[Illustration:  Vain attempt to escape.]

Finally, in February, 1846, he set out on foot.  His costume consisted of three shirts—­a colored one uppermost, worn, Russian fashion, outside his trousers, which were of heavy cloth, like his waistcoat—­and a small sheepskin burnous, heavy high boots, a bright woolen sash, a red cap with a fur border—­the dress of a well-to-do peasant or commercial traveler.  In a small bag he carried a change of clothing and his provisions:  his money and passports were hidden about his person; he was armed with a dagger and a bludgeon.  He had scarcely crossed the frozen Irtish when the sound of a sleigh behind him brought his heart to his mouth:  he held his ground and was hailed by a peasant, who wanted to drive a bargain with him for a lift.  After a little politic chaffering he got in, and was carried to a village about eight miles off at a gallop.  There the peasant set him down, and, knocking at the first house, he asked for horses to the fair at Irbite.  More bargaining, but they were soon on the road.  Erelong, however, it began to snow; the track disappeared, the driver lost his way; they wandered about for some time, and were forced to stop all night in a forest—­a night of agony.  They were not twelve miles from Ekaterininski-Zavod:  every minute the fugitive fancied he heard the bells of the pursuing kibitkas; he had a horrible suspicion, too, that his driver was delaying purposely to betray him, as had befallen a fellow-countryman in similar circumstances.  But at daybreak they found the road, and by nightfall, having changed horses once or twice and traveled like the wind, he was well on his way.  At a fresh relay he was forced to go into a tavern to make change to pay his driver:  as he stood among the tipsy crowd he was hustled and his pocket-book snatched from his hand.  He could not discover the thief nor recover the purse:  he durst not appeal to the police, and had to let it go.  In it, besides a quarter of his little hoard of money, there was a memorandum of every town and village on his way to Archangel, and his plakatny.  In this desperate strait—­for the last loss seemed to cut off hope—­he had one paramount motive for going on:  return was impossible.  Once having left Ekaterininski-Zavod, his fate was sealed if retaken:  he must go forward.  Forward he went, falling in with troops of travelers bound to the fair.  On the third evening of his flight, notwithstanding the time lost, he was at the gates of Irbite, over six hundred miles from his prison.  “Halt and show your passport!” cried the sentinel.  He was fumbling for the local pass with a sinking heart when the soldier whispered, “Twenty kopecks and go ahead.”  He passed in.  The loss of his money and the unavoidable expenses had reduced his resources so much that he found it necessary to continue the journey on foot.  He slept at Irbite, but was up early, and passed out of an opposite gate unchallenged.