“Now try to calm yourself,” said the good Samaritan, giving him some bread and dried fish, which Piotrowski ate ravenously, saying—­“I thank you with all my heart.  May God bless you for your goodness.”

“Ah, well, do not say so much; we are both Christians.  Now, try to walk a little.”

He was a trapper; and led him into the right path, pointing out a village inn where he could get rest and refreshment.  Piotrowski managed to crawl to the place, and then fainted away.  When he recovered himself, he asked for radish-soup, but could not swallow it; and toward noon he fell asleep on the bench, never awaking until the same time on the next day, when the host roused him.  Sleep, rest, and warmth restored him, and he again started on his long pilgrimage.

The town of Veliki-Ustiug was reached, where he determined to change his character and become a pilgrim, going to pray to the holy images of Solovetsk, on the White Sea.  There are four of these holy places to which pious Russians resort, and everywhere the wayfarers are well received, hospitality and alms being freely dispensed to those who are going to pray for the peace of the donor.  Passports are not rigorously exacted, and he hoped to join himself to a company, trusting to be less marked than if alone.  As he was standing irresolute in the market-place, a young man accosted him, and finding that they were bound to the same place, invited him to join their party.  There were about twenty; but no less than two thousand were in the city on their way, waiting until the thaw should have opened the Dwina for the rafts and boats which would transport them to Archangel, and then to Solovetsk.  It was a scene for Chaucer:  the half-idiot, who sought to be a saint; the knave who played upon the charity of others; and the astute hypocrite.  The rafts are loaded with corn, and the pilgrims receive a free passage; or a small sum of money is given them, if they consent to row; from forty to sixty sailors being required for each, the oars consisting of a thin fir-tree.  Piotrowski was only too happy to increase his small store of money by working.  At the break of day, before starting, the captain cried—­“Seat yourselves, and pray to God.”  Every one squatted down like a Mussulman for a moment, then rose and made a number of salutations and crossings; and next, down to the poorest, each threw a small piece of money into the river to secure a propitious voyage.

Fifteen days passed, during which Piotrowski learned to be an expert oarsman.  Then the golden spires of Archangel rose before them; a cry of joy was uttered by all; and the rowers broke off the lower parts of their oars with a frightful crash, according to the universal custom.  It was a heartfelt prayer of gratitude that Piotrowski raised to God for having brought him thus far in safety.  How pleasant was the sight of the ships, with their flags of a thousand colors, after the snow and eternal forests of the