Jan’s horse slipped over one domino, went up to the shoulder into a trench, and off came the rider.  Luckily he fell upon a heap of stones, and not into the mud, but he decided for all that to walk for a bit.

Every now and then one came across traces of the construction of a great road—­white new stone embankments that started out of nothing, and went to nowhere, and Mike confessed that he had lost the path once more—­

“When I come out of dat confounded mod!”

After a hustle across country we found the road, and wished that we had not, for it was a Turkish track in its most belligerent form.

At last we reached the top and rested awhile.  Mike showed us his revolver.

“He good revolver,” he said.  “De las’ man I shoot he killin’ a vooman.  I come.  He run away.  I tell ’im to stop, but he no stop, so I shoot ’im leg.  ’E try to ‘it me wi’ a gon.”

The man got fourteen years.

We pushed on again, and on the road picked up an overcoat, which later we were able to restore to its owner, a Turk, who was going to Nickshitch to buy sugar and salt for Plevlie.

Bits of the big white road appeared and reappeared with insistence.  We asked who was responsible for its inception.

“Sirdar,” said Mike; “he good boy.  Much work.”

The country was now like brown velvet spread over heaps of gigantic potatoes.

Our horses grew slower and slower, and the inn which we were seeking seemed ever further and further away.  We passed many peasants, and had evidently entered the land of Venus, for each one was more beautiful than the neighbour.  Since Jabliak we had not seen an ugly man or woman, and the dignity of their carriage was exceeded only by the nobleness of their features.  Ugly women must be valuable in these parts, and probably marry early; humans ever prize the rare above the beautiful.

Mike spoke to many of the girls, asking them their names and of their homes.  One had his own name—­which we forget—­and he said that she must be his cousin, and that if she would wait where she was he would come back later and give her a lift.

At last we came to the wooden inn.

The better-class inns have dining-room and kitchen separate, the second-class both are one, but in each case the fire is made on a heap of earth piled in the centre of the floor; there is no chimney, and the smoke fills the room with a blue haze, smarting in the eyes; it drifts up to the roof, where hams are hung, and finds its way out through the cracks in the wooden roofing slats.  This inn was second-class, and along one wall was a deep trough, in which were four huge lumps of a white substance which puzzled us.  First we thought it was snow, but that seemed impossible; then we thought it was salt—­but why?

It was snow, there being no water fit to drink, so the snow was stored in the winter in huge underground cellars.