He was set down in the street; and knocking at a house, inquired in the Russian fashion—­“Have you horses to hire?”

“Yes—­a pair.  Where to?”

“To Irbit.  I am a commercial traveler, and going to meet my master.  I am behind my time, and wish to go as quickly as possible.”

No sooner had they set off than a snow-storm came on, and the driver lost his way.  They wandered about all night in the forest, and it was impossible to describe the anguish and suffering Piotrowski endured.

“Return to Tara,” said he, as the day broke; “I will engage another sledge; and you need not expect any money from me, after the folly you have shown in losing your way.”

They turned, but had hardly gone a mile before the driver jumped up, looked around, and cried—­“This is our road.”  Then making up for lost time, he set him down at a friend’s house, where he procured some tea and fresh horses.  On he went in safety, renewing his horses at small expense, until late at night, when he suffered from a most unfortunate robbery.  He had not money at hand to pay the conductor.  They turned into a public-house, where a crowd of drunken people were celebrating the carnival.  He drew out some paper-money to get change, when the crowd coming round, some one seized his papers, among which were several rouble notes, his invaluable passport, and a note in which he had minutely inscribed all the towns and villages he must pass through on the road to Archangel.  He was in despair.  The very first day, a quarter of his money was gone, and the only thing by which he hoped to evade suspicion, his passport.  He dare not appeal to the police, and was obliged to submit.

Regret and hesitation were not to be thought of.  He soon found himself on the high-road to Irbit, crowded with an innumerable mass of sledges, going or returning to the fair.  It is the season of gain and good humor, and the people show it by unbounded gaiety.  Piotrowski took courage, returned the salutations of the passers-by—­for how could he be distinguished in such a crowd?  The gates of Irbit were reached on the third day.  “Halt, and shew your passport,” cried an official; but added in a whisper—­“Give me twenty copecks, and pass quickly.”  The demand was willingly gratified, and with some difficulty he procured a night’s lodging, lying on the floor amidst a crowd of peasants, who had previously supped on radish-soup, dried fish, oatmeal gruel, with oil and pickled cabbage.

Up at daybreak, he took care to make the orthodox salutations, and passing rapidly through the crowded town, he walked out of the opposite gate, for, henceforwards, his scanty funds demanded that the journey should be made on foot.  In the midst of a heavily falling snow, he managed to keep the track, avoiding the villages, and, when hungry, drawing a piece of frozen bread from his bag.  At nightfall, he buried himself in the forest, hollowed a deep hole in the snow, and