But the portrait of this Englishman as he appeared to the Kronstadt people on that day is not yet complete.  His legs were encased in Hessian boots; his shooting-jacket was somewhat the worse for wear; and his hat, which had been eminently respectable at first starting, had acquired a sort of brigandish air; and to add to the drollery of his general appearance, the excellent little Servian horse he rode was not high enough for a man of his inches.

With my weapons of offence and defence I must have appeared a “caution” to robbers, and it seems that the business of the fair was suspended to witness my departure.  I was profoundly unconscious at the time of the public interest taken in my humble self, but later I heard a very humorous account of the whole proceeding from some relatives who visited Kronstadt about three weeks afterwards.  I believe I am held in remembrance in the town as a typical Englishman!

Well, to take up the thread of my narrative—­like Don Quixote, “I travelled all that day.”  If any reader can remember Gustave Dore’s illustration of the good knight on that occasion, he will have some idea of how the sky looked on this very ride of mine.  As evening approached, the settled grey clouds, which had hung overhead like a pall all the afternoon, were driven about by a rough wind, which went on rising steadily.  The grim phantom-haunted clouds came closer and closer round about me as darkness grew apace, and now and then the gust brought with it a vicious “spate” of rain.  With no immediate prospect of shelter, my position became less and less lively.  I had not bargained for a night on the highroad, or lodgings in a dry ditch or under a tree.  Indeed those luxuries were not at hand; for trees there were none bordering the road, or in the open fields which stretched away on either side; and as for a dry ditch, I heard the streams gurgling along the watercourses, which were full to overflowing, as well they might be, seeing that it had rained for three days.

My object was to reach the village of Bueksad, but where was Bueksad now in reference to myself?  I had no idea it was such a devil of a way off when I started.  I had foolishly omitted to consult the map for myself, and had just relied on what I was told, though I might have remembered how loosely country-people all the world over speak of time and space.

When at length the darkness had become perplexing—­entre chien et loup, as the saying is—­I met a peasant with a fierce-looking sheep-dog by his side.  The brute barked savagely round me as if he meant mischief, and I soon told the peasant if he did not call off his dog directly I would shoot him.  He called his dog back, which proved he understood German, so I then asked if I was anywhere near Bueksad.  To my dismay he informed me that it was a long way off; how long he would not say, for without further parley he strode on, and he and his dog were soon lost to view in the thick misty darkness.