impossible to make my horse face the wind, I dismounted, and, compass in hand, led him away in the direction of the sea, followed by Viushin, who,